Now to the birds...
Archive post March 28, 2019…
Our clocks have lately sprung forward for Daylight Savings Time, the Euro-version. Ore legale in Italiano. The EU wants to eliminate it as a community-wide thing in 2021. Let each country decide to keep it or not. Could be kind of like the entire US has Daylight Savings Time but, Arizona does not. Minor amount of confusion when flying into Phoenix from Denver… two cities in the Western Time Zone. You must flip the hands on your watch either backwards or forwards when you are reminded by the flight attendant of the real time. Here in the EU, they fear confusion. In light of Brexit, immigration and new trade deals with China, they may have a point.
That lost hour of sleep this past Saturday night was a blow to You. He gets so little slumber, what with his commute to & fro the hospital at extraordinary hours. He was not a happy camper while he soaked bread into his cafe latte Sunday AM. His grumbling encouraged me to walk the Canines.
For those Canines, the time change is a boon. Means getting fed at the old stomach clock hour but the real one says differently. I am saved from those two’s emotional explosions of hunger as they notice the ding-dong of the Campanile of Codiponte ringing in the 7 o’clock hour.
I too am saved the terror of that campanile. By the way, it is tops on My List of what to eliminate here in Codiponte. Oh, not the historic bell tower… per l’amore del dio… just its incessant ringing. Instead, with the time change, my repose is gently lifted to wakefulness by the soft musical chirping of birds as the light outside rises towards dawn. Sweet, like a tickle at one’s ear, until I realized the chirping is mostly right above my head! On La Casetta’s facade towards the Aullela river, between the BR & Bath windows and the slowly decaying Medici cornice, are a series of built-in holes. About 10 or 12 of them all the way across. Highrise nests for the swallows! Their arrival at La Casetta is a yearly occurrence. They came earlier this year. Probable inducement of Global Warming? Chissa? I rise from the bed 90% occupied by my two splayed-out Weimaraners, open the double sash window overlooking the riverscape and then duck just as a swallow… beak high, flaps down, wings spread for landing… on a straight-in approach into one of the holes above my early morning perch. Gently, dried brown bamboo leaves and odd bits of twigs flutter onto the stone window sill and down onto the floor too. Home decoration. The morbid beige of bamboo leaves are ever so chic. Might as well have a cozy home, don’t you think? The fall-out has abated somewhat. It was pretty fast & furious last week. Finding the bits & pieces of the swallow’s home improvements are an endearing reminder of the passing of the seasons here at il Poggiolo. Another used to be rains in March but, that has apparently been postponed… we hope not cancelled out-right!
My Dogs...
Archive post March 21, 2019…
I would bet you a million Euros I am the only person in all of the Lunigiana, and particularly in Codiponte, who carpools his dogs to go on a walk. After the unfortunate incident of last Summer of that Killed Cat, poor thing…
and please let me say, there is new evidence which has recently come to light regarding various aspects & circumstances surrounding the crime perpetrated by My Adore Cucciolo, The Croesus-person: the true & prior conditions of the Victim Pet, starting with its confirmed feral provenance & wild habits, the neighbor’s real association with the Killed Cat, they fed it on another neighbor’s stoop below their house. What? So as not to risk disease? Soil their pristine confines?… and how these professed owners of the Killed Victim dealt in giving succour to the Poor Animal, i.e. they waited over12 hours before carrying the Poor Thing to the Vet’s. My dander is up.
…I can no longer amble about the streets of my community unless The Dogs are securely attached to leashes, a physical impossibility, thanks to a becoming-bummed left hip and an already bummed lower back. Such happy issues. So, I carpool them into the surrounding wildernesses, i.e. those many, many landscape photos posted on Instagram… forrestspears.
I could gainfully bet you a million-trillion Euros I am the only person in Codiponte and securely within a radius of ten miles too of possessing the only stock of pure-breed dog. All others are bastards, mongrels, half-breeds. This majority are often mixes of Jack Russell Terriers… a highly randy lot… and some other runt breed rendering them short of stature and feisty in nature & character. None come up to even mid-calf on a small child. Quite aggressive too. In an occasional contest of physical wills between My Weimaraners and packs of these canine runtlings… a clear indication of how they automatically tend to form into vicious gangs of four-legged thugs… 99% of the time the folk here condemn My Noble Dogs as the perpetrators of any discord. Issues of their size meaning DANGEROUS. How so very ignorant. Whereas, in Absolute Truth, it’s the runts who 99% of the time instigate a whole bunch of growling & snarling. Nina-beena is especially seccata about these types of encounters, trotting home at il Poggiolo. The Croesus-person follows, stopping every few feet to launch a series of WARNING barks at the recalcitrants then, he too bolts for Home.
This leads me to continue with yet another wager of a million-trillion-zillion Euros MY DOGS ALWAYS KNOW THEIR WAY HOME!!! None, not one, nada of these pip-squeak-divano-dogs could Hope, Dream or, Pray their way home. And they don’t have to be small to be so clueless. The Killed Cat Neighbors have a white-haired Golden Retriever. Why call it a Golden Retriever? A stupid dog. Gets out of his confines, only to wander lost through Codiponte. We of the village are obligated to hear… MAATTTEOOO! MAATTTEOOO!! MAATTTEOOO!!! No reply. 20 minutes later I notice scuffling noises outside my windows, and there below, the neighbor masters are seen dragging the bewildered white dog home. Nina-beena has been know to scappate into the wilderness and is waiting for us at il Poggiolo before The Croesus-person and I have arrived. Ditto for The Croesus-person. I rest my case.
Leaves me only to invoke a declaration of Mary Poppin’s reading her own personal assessment:
Just as I thought. “Nina-beena and The Croesus-person, practically perfect in every way.
Urns...
Archive post March 14, 2019…
Buon Giorno a tutti…
Before I proceed with this week’s blog-post, I would like to ask the 3 followers of this blog…
if there are more of you out in there in the Blog-o’-sphere, please make yourselves known. It’s a Question of Moral Support…
to take a Great Big Sniff of the left-hand photo below. Il Poggiolo was a farm for 800 years, of humble roots, and the house & gardens nearly disappeared into a sad destruction, thanks to the indifference of its previous owner, a woman, who benignly allowed the roofs to collapse and the garden to become a garbage dump for the locals. I was told she NEVER set foot in what she had inherited. I am the Hero here.
There is, however, a person near & dear to me, who believes himself to be il Vero Salvatore del Poggiolo. Much contrary to this Other Person, I feel it’s silly to maintain any pretense that il Poggiolo a Codiponte could ever become a physical kindred & equal to, say, a noble Tuscan villa, such as the Villa Mansi in Lucca, just by planting an urn in the garden. My Barbaric American Voice does not come heard.
Our blog-story harks back several years when You… Dottore You-know-who, to be exact, he who labors diligently to save people’s eyesight, occasionally pointing a laser at them to do the job… discovered with the help of his Hospital Nursing Staff… an unsavory congress of persons, a thoroughly Bad Influence upon Our Dear Dottore… found the urn in the photo on the extreme left on an Italian garden ornament website specializing in historical stuff.
You has not been the same since.
Led him to a career dallying continually on the Internet with that Staff of his. When DO THEY work? Managed to collide head-on with catawiki.com. An Internet auction house. You says it is too much fun and saves him bunches of Euros. (Says there’s a trick to win what you want spending few Euros. I am contractually PROHIBITED from divulging it. Sorry. Those are my Orders.) Anyway, a dialogue… Catawiki? How nice, Dear. Have you found something delectable to bid on? Oh, yes! They arrive on Saturday. And so they did. At the local mechanic’s officina. Two tall, heavy-weight cement statues of Dr. Bacchus and Mr Hercules. Middle 19th Century. Had to pay for their transport all the way from il Veneto. Cost a pretty penny. The Other Person was not carrying his wallet. They now grace certain panoramic sectors nel Poggiolo’s garden. There’s one in the middle left photo. The rather swish stance of Mr. Hercules. Greek. Probably Gay. Lots of trials for it too. Myths are tough.
I declared You insane.
More disasters. Helping a client to dabble with the Italianate for her centuries old tower, now a enormous house, You & I developed a close & affectionate collaboration with a stuff emporium, a paradise of the old, copies of the old and a few things truly antique. Heaven. Ambling around & through the depository during one visit, You happened upon an urn. A terracotta urn. Shortly, money passed hands, the AUDI was loaded with not one BUT two of the things. And, a few hours afterwards, they too graced certain panoramic sectors nel Poggiolo’s garden. Che gioia. One of them is nestling in its spot in the middle right photo.
Thought I might sign myself into an asylum.
Many months passed, the Seasons came & went, the calendar changed years too, without n’er a Grecian urn acquired. Then, I had a moment. Just last weekend. Innocently touring the famous antiques-to-vintage market at the oddly Chinese looking pavilions of the Parma fairgrounds, I came upon love in terracotta. Though mildly unfocused, I panned an impromptu exhibition space outside of Pavilion 5… an overflow of stuff from a stand inside… and there, at my Adidas-clad feet were two lovely, oval, elegant, terracotta vases. Urns. The pair’s faces were quite nicely done too. Love. Big Love. VERY BIG LOVE. Can happen to anyone. Even the innocent. Terracotta Love. At first sight. Alas unrequited. A minor problem erupted. Someone was in rapt negotiations with the Neapolitan owner to purchase & carry away My Terracotta Loves. Seemed a done deed. I walked away and with one last look, I snapped a pic and whatsapp-ed it to My Resident Urn Expert with a sort of an apology… Got bitten but they got away. The End
Mi fa schiffo...
Archive post March 7, 2019…
Il Poggiolo was the unofficially proclaimed Codiponte Community Garbage Dump for the forty plus years of its abandonment. The renting contadini left when the wells had dried up. I don’t blame them. They had a lot of mouths to quench: a family of eight folk, three cows, a couple of pigs, innumerable quantity of bunny rabbits… and we know how easy it is for them to over-populate a place… and a mule!!! Must have something to do with Human Nature. See a spot with obvious signs of neglect and what? A natural urge to let fly over the hedge the plastic bag full of domestic refuse in hand. What dismays is the local citizenry here also threw over…. ‘cause they certainly didn’t scale the hedges to carefully place them… were a Richard Ginori toilet, train passes, shoes, candle-holders, boots, a denim jacket, an iron bed, a tractor hoe… I think that’s the proper term. It was mightily large… nylon stockings, nylon tarps, tons and tons of plastic bags in plastic bag blue, plastic bag white and plastic bag yellow, lighters, twine, a couple of way-gone garden chairs, a light-post, rolls of chain-link fencing, gossip magazines printed on plasticized paper, wine bottles galore… and you get the picture. All was submerged, hidden, entwined in a forest of roving vines, Chinese plants imported as an anti-erosion deterrent by the railroad… another amazing fact is how seeds can float for miles and miles… seven to be exact… from their launching pad and alight in far away soils of disregard, and weeds of every type known to current horticultural lexicon.
Back in our early years of ownership of il Poggiolo, You or I would dig a hole and find more garbage below. Creating a simple hole of modest dimensions in what should also have been a matter of a few minutes became a sweat-drenching chore of struggling with many items from the above written list. We dealt with it. It disgusted me. You-know-who is slightly more understanding. He’s a dottore and confronts Human Nature on a daily basis. Mi fa schiffo!!!
The recent days of February and now March have been sunny and mild. Spring like. Thought it would be a good time to sink into Mother Earth some of her plant-life children in various voids created by the installation of our Dog Fence. Our Privacy Green Wall won’t be private for a couple of years. What happened was a nightmarish encounter with more garbage. The two gems of my excavation? A pair of plastic sandals in a summery salmon color and a non-longer pink rubber hot-water bottle. Both had seen better days. I am sure there will be more to come, of that I have been reminded.
Love of my life...
Archive post February 28, 2019…
I lied when I bought il Poggiolo…
I told everyone, You-know-who at the head of the pack, that I wanted a house: A) in the Lunigiana because, it was my piece of Italian territory and it reminded me of the North Georgia mountains where my family once had a second home; B) large enough to host guests but, not too large to have them perpetually under foot; and C) one with a bit of a garden. It was ONLY about the garden.
Happy to be a property owner of an actual property of l-a-n-d, I dreamed gardening would become the Third Love of My Life. Naturally, You and the Dogs would come in as First and Second. Or, would it be Second and First?
Whilst Our Builder + Crew tackled saving il Poggiolo’s 5,000 dilapidated square feet…
You & I hired this ragazzo, who had come highly recommended by the movie-star handsome owner of the agricultural consorzio down in the Big Town of Aulla, to clear out il Poggiolo’s jungle, keeping any flowering plants and fruit trees for Posterity. By stealth of several early morning forays of slash & burn, il Poggiolo was left with 5 prune trees, 1 mulberry tree and 3 willows. The rest bushwhacked and gone up in smoke. The garden resembled a nuked and/or de-militarised zone.
You & I got to work…
You researched foliage suitable to the cold of a Lunigiana Winter and the heat of its Summer. I was given my purchasing orders. We plundered all the local nurseries. Tears streamed down their owner’s faces, inviting us back at our earliest convenience. You & I furiously shovelled, dug, planted, fertilized and watered. A green privacy screen our main objective and way from the Builder + Crew’s messes. Debates jockeyed on where, what and how. Our attire was essential: to block the sun. You in his funny straw hat a baggy khakis, while I sported a baseball cap and a long-sleeve yellow mock turtle-neck. This went on for the full four years it took to re-build il Poggiolo. Gosh I thought this is Heaven! Not sure this was the case with You. Often he could be found napping in a lounge chair out on the aia, book gently folded on his chest, the straw hat cocked to cover his face from the sun and annoying flies. Good. I’ll just go put that what-ever-it’s-called where I want it and he’ll never know. He always did… damn-it.
Fifth year, I hit a wall. You turned to filling up our renovated 5,000 sq. ft farm-house with stuff, leaving the gardening to me. I was stunned to discover the planted plants needed care & maintenance: pruning, trimming, nurturing, moving or chucking into the mulch pile. Successive years, care & maintenance became Care & Maintenance. Ten years later it is CARE & MAINTENANCE. Expanded task list: pruning, trimming, nurturing, moving, chucking, burning, hauling and yelling This is bloody work!!! You’s reply? What did you expect? Planting perennials for the rest of your Life?
A way was shown to me…
Now I have garden consultants. A lady comes and does our roses. Her husband comes to do light pruning. His best friend comes to do the heavy pruning. Boy, what an art that is. Better left to those who know how to do it. You says I don’t prune, I massacre. A buddy of the best friend comes to do heavy moving & lifting & carting away. I even have a fellow and his cousin who do our pergolas. How about that? And with these helpers I no longer have to yell.
But, I miss the passion of planting. That is what gardening is to me. A bit narrow in focus, perhaps, but it is what it is. And on Saturday and for the next Saturdays through the month of March, I will be planting besides doing the bloody work!!! Got to have the passion.
Unexpected project...
Archive post February 21, 2019…
Like out of the blue!
Tending to the many Tasks-at-hand, and here’s an Updated List:
Dog Fence is in. And it has successfully prohibited any canine escape to sniff & plunder the precincts near about to Il Poggiolo. Nina-beena can no longer trot off to a plot of grass at the end of a neighbor’s courtyard above us and conveniently accessed through a two-way iron gate once a short flight of slate steps have been navigated. Nina-beena is becoming old & infirm. And, in particular, having bowed and unsteady hind parts makes stairs a daunting gymnastic. These denizens of the Borgo Castello toss their pranzo & cena left-overs for the cats. One fears that a chicken bone or two might be included in what was chucked. Meanwhile, The Croesus-person is denied his high-tails in a lateral direction to sniff the lower sectors near another neighbor’s house, tragically painted in a near day-glo ochre color, which will NEVER fade over Time, and where the cats seem to take what was gotten from above to dine upon hidden in Quite & Peace.
Called in our intrepid electrician… 10 years in our employ and n’er the word, No, from his lips… and indeed is a congenial Italian elf-of-a-man given to expressing opinions on pretty much everything, including topics outside his professional competence. Good that his suppositions are often of a sound & practical value… to revamp some light connections, mount a new one, where Darkness & Gloom reigned thick, and add exterior & interior light switches with heavy-duty outlets too. He is still searching for a replacement plastic door to our main electrical box. I had to assault it to Total Destruction with an IKEA screw-driver, when the key snapped off in the door’s lock. All in a nervous attempt to restore ASAP our electricity after it had mysteriously gone off. I am more than content on the improvements.
No word from our Cowboy Builder about coming to construct and install the two fireboxes for the LR & DR of La Casa Grande. The dude is currently working on a house project in some remote place not covered by any telephone network. Only if I am so lucky to remember to try him during the Pausa Pranzo, when he descends into a more accessible area of civilisation or, before he switches off his late 1990’s mobile as he strides into the OK-Corral, where he bunks with his latest girlfriend.
And, I am experiencing the latest chapter… Chapter 29… in a continuing saga to have repaired and/or restored many of Il Poggiolo’s wood painted windows & doors, so sadly ruined by rain, wind, heat and cold in our part of the Lunigiana. I had an appointment scheduled just this morning at 8:30AM. CANCELLED at 8:11AM. No replies to any of my whatsapps expressing availability until 2PM this afternoon. As Scarlet once remarked… Tomorrow is another day!
But onwards with the story…
…You mentioned… No! Wrong verb… INSISTED!!!… on the telephone a few days ago an ardent wish of His that someone come and re-do-nearly-everything about the Grassy Terrace right above the Apt. Azzurro. It’s the one with Mr. Hercules at the far end. News to me. Before I could ask even A Questions like… Are you ready to have a bull-dozer enter the garden and wrought its havoc upon our terrain?… I was compelled to listen to what sounded like one of You’s pre-meditated and extensive programs of rendering our humble home more gentile rather than leave it a farm-house, as it has been for the last 800 less 10 years of its Life. Again, I thought… Are you ready to have a bull-dozer enter the garden and wrought its havoc upon our terrain? Adding… just so you can adjust a slope?
The provocation brought back memories. We had to ask Our Builder… a trans-located Sardinian, who, though bravo in resolving issues of construction, was also a genius for creating new & nerve racking ones of his own making and to our suffering… because the garden actually had become an inclined garbage dump. Builders and staff are ALWAYS & NOTORIOUSLY a messy folk. The Builder’s nephew, a fierce-some kid of 20 decorated with piercings every-which-way and capped by a bush-whacked punk hair-cut, arrived with a mini-bull-dozer capable of swivelling 360 degrees…. in either sense. He joyously careened from one trash-strewn mound to another, levelling, grading, excavating, moving Ol’ Mother Earth in all her Local Majesty to give us terraces for which we might possibly plant grass. The machine, in his adroit hands, was like a joy-stick of movement & glee. In two days, the kid had altered a dump into a gentile cascade of dirt terraces, ready for semination. Done, he drove off into the sunset with his mini-bull-dozer only to be met occasionally again in nearby pizzerias.
Enough of my reverie… You was avid to arrest what to Him appeared to be an unmistakable slant to the slope off the row of fruit trees and assorted clumps of lavender down to the boxwood hedges below. Fine, I said, it goes at the bottom of The List. What? Well, of course, without a doubt, most assuredly but, I don’t want you to forget about it! I had to reply… Bull-dozer, You, repeat after me, bull-dozer. It would be an aid to Our Mutual Progress & Tranquility of us participants, if You would communicate these Desires with a more casual air. I get a Panzer Division. Rest assured, the Grassy Terrace Repair is now on The List, once I had figured out what The Real Truth was: the slight slope of the Grassy Terrace disturbed the distant point of focus of Mr. Hercules, bought at auction at catawiki.it. (Delivery cost more than the statue.) Makes sense, I can see that, quite right, You. If he had only said so at the beginning, I might have saved on tranquillisers. Italians! So un-transparent and hyper-.
Fence is finished...
Archive post February 16, 2019…
And the Dogs just HATE it!!! Are we much surprised? I am a bit offended. If those Two Creatures knew what that Tuscan Green metal infrastructure has cost me, they would have a little more respect. Naturally not. They’re Dogs.
We traditionally stroll through the garden of Il Poggiolo after lunch. I to tremble & shake with with anxiety over all the gardening tasks awaiting my robust intervention. Starting soon after I have pounded out this blog-post. Every year I strive to carry the garden to its prime, say by Easter? Thank God, it’s late this year. The Dogs sniff along the perimeter of their confinement. Then they come to me for an explanation. I give them a resounding… Ha!!!
You is totally bored by the fence. Never asks. And when it occasionally trips into a new-worthy topic on the telephone, the subject quickly slides to the weather… or, his bad back.
You and I do wholeheartedly agree: money should be spent ONLY on fun stuff: furniture, rugs, porcelain plates, objets d’art, boar’s heads!!! etc. The rest, the non-fun stuff of fences, new windows, additional fireplaces, and solar f%#*/g panels, should be gratis. Manna from Heaven. A subsidy by the Italian State. Heck, we live in a country decaying from Socialist & Commie ideals. But surely there‘s still some euros handy? Our little infrastructure WAS a make-work initiative. All You & I can hope for is added value to our Tuscan farm-house. Yeah, right.
The guys did an exceptional job. No doubt about it. The two were punctual, steady, precise. Their fence is regular, well-built, Tuscan Green. There are many good tracks and some others pretty darn unsightly. We pray to Mother Nature to kick-in.
Below is a medley of photos on the fence, in the following order, from left to right: acceptable, ugly, charming, and the piece de la resistance, a new fangled pergola. Enjoy!
Local landscapes...
Archive post February 14, 2019…
Back when You & I first got hooked up… actually, You courted me for a year and until I relented on the 11th of November 1998!!!… and had thought to nest, we canvased the Mediterranean coastline from Nice to back to Genoa for a place to plant our roots. Figured out after the exhausting exercise to find a paradise to locate to that, at the end of the day, You is Genoese and in Genoa he needs to be. Before that realisation hit and somewhere in the mountainous wilderness above San Remo… famous for flowers and the song festival just completed. A kid, Mahmood, won. The victory of an Italianized Muslim infuriated the Italian Northern League’s bully boss, Salvini. Good… You & I surveyed the views from upon high. Roberto staring out at the infiniteness of the Mediterranean Sea. Cats purr. You sighs. How can nearly nothingness inspire evena sigh. A mystery. Whereas my eyes were anchored at the majesty of the Apennines towering in the distance, graced by rolling hills of orchards, vineyards, a possible 2,000 sq. ft. re-do. You the sea, me the land. I should have known what that meant. I’m slow with The Math but, I do get the computation down… eventually. Mr. Sea to Mr Landscape. Mr. Stuff to Mr. Essential. Mr. Ironic… which I think is a total waste of time… to Mr Sarcastic… because sarcasm make you laugh out loud. Irony just make you cough. Etc. Etc. Etc.
Years later, I am socked with the shenanigans of two very spoiled Weimaraners and a 2,500 sq. ft Tuscan farm-house, il Poggiolo a Codiponte. They need to be run, wild as they are. Can’t do that at il Poggiolo. So, I let them terrorise Nature and I photograph it, mostly in the opposite direction. Lunigiana at its best.
The dog fence was finished tonight at sunset. Not the best for photography. A later post. In the meantime, enjoy the photographic fruits of my early morning safaris with the animals…
Not bad, eh?
Garden infrastructure...
Archive post February 7, 2019…
The guys showed up to build our fence. Tuesday morning, 9AM sharp. Three days of work and they’ll still be at it for another two. At least. What delayed the enterprise from the first discussion way back in September 2018 will steal it away again for tomorrow, Friday. A short hiatus skipping through the weekend for the guys to start again fresh and finish… The… Job.
Never thought infrastructure could be so wrought. Nerve-racking. Ups the blood pressure. I had engenuously imagined… hole post cement, hole post cement, hole post cement, string mesh, string mesh, string mesh, done, go home. Nope.
The first shock of my error in favour of ignorance came during a tour of inspection mid-stream Tuesday afternoon. The fruits of You’s and my landscaping labors, lo’ those ten years ago, to create a high & mighty privacy barrier from the greater Codiponte community at large… we’re surrounded, you know… had been bushwhacked… cleanly & efficiently accomplished, as it was… for proper elbow room to lay the fencing. Holy Mother of… one just cannot do, apparently, all the measuring, balancing, digging, digging, digging, cementing for posting, posting, posting an army of Tuscan green metal stakes from hither of our house, il Poggiolo, to the yonder of the legnaia. I felt faint. Nauseous. Had to brace myself by grabbing a cypress for support. I remained mute. Tried to smile. Always helps to cover the facial crinkle of doubt and fear. Big Time. What is this going to cost me?
The second bit of stomach wrenching misunderstanding came yesterday when the Chief Guy… truly and honestly a nobleman of gardening & agricultural expertise… explained that, in order in insure the stakes stay staked, angled supports… longer stakes, naturally, and if any of you have ever studied Geometry, a deplorable yet, fundamental area of knowledge, you’d instantly see the reason why… have to go in between that army. What? Really? What is this going to cost me? I wanted my Mommy. I breathed instead. Then resorted to God. Near & dear Human Beings were not so kindly disposed.
The third item was: I kindly sent an FYI to Dr. You a focused medley of photos to show him the fence work in progress. Obliquely asking for Moral Support too. No. A firestorm. A stun and awe firestorm. Telephone calls. Many, many telephone calls. From You’s hospital. HE HATED THE FENCE!!! Oh? It’s all cemented. Spostali in fretta prima che si asciughi il cemento! Too late. Set forever. I do not know nor do I care to ever know what the man was thinking, conjuring up in his funny little & bumpy princely doctor’s head but, to think the fence would be artfully slipped in between those ghastly prickly plants, for instance, until Kingdom Come… or would it be Came?… with those funny little orange berries on them was… well… let me see? What would it be? Oh, yes… INSANE!!! Costly too. All I could do was hang-up. The network coverage was silent for the next 24. That stunt saved me from posing The Question… What is this going to cost me?
Fourthly, and most of this will have to wait until Monday, is for the guys to string the Tuscan green wire mesh… so cleverly color co-ordinated with that of the stakes… from stake to stake to stake, and then, like a violin’s strings, tighten the entire length until it cries Uncle!!! I will resort to infrastructure rehab from pro-secco abuse. What is this going to cost me? will fade into and disappear into my drunken stupor. I hope.
P.S. The Dog are in for a Big Surprise. More pro-secco, please?
A rainy day tour of the garden...
Archive post February 1, 2019…
Reports were for snow this weekend. Snowed for about 30 seconds yesterday morning. Left a light frosting of white on cars and along the sides of roads. Lasted all of 30 minutes. Temps had dropped. That changed. A few degrees up the thermometer and so long white . It’s raining today. Nice to be inside, warm & cozy. Dogs have already skipped their Noon-day walk.
You is on is way down to Codiponte. Raised the thermostat to 18C from 14C. Meester Freddoloso. His arrival also has meant a quick house cleaning. One item of several on the list was to dump the fireplace’s ash-bucket as fertiliser on our garden’s flora. In the rain. Puppy-dog was ecstatic for the adventure. T’was a hasty tour…
It is only my opinion but, I find our garden beautiful in the winter. Impression of an ever-lasting forever.
There’s a risk of a boring exercise here with this blog. Not sure, but I believe every year I post articles & photos on the four yearly passages of our garden at il Poggiolo… Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. Could be translated to… Prune to Bud, Verdant Union, Burnt Siena Foliage and Dormant Beauty. And some other stuff in between. This is very Italian. The Italians are many things, layers of contrasting, often chaotic elements yet, they are endearingly consistent. They are a seasonal people. Italians anticipate Life’s stages… births, communions, marriages and deaths. Rather corresponds to those yearly stages. Perhaps then, reflecting, it might not be a boring exercise. Could be more a steady, consistent calendar of seasonal occurrences, events and happenings at our 800 year old Tuscan farm-house and its garden posted with happy regularity at Italian House Blog.
An operative interlude…
Archive post January 26, 2019…
In other words, Il Poggiolo Grand Projects are temporarily held up. We hope…
I dottori said the tumour needed to be removed. Located at the nape of the neck. A day- hospital op. Simple. OK. D-hospital was booked until late May-June. No way to bring the op up towards January? February, maybe? Il dottore said… Listen, we do the op as a normal surgery. No exams. Just show up with an empty stomach. Could happen in a couple of weeks. Wait for a call. OK. Call came. Appointment for 9:00AM, Wednesday, 23rd of January. Great!
It was said the tumour was fatty. Touching the lump, I thought cottage cheese. No problem. Easy. Let’s do it! OK. Spent an hour plus face-down on an operating table. Could only see the plastic clogs of il dottore and nurses. Thanks, to the All Mighty God, numbed where I needed to be numbed. Horrifyingly, could hear everything else. The conversations of il dottore and the nurses… and visitors!!! Had heard there was an American in Sala 3. Worse were the noises of extracting what did not care to budge. The tumour. Consistency of cement. Stone. Very hard stuff. The thing had grown off my cranium and around a top bone to my spinal column. Dottore had to dig to China. He sweated. A jackhammer would have helped. Not enough room for that. OK. Ghastly experience. Not what I had imagined at all.
Op done. Il dottore left to do paperwork. The nurses kept me company. Asked me questions of why, how, when I had ended up in their part of Italy. Am used to this sort of congenial interrogation. The entire staff saw me to the door. Gave Thanks. Felt nothing. Drove home.
Two crazed Weimaraners were desperate to see me. Could have nearly cared less. The local had worn off. Can deal with noble stoicism and patience any discomfort. You would disagree. Nobility is not just a tag or title. OK. I CANNOT DEAL WITH PAIN!!! You would definitely confirm this. OK. What evaporated left me with the distinct sensation someone had attempted to decapitate me. It got worse. And who thinks aspirin is an adequate pain-killer should be shot. On sight. No questions. Just shoot. Called You… a general dottore, surgeon, a head of ophthalmology at a hospital… to consult and, more importantly, TO COMPLAIN!!! An aside…
My name is Forrest Charlton Spears, Esq. My father used to say Charlton was another spelling for to complain. Pegged that correctly. Had had lots of experience with Charltons.
The Kind & Goodly Dottore You reminded me that I had in my medicine basket a supply of what is a hydrogen bomb posing as an anti-inflammation drug. Volteren 75. Cryptic name. But all medicines have spooky names. And their spelling!!! Thought to chuck the aspirin down the toilet. Quickly reached for The H-Bomb. Pain didn’t vanish. It did subside. OK. Was able to walked the Dogs without giving injury to anyone or anything, anywhere.
More problems… the architecture of padded bandages detached… thanks to my .003 high five o’clock shadow at the back of my head… and flew away. Into the Winter winds. With it went the silk drainage tube of the incision. OOOPS!!! High risk of hematoma. Dealt with it all night long. Went to the Emergency Room at 6:30AM. No-one around at home to help me. Back of my head thing. Holding a mirror in one hand… etc. The available E-staff could not do anything about the lost tube. They did re-build the padded bandages reinforced with more adhesive tape. By Noon, the engineering had flown away… again!!! I was only getting out of my car. Into the Winter Winds. Got back in and drove to see our pharmacist friend for a big band-aide. No more padded bandages held with tape. Simplicity ought to be a viable medical art. Got a big band-aide. The Hydro-Bomb could not deal with the pain of the hematoma of accumulated blood inside the stitched-tightly incision. No escape. PAIN!!! DISCOMFORT!!! REALLY BAD MOOD!!! Felt my blood-pressure climb too. Sure sign is a frontal lobe headache and icky nausea. Pharmacist confirmed this. Off to my general dottore for new meds on that. Felt everything. Drove home. Exhausted. Hysterical. Called You to…
Dawned on me that there was ONLY ONE TRUE THING TO DO: watch The Sound Of Music and drink white wine. Took more of every pill, tablet and drops… tranquillising drops… in my house. Built a fire, Dogs arrived to share the sofa and off we went…
Worked like a dream.
My Plan was after cottage cheese, I’d begin to hit the list of il Poggiolo Grand Projects. How about the ramp pergola to start? Thought… Sun’s been shining too long, mildly not freezing outside, got all the materials, let’s do it! And I will when the feelings of an axe at the back of my neck takes a hike… forever!!!
Little black hoses...
Archive post March 24, 2010…
Gosh…. will Wonders never cease? And, so soon after My Initial Shock with a paint color earlier in the afternoon. I had no idea that the dangling black rubber tube draped across the facade of my years old Tuscan farm-house is my only access to running water in La Casetta. However, I do have a hunch some clever person will come along & invent another method and/or placement for said tube. Burying it might be an idea, no? So novel too. Gads.
That dangling black tube is our water supply from the source to la Casetta below.
Let the projects begin...
Archive post January 17, 2019…
I am decided: let’s get going with bringing il Poggiolo up to snuff for 2019. Got a list:
#1 re-build the two Big Pergolas and another smaller schiocchezza… or, a smaller foolishness, destroyed by the Hurricane of last October.
I have the necessary essential material: bamboo. Lucky to have passed by while a local Codiponte resident was clearing and burning the infestation of bamboo next to his piece of Italian territory. Seems a tradition of January, as others in the Lunigiana were doing the same. What can one do in January but clear and burn? The man’s property along the road to the natural spring of Acqua Paradiso is graced by one of the trashiest barns around… a agglomerated dump, literally… a few puny grape vines and a bevy of scruffy cats & dogs to watch the premises. The view to the Apuane Peaks, however, is inspiring. That’s Italy for you. The man kindly allowed me to pilfer with the help of my two canine assistants and the Galloper SUV enough bamboo poles to adequately take care of Project #1 and then some.
#2 put in a stone path up the middle of the ramp from the Dog-gate up to L’Appartamento Azzurro and re-seed the grass. The Truth of this task is actually to fare sparire…. or, to disappear, the stones dumped on the back-side of the Esseccatoio… or, smoke house, after the work on La Casa Grande’s addition of two mini-windows in the Salotto way back in 2014. What is underneath by a meter would make a cute little terrazza… or, terrace, for an aperitivo or, sunbathe on terracotta pavers. Please note: Nina-beena and The Croesus-person are My Project Inspectors. They are enthusiastic participants with anything I elect to do.
#3 put in stone before the terracotta terrace at the entrance to L’Appartamento Azzurro. This may be expanded to include the triangular split at the Legnaia… or, wood-shed, and the ramp. Planting grass was a disappointing failure.
One happy Weimaraner puppy carrying his latest stick.
#4 paint the front door to La Casetta and the two wood gates, one at the lower end of the Sottopassaggio… or, our Tunnel, and the other at the Keep-the-Dogs-on-the-Aia next to the Esseccatoio in Our Signature Grey. There is can with some residual paint. But where?
#5 and finally, get the Cowboy Builder to come build and install the two glass-fronted fireboxes for La Casa Grande’s Salotto… or, Living Room… and Sala da pranzo… or, the Dining Room. If only the dude would check his answering machine and call me back!
I may need tranquilizers for this last item. All others will require a strong back and drink after 5PM.
I am going to hold off on the French doors in the Sala da Pranzo. I brought in our Esteemed Geometra to take a look and he immediately embarked upon a discussion of what a pity it would be to remove the original beam so much in the way of this initiative. Let there by sunlight. Probably just as well. I don’t think You has actually absorbed this plan of mine. Better to wait and judge the proper moment before dropping the double-door bomb again.
I have January and February to knock these off. My attention must turn to the garden in March for il Grande Assalto. Needed: a strong body and even stronger drink. Wish me luck?
Italian house...
Archive post January 10, 2019…
I had completely forgotten…
Far before I had thought to come to Italy to live, my dreams had conjured an Italian house. Running an errand in the SUV a couple of days ago, I happened to take an unexplored road to avoid an accident up ahead. Bet a FIAT had spun-out on an icey strada statale. No idea really. The Carabinieri waved me right well before. Italian drivers never learn, do they? What is the rush to get to Aulla before the stores open? Making the right turn and there on the right was a classic Italian casa colonica… an Italian farm-house. Tuscan. A stone and brick box set back from the unknown road. Stopped to stare. The house nestled by some scraggly olive trees. I was lost in my head. Suddenly I saw what I once remembered of my dream-like mind’s eye. Vision reproduced for days afterwards. Then archived under My Italian house. Might have been the original spur to change direction and come East from the USA to the boot of a peninsula surrounded by sea.
I must confess of some need for a change. Summer spat me out unwillingly into Fall. Hollered but, was no help. No time to brake either to avoid colliding with Christmas. Happened quickly anyway. When in this state, My History provided a move to a new city in a new home. Home is the place to start.
Got two. I have been ruminating selling both…
One I can’t. A certain person would invoke Over My Dead Body. The last time he spoke those hardened words I cringed in his presence for a week. Still nurture scares too. Tone of voice thing. No big stick. You’s point-of-view to his insisted statement of No? DIfficult to beat… anywhere in the world… the nifty happenstance of living only a short block away from where you catch the train for work every work-day.. Views are one of a kind from the 25 foot high windows towards the old port and La Lanterna di Genova. I do love the oft apartment and most of the accumulated stuff inside. Pretty fancy. Provokes Ooo’s & Ahhh’s from those lucky to be show photographs. Am waiting for Voice Search… Find me that photo of the LR, please. No, the other one. Thanks. What grates is I feel trapped in our non-neighborhood. I miss the old apartment in the centre of Genoa. A middle-class tenement. Would walk out and meet a friend or two, three… bunches. Where You & I are now is una landa desolata. The only folk who say Ciao! to me as I am pulled along by two crazed Weimaraners are the recovering drug addicts at the Communita’ San Benedetto. Mostly guys. Friendly. Cute. Girls don’t do drugs to excess? Never see n’er una. The guys sang Jingle Bells to me from the balcony of their retreat at Christmas.
The other, il Poggiolo, is rife with ramps and stairs. Near killers. Bad back and the left hip issues. The bain of old-age or, at least an age heading in that direction. More so with bags of groceries or carry-alls of IKEA glass bottles full of sparkling spring water. I also worry months in advance of the Spring & Fall assaults on the garden though what has been sunk into Mother Earth is maturing as desired and contrary to another’s opinion.
I confided to You my deep yearnings for changing our homes mid-stream in our drive to Milan for New Year’s. Ghastly holiday sabotaged by a wayward friend, a bully and about 350,000 foreign tourist in the city to shop and eat the place to suffocation. Couldn’t even get into a museum!!! I was rewarded with a cautionary admonition of a repeat performance of said famous declaration. Gads.
Maybe it’s just a phase? About every two years for twenty years I would masticate the idea of bagging Italy and going back to America. What tipped the chew was I could not dissolve the conviction: You can’t go back. Still here. Changing homes is the same repetitive beast.
What to do? Projects. Already mentioned. Alerted to my malaise, You encourages reports on my progress to coral a builder to construct and install two fire-boxes, one in the salotto and the other in the sala da pranzo. A gardner… and one of the finest men I have had the honor to know and work with… has promised us by the end of January to erect the infamous Dog Fence. Then, and this will require all the tact my Americanized Anglo-Saxon corpuscles can muster with You-know-who, French doors and a iron balcony with stairs off the same sala da pranzo to our Scenic Overlook. There was some noise from a certain sector that eliminating two… only decorative… beams from the pre-2009 roof might be frowned upon. Frown away. They be gone.
But hey! Wait just a minute. Excitement is building. What am I thinking? Il Poggiolo will reach new heights with these Excuse-our-messes. Never mind. Onwards. Just a phase.
Rhythm and rituals...
Archive post January 2, 2019…
What were the rhythms & rituals of il Poggiolo back before You & I hit? I may know something from ours…
An evening during our recent post-Christmas visit to il Poggiolo…
Penso di andare al letto… I think I’ll head off to bed, says You around 8:30 at night.
Nearly an outright lie. I know for a fact he will spend a good 2 to 2 + 1/2 hours under his mountainous bed-covers being Mr. Instagram. AKA, The Prince, HATES cold and can only properly function in an ambiance with not less less than 85 evenly distributed degrees Fahrenheit for various physiological and psycho reasons… all of them unhealthy AND very Italian. I won’t explain further. Comforters or radiators, You could care less. It’s the air-temp. His furnished excuse… though he knows I am onto him for said practice is… Aye muhst reeespownd too ahwll miye followerzz.
E d’abbondarmi cosi presto?… I gently retaliate with, And abandon me so early? Typical and a constant.
You silently bundles-up for the cold return up the ramp which connects La Casetta to the rest of il Poggiolo and his cozy terracotta-painted bedroom, thus ending our serata. I am left to share the long black sofa with two snoring Weimaraners and, Blessedly, a warm, blazing fire in La Casetta’s only fireplace though the firewood is still quite green.
The very next morning… and with no preamble, You kicks off with
Mi sono svegliato alle 4 stamattina… I woke up at 4AM, recounts You and in a tone of voice of wonderment mixed with a large dose of irritation. I cannot blame him.
Io ero sveglio alle 3:30AM e non potevo riaddormentarmi… comes my similar circumstances.
This is an uncontrolled bad habit with us guys. Happens every night. Shouldn’t happen on a vacation. The Dogs at least wait until the 7 o’clock is rung-out over at the church’s Medieval campanile. Must be impervious to nocturnal disturbances. You think?
Then, comes a domestic matter…
Non c’e’ latte nel frigo… said like I am totally out of whack with My Natural and habitually God-ordained Duties of Chief Cook & Bottle Washer. The task of Cook automatically implies doing the grocery shopping in a timely & efficient manner. You’s declaration meant I had to bundle up and go check the larders of the other 2 houses for a small carton of infamous long-life milk. Never found. I am heartened that I take my espresso nero. Others should learn this trick too.
Sipping my brew that same morning and nestled in La Casetta’s warmth, I began to ponder the why’s and the wherefores of our rudely early risings, when it dawned on me… ha-ha-ha… that farmer people wake up even before the cock crows. For what? Beat the cock to the crow? Cows need squeezing? Pigs have rolled over and cannot get up? Untangled the chickens from themselves before the sun peaks over yonder mountain? Admittedly, not a hugely in-depth or interesting topic. Yet, living in a farm-house after generations and generations and generations of risings & beddings, of comings & goings and of laboring 365 days of the year cracking chestnuts into flour or stuffing pork into casings for salamis, and other break-your-back farm tasks, the thought occurred that all that might leave traces of energy. Every square foot of house must’ve absorbed these ‘till the place could pop. And, Il Poggiolo just can’t shake them. Nor can we at 3:30 in the morning!
La Casetta in ful-tilt at an ungodly hour… Dog at the watch!
Visit to the Villetta...
Archive post December 22, 2018…
A mistake to have thought the villa would be perfect. Not a lot, but just enough. Turns out, Could be perfect, would have been the proper verb construction. Bad boy. I should never have done that! It compromised discovery and adventure. I must be rusty. Or, deep down I wasn’t much into it. Sometimes dreams are keener than reality. Or, reality kills them off. My subconscious surely had an inkling. I consistently refused to acknowledge the messages. So…
I went, I looked, I left. Done.
Charm and fascination are funny commodities. What appeals generally might not elsewhere. I don’t think you are supposed to crawl & scratch to get to them. Am I spoiled in my old age? Others, like You, for instance, may disagree. By my guest: scratch away.
The interior of the mock-Palladian villa and its older sister’s Fin du Siecle’ wing left me disoriented, distanced, bludgeoned by way too much stuff. No… excuse me… let me put it like this… WAY TOO MUCH STUFF!!! Furniture, books, clothes, pictures, paraphernalia, every pot ‘n pan known to Man…. farm-equipment!!!… cluttered, disordered and dirtied by the dust of neglect. Hey! Where are the house vibes? Stifled. Unreachable. Hidden. No room for its spirit to breathe. Not even a whisper heard of the villa’s abandonment when i nonni passed away in quick succession back in ‘00. I doubt the three heirs have yet to put a foot inside a doorway. Shame on them!
The villa is in three parts. Normally, Oh! Goodie, would be the response here. The oldest part is the wing lent up against… or squeezed in between… a very tall stone wall of the passing street to its left and the cube-like white & cream frescoed villa in prime picture-taking stance on the right.
The former has a big open terrace and window & door cornices bordered in terracotta brick. Easily spotted and enjoyed. A basement of cantine and a garage capped by that big open terrace, a gracious adjunct to its First Floor salotto of an immense length and little width. An 8 x 3 proportion. A modest fireplace inhabits one corner. This is followed by a luxuriously blu-tinted grey tiled 50’s styled bathroom with classic Italian early-chromed fixtures. The Second Floor has three bedrooms. Their bathroom is at the end of the hallway. A quirk of sorts: the staircase communicating between this wing’s floors fills what would have been the fourth Palladian-squared room in the white stucco-ed main villa. The dimensions fit a stairs.
The later part was either re-styled in a severe Deco mood or the terracotta window & doors mouldings were elaborated and summarily stucco-ed over after the Big Quake of ‘22. The Assessment? Tiny rooms. Stuffed to the gills tiny rooms. Four per its two floors. Scaled down Palladio, if there ever was. Overwhelmingly, each tiny room has A MAJOR FIREPLACE!!! Nice motif, baring the later modifications of shrinking them to miniscule… fits tiny… or plugging up entirely their fireboxes. Stepping through the entrance doors, on the left is a kitchen with its MAJOR FIREPLACE!!!, the quirky staircase, and then, on the right a library with more books than you can imagine… skyscrapers of books in front of skyscrapers of books… and its MAJOR FIREPLACE!!! and a salotto with its EVEN BIGGER MAJOR FIREPLACE!!!!! and the ubiquitous clutter and disorder and dust. Up the stairs… risking one’s neck to climb over the farm-equipment with sharp, jabby things… very scary looking prongs… to the three bedrooms and the proverbial… The bathroom’s at the end of the hallway, dear. Ditto clutter and disorder and dust. Cobwebs too.
Behind these two sections and up a treacherous series of stone stairs and through the accompanying jungle is the small Servants Quarters… I suppose. Could not get through the door to find out. An apartment. Once-upon-a-time, servants and/or other could come & go undetected by escaping up another series of dangerous stone stairs to the bridge above. To Freedom!!!
The garden in front of the two houses is a lumpy grassy terrace. BIG LUMPS. Sorry, no badminton or soccer. The Good News is you could land a helicopter on it. The surrounding foliage is quite picturesque. Italian evergreens mixed in with deciduous Italian nature. Cluttered and disorder. Cement and terracotta planters repose underneath the overgrowth in a scenic sort of distribution. Now that IS charming.
No deal. No perfect-ness. Off onto new horizons. We might build.
May I speak of stuff? No doubt about it: SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS!! Just look at what’s on the mantle of the EVEN BIGGER MAJOR FIREPLACE!!! Merely a hint of what could not be adequately photographed. Peccato. The house may not have moved me, but the stuff surely did. I may go back with You and rummage for some gems. A woven cane seated bent walnut three-seater sofa. I know he’d be up for that or, he wouldn’t be You.
Real-estate in the veins...
Archive post December 11, 2018…
When I was a kid up until the age of 16 when I gained independence with a Driver’s License and a used-car to go with it, I was pretty much obligated to accompany My Mother on her antiquing forays into the hinterlands of whatever State of the US Union we happened to be inhabiting at the time. I was an available gentleman companion. A bit small, but able. My Mother called these jaunts junquing. I am not a shopper, especially for junque. Being somewhat of an authoritarian personality, any contrary comments or reluctance to enter a tasty Junque Emporium… to My salivating Mother, that is… were hardly tolerated. My obstinance was referred to as not getting with the Program. For awhile, Misery was my middle name. Over the arch of so many indentured years of servitude to The Program, A Law of the Universe was made evident to me, one I learned to grapple with first hand… Junque attracts other junque. Or is found nearby. ZOOMING down a country lane in hot pursuit of some Junque Store… It’s right around the next bend, Forrest. I can feel it!!!… which had come highly recommended in a Sunday newspaper advertisement, a forlorn and/or maligned looking dilapidated clapboard house would zip by us at 80 mph. My Mother, even today at 89 years of age, knows of only one speed: full-steam ahead. Any other setting is ignored. Probably why I am bald & fat. At any rate, in passing some junquely piece of residential architecture, My Mother would hurl out to the passing winds this call-to-Real-estate-arms… Ah, now that has Distinct Possibilities for renovation!!! What? I’d say. That? She would. Too late. I was hooked. Lined. Sunk. Smitten. Saved, too. Surveying the horizons for Distinct Possibilities offered needed relief from emporium invasions. Got good at spotting them at any mph well before My Mother. And in the intimate privacy of my own brain I would fantasize just how I’d do the place up. What to keep, what to knock down. By now, an incurable disease.
Years later…
Most of the time, and yet, not without some effort to contain any pop-up urges, I have managed to be clean of evidentiary Real-Estate Lust, i.e. to the house hunt, until we came upon il Poggiolo in 2009. Normally, I just look but, I do not touch.
Then it happened. Uncontained. Here is the the culprit… proposed by a friend who had innocently asked if I knew of the house. Yes, of course. I look at it every time I drive by. Even the Dogs know it. Why? Oh, just curious. Hard to resist such a quaint & charming villa. I’ve got Real-estate in my veins.
This villa might just be a flirt though. Haven’t seen inside. Have an appointment this Thursday. Time to touch?
Villetta to see.
Perhaps it would be wise of me to share my Big Real-estate Loves before discovering and doing all that stuff to il Poggiolo back in ‘09. From L to R in order of their respective hits:
Giuseppe the Wood-working meets Frank Lloyd Wright in the Lunigiana, Castiglione del Terziere, to be exact. Friends in the village pointed us to this Moderne-Meets-Medieval Compound. Two ruins bought by an American-Italian and expensively renovated with the deft hands of a local architect and falegname. Both with great taste. So deft were their hands, the American-Italian brought a suit against them for theft. He lost! The man never stepped inside again and immediately put the houses up For Sale. You and I feel madly in love. You for no grass to mow and me for the salotto with a stepped terrace beyond the French-doors in 1/2 of the unified properties. Was not our Destiny to buy. Wildly too high asking price… Euro 600,000… and overly complicated purchase terms of the American-Italian, further confounded by an archaic real-estate agent and his extraordinarily stupid wife, we said Basta! Moved on after a year-long mourning period. By the way, we offered Euro 380,000. Today the selling price is Euro 225,000.
A magnificent early 19th Century Story-book Mansion, the seat of a family of prosperous farmers, naturally requiring an equally prosperous seat. Now in the hands of two recalcitrant brothers who have also dismantle the agro-business, the house and garden and Empire chapel through the woods have been left to decay. Asking price is in the several millions of Euros category. They will watch it fall down to pieces. Another Law of the Universe: When the roof goes, so go the walls. This dream house is quickly nearing that End. But I want it. Not to be.
A Vineyard House in Liguria scouted by a friend who was hot to have this. I wanted her to have it too. Alas, the house did not exist in black & white on paper and to restore it to that state… classic Italian tax dodge… had sent the asking price out of the solar system. That can hurt.
Rustic farm-house, perched above verdant fields, rustle of water coursing through a near-by river, solitude, privacy, your own retreat. This house was Love Numero Due for the same friend who angsted for the Vineyard House. Then, intelligently, we hired a geometra to explain why the place had ENORMOUS cracks. He hired a geologist and his report was not encouraging. The place, THE ENTIRE PLACE, was sinking into the surrounding mud. At this point, these loves just bring you more Laws of the Universe. The latest would be: You’ve got to spend money to save money. My friend saved herself a bunch of money… and trouble. That takes care of any spurned love.
My Biggest Fall for Real-estate… with an added push from Dr. You… of course, was, is il Poggiolo a Codiponte. Nothing beats it. Well, except… It was not love at first sight though. Just seemed a place with most of the boxes ticked-off. We made an offer. It was accepted. Lots of time and money spent. We moved in. Tackled the garden. Filled it up with You’s stuff. The Happy Result is we have a special house in the Italian countryside. To our taste and liking. Let me leave you with one last Law of the Universe: With renovation, it gets worse before getting much more beautiful!
Il Poggiolo Before…
And 4 years later…
So we’ll see about the villetta. Got to ease into it.
In the meantime, and I cannot resist this. In the interest of being Democratic in this age when that ideal is continually chucked in the trash of politics, You too has had his Real-estate flirts. How about A Little House on the Italian Prairie?… Oh, John-boy, wherefore art thou? It’s a mystery house too.
Missing il Poggiolo...
Archive post December 6, 2018…
For two weeks this past November, I was 4,701 miles from il Poggiolo standing amongst the lofty pines of North Carolina. That’s a small lie. Actually, I was mostly inside nursing a severe cold sipping chicken noodle soup and watching Netflix. I hardly gave il Poggiolo a conscious thought. My subconscious could not let it go. This a long held tradition or, an annoying habit. Cannot decide. But consistently repeated twice a year: Thanksgiving and Easter. Smacks of separation anxiety. Only to a point…
Darn subconscious. And when a guy is already down to take advantage of my weary state: sleep patterns thrown to the winds by the annihilating whiz-bang-stop of modern air travel and beyond the reach of the latest tech in somniferous medicines. And, let us not forget the added boon of the 6 hour time differential. Fertile territory for nightmares to infiltrate my dreamworld, menacing my vulnerability with all which could befall my beloved Tuscan farm-house, il Poggiolo. The epitome of completing my misery: floods, fires, torrential rains, unwanted guests, unwanted anyone else, taxes upped, gas burners blazing away 24/7, every light left on to dispel the abandoned darkness 24/7 too… and much like the photos, long since DELETED, taken by a polite yet over-zealous AirBnB photographer sent by The Company to eradicate any unruly shadows or nooks of shade, thus rendering il Poggiolo ridiculously devoid of any charm or hey! Colorfulness. FLASHED to Death!!!… to Escher-esque follies of perpetually climbing up & down the house’s many ramps emulating the Myth of Sisyphus… talk about sweating while trying to sleep. Then, they stopped. Just like that. Not that the new dreams were all blue skies and birds tweeting. No, something better:
Future Poggiolo Projects…
new glass-enclosed fireplaces faced in flea-market marble veneers for La Casa Grande’s LR & DR. I can tell you right now the Dogs are going to love this innovation: beds & blankets fireside. Weimaraners love nothing more than to be WARM!!! Double French-doors in the DR too with a balcony and stairs outside to gracefully descend down to the garden for a Summer’s evening aperitivo or, to say Hello! to Dott. Bacchus standing watch over the wisteria vines and hydrangeas. Imagine hands sliding along the wrought iron railings to store firewood easily below. And, stone stairs to the top-most grassy terraces ample enough to deck them with large terracotta vases full of bromeliads and lavender, ooo-wee! Woke myself up with glee and did so until I reversed course for Italy to come back home… to il Poggiolo. And that is the Moral of the Story!
Italy to Emerald City USA...
Archive post November 29, 2018…
I traditionally vacate the Italian peninsula for Thanksgiving. Done 30+ yrs. of trans-Atlantic travel in or around the last Thursday of the last full week of the next to last month of the year of November. Got that?
Now, it is pretty obvious, just listening to my heavily American accented Italian that, lo’ & behold, I am an American! Unavoidably so. The Codipontesi mimic My Dog Commands in Americanized English… Come on being the more frequent phrase heard. The accent is a worrisome fact though. Hard as I try to roll those r’s… especially the 2 found in my first name… use big words like coniugare, pronunciare, pontificare or, throwing in obscure exclamations such as, Canta che ti passa, none disguise my oltre l’oceano origins.
Most of the surrounding Italians march past all that. My American-ness appeals. They do think I talk like the dubbed Laurel & Hardy… Stanley e Olio in Italian. They are instantly recognizable and adored for the heavily American accented Italian slap-stick. What they ARE truly wanting to know is…
Quando vai in America?
I gush, swallowing the last bit of brioche and noting that some of my cappuccino landed at stomach-level on my COS sweater before replying… Thanksgiving! Getting a blank look, I quickly translate… per il Giorno di Ringraziamento. Less of a blank look. Then, swiftly comes… Come vorrei accompagnarti in America! Eyes bright as Emerald City, for cryin’ out loud. Off they go and I am left with the sensation the Italians think America is akin to Dorothy and her tag-alongs of Toto, the Tin Man, Scarecrow and the Cowardly Lion skipping on the Yellow Brick Road to savor the fun, and have granted a wish or 2, in Emerald City. A perennial Thanksgiving TV favorite… in America, that is.
Requires substitutions, alterations. The Italians are prepared. They’ve study America. TV is the culprit, again. Italians like spectacle. BIG fantasies too: BIG trucks, BIG buildings, BIG shopping and BIG food. A BIG 50 State buffet of anything you want in any quantity in any location. It dazzles and delights. A dream.
Here I am, in Emerald City USA. AKA North Carolina. And a rather different experience to what my Italian friends will expect to hear from me upon my return. Could well risk being accused of not getting it: ate salmon steaks instead of turkey on Thanksgiving, got sick with the flu because you cannot open a window for some fresh air and wall-to-wall carpet have germs… however, it might be the tactical error of that salmon as the real cause of my malady… sipped microwaveable chicken noodle soup and watched movies on Netflix for days on end so not to spread the apparent plague of influenza over the land, missed Black Friday AND Cyber-Monday totally, and so on and on and on. I may have to lie. Keep the dream going.
Closed for the Winter...
Archive post November 21, 2018…
You and I had thought il Poggiolo would be my Summer residence, June to September. You would hit on the weekends, saving people’s eyesight permitting. Other months of the year, our Tuscan farmhouse would be reserved for holiday visits: post-Christmas to New Year’s, Easter, that Commie Holiday in May. Meant closing down the house towards the end of September. Big work. A weird sort of ballet: You would shunt stuff from the garden carrying it down to the un-used space of the esseccatoio… or, chestnut drying shed… while I would de-nude the three refrigerators sanctifying them with vinegar. You then would strip beds of their linens and furiously dust his many objets and I would clip the grass one last time and cut the hedges to streamline their look. The last bits were the elegance of draping sheets over everything and closing off the utilities of water, gas, wi-fi and electricity. This was our program which we managed for a couple of years.
Enter one Weimaraner and followed by the adoption of another and then a puppy to replace the first magnificent dog. All prefered to inhale the invigorating aires of the Lunigiana more than the polluted ones in Genoa. More liberal local leash laws, now a definite thing of the past, encouraged me to spend ever more time at il Poggiolo with the canines. The years brought an expanding role as a bilingual Guardian Angel to friends tackling what You & I had tackled with il Poggiolo from 2009 to 2014. My seasonal sojourn became year-round.
Grumblings were heard, not listened too.
Though early for a New Year’s Resolution, I quietly vowed this Fall to remedy my absence from You’s and my co-habitation in the Genoa loft and from our Genoese friends & family. December to March. Meant returning to the task of closing down the house. A go-it-alone sacrifice this time. I did have help with the expert administrations of a blond-bombshell of a cleaning signora for two days. I had to stand clear. It was easy. I did umpteen loads of laundry, hauled trash to the dumpsters, moved non-resistant-to-the-cold plants inside, shoved and rearranged furniture and even supervised a firewood delivery. Piled the Dogs into the car and headed to Genoa.
I am uneasy. I knew yet was reminded despite the just concluded toil: Il Poggiolo is my Kingdom. My bit of Italian territory. An orientation of stone and wood and garden. My home. I am the missing part, me from it and it from me. I can’t wait for March.
The salotto of la Casa Grande, Sumer HQ, but closed up for the Winter.