While I was away...
I went to Rome. Five days. Two and a half with You, and another two and a half with an old American friend. A recent widow. Plays bridge. Played a lot on the cruise ship she left to meet up with us in the Eternal City. If you are a fan of History, you probably know that Rome has been invaded, sacked, and despoiled a number of times. Visigoths to Charles VII of France to those creeps from the last World War. A long & wide arch. The latest is Mass Tourism. A voracious river of folk. You can’t or, wouldn’t want to image what Rome is like today. Happily, the city still stands… eternal. Meanwhile, back at our Genoese ranch, the Dogs were left with a substitute filling-in for our usual dog-sitters. The two brothers went to Spain for a cousin’s wedding.
Two unexpected things occurred at il Poggiolo during my absence: it got hot and it rained. I had mowed the lawns and weed-whacked where the mower cannot go at some point prior to my departure on a Freccia Bianca train… the Italian TGV… and in preparation of our gardener re-seeding the terraces he had re-built last year. Winter, its dead leaves, lack of water and the drying winds from Siberia… Thank You, Mr Putin?… had ravaged our grassy landscape. Mowed and whacked, everything looked clipped and orderly. Hopeful.
However, I have came back to this…
Forgot to mention the 10-Day Weather Forecast: rain, thunderstorms and, occasionally, heavy stuff until the middle of the last week of May. It’s the Moon’s fault, if you follow the Phases of the Moon.
Bumper crop of grass, I’d say. Weeds, pretty little wild flowers hovering over leafy and equally wild stalks and massive clumps of an insidious cow grass, intermittently graced by what we really want in the category of Grass: Zoysia. We may never get it. A combo or climate change, my occasional bouts of laziness and let me throw in Madam Moon too.
I was amazed. So green, so tall, so abundant. Wish my bank account were so. Power of Mother Nature, when heat & rain are mixed. In our case, suddenly. The welcoming scene alarms my sense of that phrase, clipped and orderly. However, deep down inside me, there is a rebel and having grass shoot up nearly 15 cm in the space of a long weekend has brought it out. I’ll have enough time to enjoy, perhaps even contemplate the transformation for the next 10 days. I have forewarned You. Due in at any moment. Oh! And it’s raining now. Pazienza.
A gardener's hands...
I do not biter my nails… anymore.
My hands are ruined. A yearly event. The culprit? Spring yard work at il Poggiolo. And, my consistent refusal to wear gloves. What can I say? I like the feel of Mother Earth and its fauna. However, the consequences are lacerations from shards of glass from a long chucked beer bottle back when il Poggiolo…. abandoned for years… was a stealth receptacle for the Citizens of Codiponte to vent their anger against the former owner, a woman from the town above Codiponte, who had inherited il Poggiolo AND HAD NEVER SET FOOT IN THE PLACE!!!, sharp edged rocks because they have nothing else better to do, iron wires left to rot just under the surface… What? left to enrich the soil?… shavings from terracotta roof tiles, which are more deadly than the glass, and other fun stuff: syringes, metal bands, wood stakes. Oh! And let me also direct blame towards the local water… what little we have going since, there has not been any Spring Rains of note. Water in the Italy, in general, and locally, in the Lunigiana, is quite hard. I have delicate Anglo-Saxon skin. A fluke of My Birth. The liquid is full of chalk. Acid chalk. Coupled with the hard water are the super, extra-concentrated and nearly gel-like detersives in the giant family-sized plastic containers. Chemical Warfare. My skin is raped of its natural oils and moisture. A Modern Day concept of cleanliness? My hand’s skin is dried to the point that bits of skin try to flee the scene of the bio-crime. Naturally, I cannot resist the temptation to chew at a finger or thumb too of some itzy-bitzy piece of skin or, two, unhinged by the above circumstances which, only makes matters worse. Would you like photo-documentation? Take a gander at the above photo.
None of the above explains in visual terms the cramps and soreness of holding pruning shears during warm afternoons of what I most enjoy to do in the realm of yard work: pruning. Raking does come in as a close Second. Both rival each other in the Satisfaction Dept. Quickly identifiable results. And too, I find the twangy noise of a rake gathering dead leaves and twigs and my Kleenex’s fallen out of my trouser pocket into transportable piles extremely meditative. Or, the start of a Country & Western tune, if I were so musically clever to dream one up. Pruning has more abrupt sensations. A brief cracking. Ecco! As the recalcitrant limb falls to Earth.
You is horrified by this off-with-their-limbs tendency of mine. I think he actually enjoys berating… criticising… condemning!!! me right after one of his Giardino Tours of Inspection. I dislike this sense of superiority…. or, do I mean his Democracy in possibly defending the Innocent?… towards what I am forced to do with il Poggiolo’s Plant Life. It’s not him at 5’ 4” whose head gets severely gouged by a low hanging olive branch. So much for Peace. And is there not A Gardening Rule on the books, which states trees and bushes and things actually appreciated having their Dead Stuff hacked off? Though, as for the live manifestations of Mother Nature, it might be prudent to leave well enough alone. Let things grow. Go sip a cappuccino or, enjoy a chilly white wine. Our Future is so uncertain now. But what happens when letting things grows means loosing a precious view or, provoking too much shade for the other members of the near-by Plant Life, ie our grassy terraces… to flourish too? Once, however, You did not maintain his Cool, while I whacked off the tops of a high… a very high… hedge planted to protect the interior of il Poggiolo exposed to the harsh Garfagnana Winter Winds on the Eastern side of the house. It was killing the grass below. On another point, that hedge… or, any hedge, for that matter…might reach such a height that any thought of lowering it would be eliminated just by the obvious logistical concerns, ie climbing a wobbly ladder too low to reach its tips. You screamed and he hollered, and then, he promptly left in a clipped huff and went back to Genoa. I continued until completion of my task at hand assisted by our ever true Weimaraner, Croesus. I trimmed and he watched and sunbathes. Took 36 hours before You called me. C’est la vie. Shave and a hair-cut, two bits! But my hands! After a day’s efforts in Pruning… or, Other, I could barely hold a fork to eat the post yard work and one of my Most Favourite Feel Good Meals of bastoncini di pesce e patate al forno. Buon Appetito!
Home...
You & I bought il Poggiolo because, I wanted a house in the country. Since we live in Italy, the nearest acceptable country to Genoa, our permanent residence, was the Lunigiana. This little known corner of Northwestern Tuscany is similar to the kind of territory I had known and adored from visiting relatives in The South… predominantly, the Piedmont and Appalachian areas of South Carolina, North Carolina and Georgia. Destiny did the rest.
The house is large and is divided into three parts. The inhabitants had once lived up in the Appartamento Azzurro. I know this Codiponte family. Many were born in what is now my Bedroom. Every now & then, one comes across their initials etched into stone pavers around il Poggiolo. Then, the last of the children grew up, married and moved out. The parents relocated down to La Casetta which, was given an economical re-do by the owner of il Poggiolo… a woman who had inherited the property and rarely set foot in it. Wonders of wonders, a new, modern AND indoor Bathroom!!! The central house, our la Casa Grande, was a vast hay barn and small workrooms for making salamis, cheeses and wine. The garden wasn’t a garden but, a vineyard. The only remnants of this past are the two tini… wine vats… in a passageway connecting the outdoor courtyard…. l’aia… to the cool room where those fruits of labor were once stored and is now il Poggiolo’s communal Laundry and Bathroom.
We had to completely rebuild il Poggiolo from the foundations to the roof. No foundations with Italian houses of yesteryears. Instead, they were either built… lent would be another verb here… against an existing structure…. in il Poggiolo’s case, the remnants of the perimeter walls of the Castle of Codiponte which, one can see on the aia… courtyard… or, erected upon a rocky mount. Akin to keeping something stationary, thanks to a rocky lump. Seems to have held for the last 800 years. See no need to worry. Now buried or hidden below from our renovations.
When you reconstruct, you are think house, not home. Reinforcing walls, dealing with humidity issues, modern plumbing & electrical plants, new roofs, flooring… ad infinitum. Massive work, lot of moola, time consuming. Of the three, the first… FYI… is contained in all the blog posts at Italian House from 2009 to 2014. Nothing to say about spending money except it was spent. And, as for the last, it took You & I four years to get il Poggiolo up & running as a house.
From restoring, we moved on to Maintenance & Upkeep. Not my favourite category. And, historically, the Italians aren’t much better at it either. Oh, they can certainly design & build glories, but then, those treasures fall into a state the rest of us think is so chic, so charming, glamours, and Italian, though rarely do we mention the word decrepit. You & I have replaced several windows & doors. Terrible the ravages of rain & cold & wind. We have reworked some electrical switches & outlets and added more lights. And, in a few instances we’ve even gone totally LED. Always too bright. New washers and cooktops too. Most recently, we installed two fireboxes to have a modicum of heat nel salotto e nella sala da pranzo… the Living and Dining Rooms… of la Casa Grande. Such dust & disorder. I was forced by night to sleep in my Bedroom up in l’Appartamento Azzurro… with the Dog… normally preferring to sleep in a bed posing as a sofa in the Salotto during the late Spring, Summer and early Fall months… and living by day out on the Loggia and cooking in the Kitchen of la Casa Grande. The Dog has not understood n’er a wit of any of this. Putting the main part of il Poggiolo back into some form of cleanliness & order post-construction, and taking the example of our German friends, who are re-doing their historic abode fai-da-te… or, do-it-yourself, though two amazingly informed persons on construction will one ever be so lucky to meet… You & I re-waxed TWICE!!! the terracotta flooring throughout la Casa Grande, the Laundry & Loggia included. Back breaking, knee ruining, hip crushing work. You was a beast. Brush, brush, brush, he worked. I attempted the same. At one point though, fed up listening to my grunts & groans while brushing each paver with liquid wax, he told me to go walk the Dog. I did. And felt remarkably better and ready to resume the chore. I tried new positions with some success. Taking a pill helped considerably.
You spoke of protection and enriching. I thought… home. The wax left a nice, warm scent of one. A surprising concept… home… for il Poggiolo. it was time. The idea dawned on me while nursing a recuperative white wine in una delle mie poltrone… shot from too many Dogs sleeping in them… before an active fire that, yes, indeed, after all these tweaks… for lack of a better word… actually render our house as a home. Settling in. Finding a happy rhythm of sleeping in our originally assigned BR’s and spending the day nella Casa Grande. A medium of comfort, convenience without causing the house any undue distress in undergoing changes to its infrastructure. One idea on that score was to bash out a wall and put in French Doors nella sala da pranzo. I got a blood curdling… Over my dead body!!!… from You. I suspect the house was actually using him as its spokes-person because, it willingly underwent the construction of the two fireplaces without a hitch. Now, if we can find places for the stuff displaced by the two fireboxes, we really will have a home. A home? Yes, a home.
Pulse on Coronavirus...
Italians still maintain time-honed methods of communication, exchange… gossip. This is due primarily to their tenaciously held customs & habits of where & how they congregate. Despite Our Times and reliance upon our iPhones, laptops and mixing with those adjuncts for news & social media, Italians gravitate to person-to-person contact. Mediterranean. Thank God. The obvious places in Italy are of everyday life… at church, grocery shopping, waiting to see il dottore in his/her/their sala d’aspetto, the mechanic’s!!!, in the post office and, the best and most frequented place by far, is inside a bar. You can stop by, hang out to chat… listen, flipping past headlines in a national newspaper splayed out on a wobbly center-post table. Any Italian village worth its salt must have its bar.
An aside…
salt is an historically heavily taxed item and once was sold only in officially sanctioned shops called tabaccherie. Shows you the ruthlessness of the Italian State insisting that it must have a percentage of an essential commodity for Life & Limb, such as salt. Doesn’t end there either. Anything the State feels the tug of necessity, it socks a tax to pay… beyond salt, on a pack of cigarettes, a car-tag, un bollo to stick on a document, such as una passaporto, to validate its importance… and can be had & paid for at a tabaccheria.
Another aside…
One branch of You-know-who’s extensive family… he sports the last name in his freight train long cognome. Do not ask his names. Many. The Virgin Mary figures somewhere in the middle. It is why I refer to him simply as You, short from the You-know-who… held a monopoly on the sale of salt in Italy for 400 years. Then, in the 1920’s, they moved on to manufacture & export of heavy domestic appliances. Less hassle, more money, I was told many villas and palazzi to keep up, not forgetting the number of members calling themselves, family. OK.
Back to the bar…
genius is if the bar has a tabaccheria on its premises. Fiscal paradise is if you can also play the lotteria while downing un espresso.
Back to congregating…
any issue of interest in the moment is fodder at a bar. Lately, Coronavirus has shoved all else off the counter of conversation. No matter the bar, where, how big or small, spiffy or scuzzy, the impending DOOM of this viral infection is the absolute banter, since Italy shut the country down. Self-imposed quarantine. OK.
Yesterday, a couple I often see in the mornings at my preferred bar, were sitting on stools at the counter with their Pitbull puppy timidly hovering on a rather sparkly feminine leash, talking up the bar-man about the latest on Coronavirus. Exchanging the latest. The local authorities had that very morning shut-down a high school and sent everyone home, because the disinfectant the janitorial staff had used on the facility two days before was deemed insufficiently strong enough to KILL, KILL, KILL the Coronavirus by the ASL. That’s the Italian Health Dept. I WAS ALREADY UP on this tidbit. Got it at the post-office. There, the telephone rang with the news. The new post-mistress relayed the HOT info. I felt special. Ready to confront all else on the topic for the day. The three chatters noticed my entrance temporarily putting a stop to their conversation though only long enough for them to risk enquiring about The American Perspective & Situation with the Coronavirus. I am inured to my show halting presence and, especially, since I am a lone & visible American in these precincts. The singular spokesperson on anything relating to the country of my birth but, no longer my home. I brought them up to date. The virus had hardly entered the US and it mutated. Coronavirus 2? Must’ve been culture shock just off the cruise-ship or, the time difference from Asia. This provoked alarm amongst my bar mates. I braked. Noted before me three faces full of worry, fear… threatened. I sought to calm the waters of my gaffe. It was short-lived. The Master of the Pitbull took the floor… to say he was worn-out by all the broo-ha-ha, no alternative news bites offered by the news media… like, to know what Turkey is up to would be a relief!!!… and, if it was his Destiny to fall prey to the Coronavirus and die, so be it. It’s all written down anyway. Gosh. Already written down? Catholic fatalism. How did I miss that? Must be we Americans do not believe in Destiny. Too deterministic for it. The others nodded in agreement. The pulse was taken. I said Good-bye to all and headed for home.
The couple were again at the bar this morning. I apologised for my statements yesterday. If I haven’t said this…
I like this couple. They are friendly, lively, joking, everyone is a friend. The volume level at the bar rises when they walk in. You are wrapped up by their Good Vibes and carried away. I spend so much of my time alone… the Dog does not count for Human contact & company. The Croesus-person does count for light, enjoyable entertainment, as he exits woods with the part of a tree in his mouth. The bar allows Human contact at an easy distance & involvement.
The Master of the Pitbull brushed it off as unnecessary. How could I think there would be any offence? I was simply telling them what I knew. No problem. The Mistress of the Pitbull spoke up between puffs on a cigarette. She had endured un brutto passaggio a few years back with breast cancer. She was told exactly what she needed to know, she was given everything necessary and all was put into action to confront her personal health crisis. Yes, also painful yet, a simpler, solid, direct episode which, she won thanks to how help came down the pike. But, this Coronavirus? She said the scare tactics… this number of cases, this number of deaths, first and foremost… by the news media and their contradictory voices & information and also from the very source responsible to provide information, services, facilities and procedures to clearly confront a crisis, any crisis, the Italian Government. To her it was missing and certainly not helped by instituting procedures without thinking through their effectiveness, practicality or, the consequences upon the Italian people. To protect yes, but effective to the situation. So far, no. She told me she was worried, scared… threatened. Vuoi un caffe’? More pulse of the People. We all went inside the bar to warm up. Snow was in the air.
P.S…
Since writing the words above and before Save & Publish, the situation has evolved here in the Lunigiana and in our small village of Codiponte. The virus is in our neighborhood. So much for thinking our back-water was safe. One young man in our village has contracted the virus. He is a volunteer at a medical & ambulance service. He had transported a man just off a boat suffering from Coronavirus to a forced quarantine at his home. Two days later the young man fell victim to the virus. There are now others in the Lunigiana. It was Destined to happen.
Rumour has it that hospitals are sending home all non-serious patients, prohibiting only the most urgent operations and other initiatives to liberate the hospitals of beds and facilities to deal with the expected avalanche of Coronavirus victims. We’ll see.
You-know-who suggested I stop frequenting my bar or, any bar. Seems the congenial contact in such localities is just the match of a Coronavirus carrier to others not carrying the dreaded disease. Puppy and I will stick to the woods. Me to photograph, he to seek the perfect stick. Odd in a country like Italian with people like the Italians not to go somewhere to be with folk.