Summer reading....
Entertainment & News at il Poggiolo is mostly by the written word. No TV sets. Otherwise, plenty of laptops. They used to serve as home ports for various DVD players. The first was given to me by some Codiponte friends to help me survive convalescence after my first hip op seven long years ago. It was great. Shitty sound. But, I could slip in any US, European or, UK DVD, and the gadget would let it roll on unimpeded to the closing credits, and not bark at me like the Apple contraption purchased with a MacBook a few months later. When I could walk. Three chances to bat between US and European, etc. DVD’s yet, after the third time, you’re stuck with whatever was your last choice. Usually the one you do not want the fourth time. Feel this is a decidedly forma antipatica bordering on IT terrorism by Apple…. damn them. And what with a company valuation of $2.3 trillion, Apple should pay us to use their overpriced & recalcitrant products. Professed improvements to the company product’s planned obsolescence does leave much to be desired, to explain the later complaint. All this CD-player business was way before steaming fell into vogue in Italy and, when it did hit, it immediately required a hasty increase in wi-fi power. So be it. I cannot find much to stream. As for streaming TV shows, only The Crown and Wolf Hall hold any interest. Favoured repeats, I must say. Many other TV offerings are skewed, embarrassing, violent, sadistic or, just plain dumb. Marketed shit. From America. As for streaming any flicks, I resort to watching, again, old family favourites. Sense & Sensibility and The KIng’s Speech have seen considerable action of late on my preferred MacBook. I mostly read books.
I do not do Kindle. You, being my own personal in-house eye dottore and out-of-house eye chirurgo, is totally opposed to them. TOTALLY!!! Massive yearly increases in the number of persons infiltrating hospital for Dott. You sought to stem their overuse of Kindles, smart phones, laptops, and personal computers. The screens vibrate. They oscillate. Taxing the eyes which, are sophisticated, highly delicate & sensitive organs. Muscles, maybe? Over-worked. And, once touched, are never to be touched again. Heed this WARNING. I do. I read books.
Ordering is a cinch. Delivery is a bitch. A) Why is delivery so expensive? B) Why is delivery so slow? C) Why must I join amazon Prime, to enjoy any presumed benefits with delivery? Its extra-cost still doesn’t guarantee much more speed… to Italy. About as fast as the proverbial slow boat to/from China. I won’t mention how long it takes with regular delivery. Ditto for amazon.co.uk. And, they have the Royal Mails. One forgets what has been ordered when months pass. While I am at it: what I really dislike is to get a request from amazon.whatever asking for a review, when I still haven’t gotten the book. I have developed a tactic for ordering. I had two but Covid-19 KILLED one… deliver books for free to my Mother’s address in NC and get them on one of my bi-yearly trips to the US. Not any more. The one remaining method is… I go to amazon.com and check price & delivery. I go right up to the point just before clicking ORDER. This gives me great satisfaction. A tease. I do hope amazon.com’s computers notice this ploy. If the situation is untenable, disagreeable, too slow or, too darn expensive then, I hop over to amazon.it and see if the same book is available… in English, thank you very much… and at a reasonable price and with an acceptable delivery date. If A-Okay, then I click ORDER with them. Ta-dah!!! Usually, the delivery costs less and is faster. This is because amazon has its own Boeing B-767s shuttling back ‘n forth across our pandemic plagued planet with books, diapers, athletic gear and other consumer nonsense. I only buy books.
The crux of this post…
I’ve noticed an annoying occurrence over the years with my choices in reading material. Let me state up front that I read non-fiction. I want to know stuff. You collects it. I read about it. Once in a Blue Moon I will delve into a fictional read. That stated… every other year, I have found I must struggle through some tome, which has come highly recommended by The Economist. If not them, then the Sunday Telegraph. It started with India. The Economist wrote the praises of a book describing the Asian sub-continent as circumscribed by a vast network of journeys… spiritual journey’s… like a geographical mandala design, connecting temples, sanctuaries, religious monuments… holy places with semi-naked worshippers!!!… throughout the country and neither constrained by location, vicinities nor, ease of entrance, etc. Means these journeys can take awhile. If you are so disposed to try one out. Many are lost or, nearly forgotten, a few maintained over the millennium right up until today. Gosh, I said, sounds interesting. I want to read about that! I ordered according to the above prescribed tactic and lo’ & behold, a package was on my doorstep in a matter of a few days, thanks to the folk somewhere at amazon.it. I could hardly fathom the work. The 600 + pages of text, clinically, dryly written… to rival any desert in Rajasthan… and so heavily annotated & foot-noted, any fascination about the book’s previously-thought-to-be interesting topic was choked dead on Page 112. Maybe it was Page 35. I don’t remember. No spirit. No anima. Bad photos too. Three attempts and it became obvious the book was a No-pass-go. It is presently gathering dust on a shelf in la Casa Grande’s DR. Doomed never be picked up again.
Problem-less until two years later the same happened. I love History. That along with Geography & Literature, were the only school subjects which garnered my attention and I wasn’t assigned a D-. Those marks were reserved for Math, Chemistry and Physics. Strangled my grade-point average. So be it. I was never going to go to an Ivy League school anyway. Again, undaunted by previous circumstance, I relied upon my primary source, The Economist. The reviewing staff dedicated three long columns to The Glorious Revolution of 1688. The magazine’s kind of stuff. Yes, the revolution was glorious… for the status quo. I felt an urgent need to reacquaint myself with this episode in English History 101. The reviewers had regaled the book’s detailed account. I was not alarmed. I should have been. The book was a repeat of India. Why do some authors… writers to historians to experts… seek to document down to the itzy-bitzy, teenie-wheeniest of nth degrees? Are they vain? Ambitious to impress? Can afford fleets of research assistants, thanks to generous grants? No idea. I don’t want to know. Not even interesting literature. More a doctoral thesis run amok. I am of the opinion, the surest way to KILL a book is to over write it, annotate it, footnote it, bibliography it. It’s like what over-taxation does to economies. One wants, even yearns for, a broad sweep, large breadth, the essential & defining elements. 2/3’s of the way through, I could not have cared a farthing for any of the issues, personalities, vagaries of political exigency of 17th Century England, back when Real Men sported perruques, wore clog-like high heel shoes and skirted jackets with too many buttons. The same said No! to King James II’s attempt at a Louis XIV-style centralised AND heavily Catholic government. A last stand by any English king on much of all that. England later got what it said it didn’t want. A heavily centralised government. Look at Boris. Nothing HM the Queen can do now about either but, grin & bear it. Or, Brexit. Not sure who could say who had won. One dear Dutch Codiponte friend suffered my difficulty for four torturous months to get… through… this… book. I did. Eventually. And, you all may be very much relieved to know none are obligated to ever mention the Glorious Revolution again. An aside… I am alive and an American because, my forebears had fled that island nation just prior to its decapitating a king and suffering a mean & nasty civil war. The shenanigans which followed with Charles II and his brother, James II, afterwards, were of little concern to my ancestors. They were more interested in hacking out of the wilderness enough land to farm the purple waves of majesty… in New Jersey and South Carolina. It is a distinction which lends a certain air to my immigrated pedigree. And, out of the way of England. We have our own special problems in the USofA… and in Italy… and in the EU.
One magnificent and recent read was on Churchill. I bought it used. Less than 250 pages. Literally pocket size. Hardbound! No photos. An exciting dash of nearly ninety years to capture the essence of one of the greatest men in all of Our History. Few annotations. I don’t remember a footnote and the bibliography took up only three and a half pages. The Glorious Revolution one had 53. I adore the man’s story. I adored the book’s version of the man’s story. I just wish I could remember who I have loaned that man’s story out to.
This Summer, I am slogging through Hilary Mantel’s third and last book on Thomas Cromwell… The Mirror And The Light. I keep getting the title mixed up. Light ought to come before the Mirror, no? Someone needed to give a new, fresh look at this extraordinary man in History and Hilary was up to the Mantel. In the preceding years, and happily done, I consumed Wolf Hall and Bringing Up The Bodies. Wolf Hall was a revelation. A kicker. English struck anew. Little use of the personal pronoun for Sir Thomas. None of this… He said… He thought… He went. Instead… Said… Thought. The pages were populated with a cast of personalities & events decorated with Cromwell’s point-of-view at a most interesting and violent moment in English History… post-Wolsey. Barely Renaissance. Very cruel. The second of the first two books, Bringing Up The Bodies, moved methodically, a near thriller, ie how Anne Boleyn would conquer King Henry VIII’s affections and be crowned Queen. The stakes were high, but then, Lady Boleyn had learned those ropes at the French Court, lying down and standing up. Further instruction came from her icky-sticky father, a ruthlessly ambitious Series B nobleman nurtured upon his associations to other aristocratic houses… Duke of Norfolk’s Howard crowd. And at court, Anne, before & after being crowned, manoeuvred the levers of government to grab, via the primacy of her nobility and trained thirst for the fruits of power, to forestall others in gaining ground on those fronts at King Henry VIII’s court. She miscalculated. A spell of Bad Luck. Pulling levers means nothing if you cannot produce a male heir. She didn’t. And so, manipulating government, when all her King wanted was a boy, turned out to be a grotesque miscalculation. She was summarily swarmed by one & all at court and, abandoned by her Lord & Liege for Jane Seymour. Queen Anne quickly came undone, if the book’s accused deviancies are to be believed as Truth. She lost her head. Others annoying persons proceeded her to an early morning appointment to be separated from a head by an axe. All as a traitors. To the King. Vultures usually get to the carrion.
This last Cromwell book is a bore. I think. One already knows the ending. A repeat of a three letter word. Endemic to the times. Takes 912 pages to get to it. So I avoid continuing onwards to that end. And, there is so much competition from… A) il Poggiolo’s garden, B) works in progress inside la Casa Grande… I may write my own ode to dust… C) grocery shopping and filling up the beat-up yet honoured SUV with gas… it now sports a brand new radio and CD player. The Dog and I take drives and listen to Rameau. He chews a stick or, sticks his head out the window while Baroque blares out the speakers… D) other. These many commissions awaiting my attention are quite preferable to reading a lengthy conversation amongst men only on the search for King Henry’s Wife Number Four. If one were to look at it from King Henry’s perspective, it might only be Wife Number Three. Poor Catherine of Aragon. She was demoted to a lonely end. I hem and I haw with guilt. A natural state for me. A remote voice speaks out… Get on with it, son. You have piles of books requiring reading. I pull a pillow over my head to muffle that out.
This historical third novel is similar to a complicated clock mechanism from the 16th Century of gears, levers and pulleys. With each encounter, conversation, episode with King Henry VIII, Princes Mary, the abundant quantity of vying and ill behaved noble men and noble ladies, foreign ambassadors, church prelates, and his large staff and, including even Cromwell’s recollections of his past, causes its mechanism to slowly jog, twist, and click one more turn towards Cromwell’s Destiny. Each, an incremental raising the bar of the aggravations and points of controversy Cromwell had brought to the table in serving his King, dealing with his collaborators & adversaries… low birth, vicinity to the king beyond the nobility’s access, his extensive powers at court, in parliament, with church and state. Cromwell was voraciously accused by all to be a viper, snake, monster, criminal, anti-religious. Oddly, he just reflected those qualities from those who surrounded him. And, Cromwell was more adept at their games. As it happened with Wolsey, Anne Boleyn, and heretics, etc., his luck runs out. It’s very subtle. I must hand it to Hilary Mantel. The history goes sore before you area aware. I have tired to flip back in the book to find at just what point Cromwell’s career becomes dangerously wrong. No success. Reading forward, situations begin to gel or, alter, becoming unmanageable at court and, particularly for Cromwell . The frayed strains of his position unravels irrevocably with Anne of Cleaves appearance in England to marry King Henry VIII. The King provokes a surprise interview with his intended and it did not go well for either one but, most assuredly, for King Henry. I agree with the author… this history, in its entirety of three thick books, cannot be told in broad expanses. It is minutia. All it takes to trip things into a different direction or, end. I am resigned. Nevertheless, I struggle. The last book really must have 912 pages to describe the man, Cromwell, the enormous cast of personalities and the multiple consequences of serving a king who, many have said, was knocked perpetually mean, pathetic… and impotent… by a jousting accident. A concussion trauma. Everyone, in one way or, another looses his head. Each is his or her own way. I have still 178 pages to go. Afterwards, I will pick up a book on garden design… in Tuscany… by who else? A Englishman. We aspire to distract from sweating in the garden, horse-flies & mosquitoes included.
Home Embellishments…
A teaser. We’re still under construction. Excuse out mess has been kept out of sight. We want it to be A Big Surprise.
None of this would be necessary, however, had it not been for a mighty re-think… To go or not to go on vacation. Last Saturday was Ferragosto, the sacrosanct Italian National Summer Holiday, which hits punctually every August 15th. Traditionally, you go on vacation after the 15th, if you can’t take the entire month off. COVID-19 came and put most everyone on an unexpected hiatus… no work, no money and, little of anything else, if
you weren’t a bit inventive or, resigned to wait for Better Times… many professed the absolute necessity to forego the vacation this Summer and KEEP WORKING!!! Must be either the African HEAT or, the HORDES of foreign & Italian holiday-makers galavanting around in campers and on motorcycles… the last an irresistible temptation for any male of the Italian species… causing a reconsideration of the noble declaration to KEEP WORKING!!! rather than hit the road for sun ‘n fun. Some habits or, addictions, are just too hard to avoid. Those construction professionals scheduled to do the work during the August holidays on our Home Improvements, only one completed his tasks…. Our Builder from il Poggiolo’s total reconstruction days lo’ those 11 years ago. All the others excused themselves of a week-long absence…. darn them.
I do not want to say much more on what You & I are up to at il Poggiolo. I can say though that it has been a Mt. Cavalry. Stations of the Cross. The cross was heavy to drag…
…what with the house topsy-turvy… furniture shoved out of the way and pyramids of stuff piled on top… plastic sheets wafting over all and to no avail in the battle against the infiltration of construction dust, workmen of every stripe trooping in & out where The Dog & I normally rest our weary bodies watching Netflix together on a single sofa/bed, afternoon temps slamming up against 100F degrees and accompanied by a commensurately high shot of humidity and, an inordinate quantity of WhatsApp messages & telephone calls from il Dottore You from his COVID-19 HQ Command Post… spikes are a happenin’ in Italy, folk… dictating this, ordering that, threatening an Over-my-dead-body or, two, on a couple of crucial points of design and, generally, insisting upon being apprised of any & all ongoing developments, WHICH ONLY SAPPED ME of the strength to think, to properly delegate, to maintain a will to live, all of the above. WHEW!!! My blood pressure sky-rocketed. Nose-bleeds galore. Grotesque headaches, disorientation, nausea too. WHAT FUN!!! I went to hospital with paper towelling sprouting out my nose and with the added FEAR!!! driving a beat-up SUV with wild heart palpitations. Staff administered a powerful & tranquillising medicine in drop form to smooth the waters of my distress, while another was given to bring down the high number of my blood pressure. Restored somewhat, I drove home… senza Scottex o carte igienica spuntando dal mio naso anglo-sassone… to continue the struggle up Mt. Cavalry.
I had only myself to blame. I had committed AN ENORMOUS FUCK-UP. Don’t ask. It’s just too, too embarrassing. As per the above, my plea is… I was not myself. The E.F.U. has since been happily resolved by Our Builder, who has a kind & understanding bed-side manner. No more nose bleeds either.
Putting aside any more shenanigans with Our Eventual Big Surprise, get a load of these…
…fragments of architectural ornament, embellishments in marble, stone and concrete, scavenged from a villa once belonging to You’s family on the Italian Riviera. You’s family sold the villa & gardens after WWII to pay the whopping taxes the Italian government demanded to help pull Italy out of the depths of destruction and civil war. The owners sold off all of the garden lands to developers anxious to construct holiday apartments for a coming post-war boom in international travel & vacation. They used the villa for a few years, until their grown-up children stopped coming. The children thought the villa old, ugly, draughty, not COOL. It was left to rot to the point that the local municipality forced the owners to bring on the wrecking ball. The place was about to collapse upon the neighbouring apartment buildings. You’s brother saw an announcement to come and get what you want. He did and what he got was promptly delivered to il Poggiolo with less than a 24 hour notice last Thursday and by a young husband & wife team… two blond, athletic, tanned!!! porno-divas sporting the latest in body-revealing fashions. They dumped the haul and left. Good riddance. I do not need, deserve, nor care to heed advice regarding any lack of direct vehicular access to my 800 year old farm-house and, especially by someone whose range of intelligence looks to centre upon manipulating a condom. But… ahhh, take pause to gander at the Joys of Placement. You’s favourite past-time here at il Poggiolo though he did manage to do some weeding before our Ferragosto party last Saturday night. Bless him.
Codiponte's Medieval Bridge...
Dang if it isn’t done.
Something is up whenever one sees un commitato of mostly men in jeans gesticulating, bounding off suddenly to gain perspective on whatever they have been pointing at or, milling about in chat before adjourning to quickly drive off in their white SUV’s.
Soon afterwards, operai arrived and dealt with substituting the ugly white PVC water tube which ran right across the top of the bridge’s parapet. There is now a long iron conduit… in chic Anthracite, A Signature Colour… running inside and just below the parapet. At night, there is an explosion of light from that type of Chinese plastic tube LED lighting popular at Italian beach cabanas and at mercati di Natale. Railings, two ignored do-not-pass-go stanchions… there is always an idiot who will try crossing what to others would definitely be a no-go or, resist the temptation to park un motorino where it is not wanted… and two early 19th Century looking lamp posts installed, again, all in iron painted in the bridge’s Signature Anthracite. Il pezzo di resistenza are the two some-one-has-escaped-from-prison high-intensity spots aimed at the entire Medieval Bridge plus a goodly portion of the village of Codiponte on the other side. Il Poggiolo a prime victim. More so for the poor Swedish Sister’s house at the head of the bridge… capo del ponte = Codiponte… have no choice but to shut themselves inside against the searing hyper-lighting. The Swedish Sisters cannot come to Italy ‘cause Sweden did not go into Lockdown. Swedes are persona non grata in Italy. The Swedish Sister’s are in for a shock. when they can come to what was once their grandparent’s abode.
I have thought to complain to Our Mayor, Sindaco Riccardo about the lighting choice.
Again, like the two neighbour women, who consulted NO ONE regarding the when, how and with what they sought to clean the ramp leading to il Poggiolo, neither had the sindaco,… il comune manager responsible for Codiponte’s Medieval Bridge’s re-conditioning… and his jean clad cohorts thought to even MINIMALLY consult the recipients… WE, THE PEOPLE OF CODIPONTE… about anything to do with the Medieval Bridge’s restoration and especially, the way more than necessary lighting. There was probably enough of a quorum just with the fellows in jeans, damn-it. A closed group. Thank the Good Catholic Lord, THESE POWERS-THAT-BE DID NOT INSTAL SIRENS, BELLS OR WHISTLES. When You experiences the shenanigan of any Italian asshole, his prompt comment is… Che cornuto!!! He applied the same when he took in the result of the non-consultation of Codiponte’s roller-coaster bridge… be be reminded: hardly anyone crosses it, everyone parks their cars/SUV’s/Panda’ on the dirt track below due to the Medieval Bridge’s now confirmed DANGEROUS and variable stone pavements. And, two village women have fallen. Both broke a wrist. One lost teeth and got a healthy gash on her lovely face. To date, You has not yet had the pleasure to take in the Final Touches. I feel assured he will invoke his… Che cornuto!!! If not, I will.
The workings of Italians...
The ramp leading up to il Poggiolo and a neighbour’s house beyond… the neighbour is allowed to pass with their I Diritti di Passaggio our notary public’s lawyer could not strike off our deed. The neighbours do have another entrance/exit but, OK, we had to. move on… rarely sees sunlight. During Winter, never. In the Summer, only for a couple of late-afternoon hours. The rest of the time, it is captured by shadows. Ideal conditions for a healthy layer of moss & weeds. More moss than weeds. Add to the near constant shade the local Lunigiana humidity today hovering around 80 to 90% and the ramp can be a slippery slide. Yippee!!! Perhaps not.
Up to the tall arch where our property line resides, the ramp below from that point actually belongs to il Comune di Casola in Lunigiana. Our fair village of Codiponte belongs to this civic entity. It is the Comune’s competence, its responsibility to ensure the ramp’s safety with proper maintenance & care and, how about a hand-rail? Or, some other means to descend & climb without risking our necks. None of us are getting younger to be so nimble to do without. No!…. said the Comune. To those bureaucratic folk, the ramp leading to only two residences, is considered nearly a private case. Off base for the communal interests at il Comune. There is a short hand-rail at the base of the ramp down at the junction with the village’s main thorough-fare, via Alfredo Ricciotti. This name, for what in reality is more an alleyway than a street, was previously thought to be via Comunale. I recently discovered thi novelty during a Google Map search of Codiponte. I was aiming for a bird’s-eye screen-shot of il Poggiolo, and there, in hovering white lettering was the new name. Gosh. But, I digress. That hand-rail’s location IS APPROVED by the Comune because, at that point, many more residents may profit from it use. Way more comunale than our secondary and… euw, ick… private needs. Ahhh, a vestige from Italy’s romp with Communism, ie, the highest common denominator serves the most. Wins every time here. Maybe.
Years ago the ramp was a plain & simple construction in stone. Flat pavers for each tread and, at each riser, stones set vertically for an effective nosing. Rock solid. Modern times came along. Stone was felt to be passe’. Ugly. Difficult. Il Comune agreed and poured a crude cement & gravel veneer to simplify the ramp. The quality of the cement… the amount of sand to mortar… was scarce. A polite term. Years & years of often hard rains has eaten into this suspect covering. Weeds and moss have since found ample good homes in the cracks & crevices. A slippery piece of work, as stated above.
This past weekend, two neighbours worked diligently… all day long… with a water jet and brushes to clean away the moss, the weeds, their roots, and loose cement and stones. The ramp looks clean, too clean. Now devoid in many places of the very material which keeps all in place. I am afraid, as the neighbour’s work dries, what will remain of the cement & gravel will crumble even more. Better, if they had just left well enough alone. Ahhh, Women’s Work is to scour & clean. Stand back. Naturally, intent on una buona pulita, no consideration was given to what might occur post-diligently-all -day-long. Time has its consequences but Women’s Works can hastens its effect. The Law… don’t touch it, leave it be, let the things take their course, if you mess with it, one risks having more trouble afterwards was left in the fury of their day-long efforts. I predict more trouble. But then, I go out our back gate, the Dog leading our procession to the Scuzzy SUV, stick in bocca. I do so because of the villagers fear of my Dog and the Medieval Bridge is un carnaio di inconvenienti. How about that? Italian can be so effective sometimes.
These two neighbours had taken matters into their own hands. Stealthily. A committee of two. A tight-lipped consensus. Neither You nor I were ever consulted. One third of what they tackled is ours!!! A very Italian tactic. See, in Italy, everyone must agree, who are actively involved. That’s the catch. One No! will KILL an initiative DEAD in its tracks. Italians fear the consequence of a No! And, especially, if the try to duck and ignore it. EXCEPT if you are in the government. Then, it is the opposite. More on that in another blog post. Italians find safety, security, certainty in unanimity. The other and more prevalent trick is to be highly selective of the participants… the underlying plan of Italian politics and its social interactions. Certainty is assured through exclusion. Sometimes hard to do but, the Italians ardently strive to control the chorus, ie our two neighbours and their scrub-a-dub-dub. Causes me to ask THe Question… and this is mightily helped by the American’s recent behaviour… What has happened to our Democracy? Have all of us been ignored too?
A yearly redemption...
Every year, I tell myself to order firewood early, like before the Commie Holiday of May 1. And, before I know it, I find myself in September or, even in October, staring at a large tractor with a strapping Italian lumberjack at the controls… think Robert Mitchum in a sweat-stained green athletic T-shirt… carefully backing a lumbering four-wheel beast down the back ramp… occasionally slipping on the muggy cement to the gasps of any and all spectators, ie me… to dump the load, unceremoniously, at il Poggiolo’s back door. This year, I have managed to have the deliveries arranged for this week. Took a month and a half. Ahhh, the adversities one encounters on the organisation plain. Nevertheless, A Victory for My Side. No time to rest on my laurels, however. There’s work to be done. Two loads. 20 quintale each. Ugh? A bit of Math… 1 quintale = 100 kilos. 20 quintali, then, = 2,000 kilos. THAT’S A LOAD TO STACK… TWICE!!! One was delivered last Monday. I laboured for two days…. ALL BY MYSELF!!!… to get the firewood off the street behind il Poggiolo and into the dilapidated legnaia… a lean-to shack for storing wood protected from the rains but, open to the air to dry out green wood into burning wood. A kindly neighbour came to help me towards the last gasp of my solo act. And I thought he was a tired old prune of a man. He’s since been elevated on High in my esteem.
I am awaiting for the second consignment, as I write. Normally, I order one load and seek to make it last the Winter for the two fireplaces at il Poggiolo… one in La Casetta and the other in L’Appartamento Azzurro, at the opposite end of our Tuscan farm-house complex. We are sprouting new fireplaces and the need for firewood is urgent. I hope to cut by half or, more, the exorbitant gas bills despite the modest use of the radiators down in our Winter HQ, La Casetta. The bi-monthly bollette are sporadically delivered to my letter box at Number 62 by the dog-fearing La Posta Mistress in a White FIAT Panda driven at not less than a million-zillion kilometers per hour. She leaves any mail at a distant neighbour’s letter box OR, at the Scuzzy Bar, for fear of our Puppy. C’e’ un cancello, signora! Il cane non puo uscire. Non c’e’ pericolo. My words lost to the winds of her quick get-a-way. Then, no one tells me that they are holding my bollette, etc.. I am always late paying. However, it may not be entirely her fault. I have my street address as via Comunale, 62. Surfing Google Maps the other day… I wanted a screens shot of Il Poggiolo from outer-space for a previous blog post… and when I zoomed in close, up popped the name via Alfredo Ricciotti. Who he? Absolutely no idea. No one tells me these things. I suppose I should be grateful to Google Maps for updating their info… from outer-space? I will have to make changes to my amazon.com account. But, the couriers leave my packages at the Scuzzy Bar. So much for deliveries.
Stacking wood is an art. I lack the expertise. I know you are supposed to alternate the pieces to wedge them to lock in place. What with the current July Heat & Humidity and my age, I feel fortunate I can get the firewood up to its resting place, much less add my engineering contribution to the art. It would be helpful, however, for visual purposes, if all the firewood were a similar shape & dimension. Mighty hard to wedge when you need triangular pieces over tiny rods of wood. The later do fill in holes though.
So much for art. The key is to NOT DO IT ALONE!!! The work goes double quick if partnered. I could not find the Local Guy, who is more than willing to do odd jobs. I was inured to be a solo act when, lo’ and behold, Branco, the octogenarian who gives the Horroscope on Radio RDS, said I would have a Tuesday when I would meet the right person at the right time. On my way out in the car with The Dog for him to de-populate a forest near my preferred bar, I ran into the Local Guy. He had already been informed of his usefulness, when the strapping lumberjack stopped to chat with him on the way back to cutting more firewood. The rest of Tuesday deteriorated. Never mind. Booked for the second consignment, the Local Guy and I knocked off the 20 quintale in about three hours, unfortunately under a searing sun and grotesquely tropical humidity. We drank tons of H2O.
My… and our efforts are demonstrated below. I do think I have a je ne sais quoi ability for alternated chaos. and wobbly rows. Hope they stay how they are laid. One careless touch and… I have provided frontal and side views. The picture in the middle is an example of my preferred method with firewood… toss it in and be done. Quite a pile, ne?
Living in a small Italian village in an 800 year old farm-house, for instance and, kilometers from the sprawl of our modern civilisation, is not for the weak of heart or, of body. Heavy lifting is involved. Tugging & pulling too. Toil & sweat soon to quickly follow. Stacking wood is just one in the long series of annual chores on The-house-and-garden-in-the-country calendar. Most of them fall in the months from February to April, if you can get them all in. I lag here. Mostly alone, I must slog into the months of May & June too, when it’s either rainy or, B***DY F**K**G HOT & MUGGY!!! Then, I rebel. The Dog follows my lead. We remain inside La Casa Grande where it is COOL BLUE and dare not entertain a minimum thought of poking our noses outside from Noon to 6PM. It’s an oven outside then. When I must labour about, The Dog is my assistant. He lays in the shadows of a mulberry tree to watch me expire into an Anglo-Saxon pool of perspiration in a dirty white T and cargo pants besmirched with sweat.. And that before 10AM in the morning. Yes, I am not a lover of Heat OR, Humidity. Give me Winter, give me Fall. Give me a blazing fireplace and the Cold outside is not a worry.
Stacking wood is one of the major tasks. It requires your personal attention and participation. Many try to delegate but we… The Strong & Bold… scoff at those ninnies. Many are Americans or, Italians from Milano. Need I say more? My English Friends in Codiponte…. he’s 88 and his lovely lady is 77, do their firewood stacking… by themselves. Like clockwork too. Exemplary wood-stackers. They’re English. And, many of my Italian & German Friends scattered throughout the Lunigiana do their firewood by themselves too. Less like clockwork but, accomplished with their own hands. Well, one dear German Friend does indenture guests to help out, but are rewarded with a fine dinner. All, mighty in vim & vigour. They know stacking strengthens body & soul. It is an accounting. A reparation. A redemption… from the COLD!!! No desire to mention Sin. More a proclamation of ownership, of being il padrone. Delegating just means you can point. Big deal. Nothing more. Pointing AND doing is an expression of authority, dominion, possession. Enough said.
Now, if you will excuse me, I must go up and get started with delivery Numero Due, just dumped.
Big Things...
I used to believe we were only entitled to One Big Thing in a life-time. Coming to Italy thirty-odd years ago was mine. My only shot at Big. Cannot recall how I did it. Oh, there are memories… my two best friends in the world put me on TWA… and stories… found work as a fayeshion designer through the back door until I had enough experience to enter at the front door and with no proper schooling in the subject… and many experiences… lived with You and his mother becoming a Saint Benedetto in the process… but, too much time has passed under the proverbial bridge and I’d rather not be bothered now to stop and reflect upon the how-to’s. Not in my character. There’s a family joke about me… one day, My Crazy/Wonderful Auntie asked… If I were to come to a fork in the road, what would I do? And my kid brother piped up… He would just barrel straight on through. My reputation forever cemented in my family.
I find myself at a fork. Can’t seem to get anything accomplished. I’ve arrested Life’s motion momentarily. Take stock as to why. Gads, a personal inventory assessment moment?
Perhaps, I have been too much alone? A probable cause of a self-imposed, and then, inflicted, Lockdown from the middle of February and, continuing on still today regardless of the subsequent easing of restrictions.
The Dog has been a comfort though he lacks the gift of conversation. Yet, he does insist to curl his 37 Weimaraner kilos on my legs as I read an autobiography of Dick Cavett. Anyone remember him? What I’ve read so far, up to Page 55… yes, I know, I ought to be further along, however, in my defence, I alternate between Dick and his often discussed travails with his dick and Hilary Mantel’s herculean third tome on Thomas Cromwell, The Mirror and the Light. Tolstoy is more concise. Poor, dear Thomas, badly portrayed in dozens of Hollywood and English films, his Destiny with an axe is unavoidable. The book is a slow trudge to decapitation. Rather kills any interest to finish the book. Unless, the how-to is of abdiing interest. Like Death in Venice. The Croesus-person could care less. A simple communicator, is he. Yawns if I’m too chatty. He may just imagine that his prime job is to stretch out on the other sofa-bed and sleep in my presence. He’s got that down pat.
Separation from You conspires a greater toll. Our relationship of late is mostly possessed of consistent telephone calls and text messages on Whatsapp. The messages are more successful than the telephone conversations. The former are often clever, ironic or culturally informative. There are links too. The later is like being grilled by your Third Grade teacher in 2 + 2. Not my subject. Not now, not yesterday and not tomorrow. Yet, like a Rottweiler, You delves… telephonically. I am often barely awake. Embarrassingly, my life at il Poggiolo a Codiponte is repetitive and a bore to. report… Got up, drank a caffe’, got dressed, walked the Dog, blah-blah-blah, sat out on the Loggia and watch the sun set behind the enclosing hills of our valley., done for the day. Fascinating. Could be to You, who is decked out in his hospital gear-par-excellence in a hospital and there’s only silence waiting for him at our home in Genoa. I suffer the interrogation as pleasantly as I can.
There was a bout of weekend visits from You right after our release to travel between Italian regions after the 3rd of June. Now, it will be three weeks until I will see You’s overly tan face… some Italians have to have a tan on… and shinning smile again. And his geeefts. The last were two stone ornaments now gracing the walls of our Fish Pond. But, damnation!!! I’ve returned to missing his talking to me when I am 50 to 100 meters away, his constant orders & commands for both house & garden, his professed admonitions to protect my interests… Do not put in double doors to the outside in the sala da pranzo!!! An absolute waste of money… while puttering in the garden with his self-proclaimed list of tasks held in his head… none of which are on my list for him to do… and leaving the mess for me to clean up.
You called this Sunday morning. He did not have good news. He said… Last Monday there were no COVID-19 patients in the hospital where he works. By Thursday there were over 30 and by late Friday night the count was 59. Several in Intensive Care. A spike. It set me back some. As predicted by Dottore You. He’s keen on lockdowns during pandemics. Break the circle. I suspect he’ll more than likely return to his old Temp-job as a Coronavirus dottore. You managed to beat the odds for three months and not come down with what survivors have said… It’s a bitch. And, by the way, eye doctors were the first to die in China from Coronavirus. You’s regular day job is as an eye doctor/surgeon. Will his luck hold? I am along for the ride though at a distance.
In my funk, I felt a need for a revision to my presumed Life’s Plan. Maybe one can have more than just One Big Thing? Credit given where credit is due? The mental motors stirred… an infinitesimal shift in perspective and, a thought slide into an anointed slot…
You’s pretty Big… to me… and though he barely cracks five feet. You & I have been together for twenty-two years. Un Big Amore. One which has survived through our thick or thins, ups ‘n downs, let the Good Times Roll, man. Hell! We even share real-estate. And, by Noon today, there were two telephone calls, three Instagram shares and four Whatsapp messages. I went to pet the Dog to share this discovery. There’s more than just one. There’s You…
…and there’s you too, Croesus-person!!! The Dog, unaware or, oblivious to changes in Spirit about, was thrilled to have my attention. HIs tail wagged. Devotion has its rewards. The Croesus-person’s been A Big Blessing. My sole companion from February 15th until June 5th. Pals together al Poggiolo a Codiponte… and with n’er a dead cat, comes when called, wakes me up like an alarm-clock, happy for any kind of grub, enthusiastic to go on a w-al-k in the Citta’ degli Alberi, prefers to sleep during the day yet, is an attentive assistant when I am assaulting the garden on some pretext or, mission and, does not complain when I watch episodes on Netflix. Books are quieter, he says.
And, the old stones of an 800 year old farm-house in a place in Tuscany know one knows about, keeping me grounded & standing just on the maintenance issues alone. The place threads Italy to You to the Dog to My Life. WOW!!! It is my home… on alternating weekends, Our Home… my kingdom, my seat on Italian soil. May I add, anchor too? The only place I care to be. A Big House surrounded by a Big Garden. Took four years to find it. Took another four years to rebuild and furnish it. I had help. Still much to do everyday. Inside and out. Sun-up to sun-down. And, in between walking the Dog and communications of various sorts from You. And, it’s our future. More plans & projects to perfect it. In the meantime, La Signora-neighbour in the Ugly Yellow House next door has turned ON the water. I am watering plants as I write. This day is sunny & bright & clear and not muggy at all. Dr Bacchus and Mr Hercules are at their posts. Unvaryingly. Ditto for all our urns. The birds are chirping. Unstintingly. The flowers are blooming, especially the hydrangeas. Purple, blue, fuchsia, pink and white. I can sleep in any one of nine beds. My pick though I have my preferences. There’s food and white wine in the refrigerator… yes, I am off the wagon. Enough glasses and plates and silverware for a party of 200 though it’s lately just me. So, again, I get to pick according to mood, I guess. The Dog has his dinner bowl. Clean clothes are in the drawers. However, I need more all white T-shirts. Life is Good. I am thankful. Singular is in the Past. There’s more Big than I realised.
Brown...
What is going on? Has to be a phase. I feel perennially derailed. Been doing it for the last few weeks. But by what? Things…
This morning… a bright, sunny, clear Summer’s day and, no better climatic conditions for a much neglected w-a-l-k with the Dog in the woods above the Acqua Paradiso spring… when the iPhone rang. The seamstress, who is making new covers for the cushions on the sofas nel Salotto of La Casa Grande, using a fabric much hated by a client…
of a lovely antique Cognac colour in a brushed silk & wool velvet…
This Red was it.
I and a Professional American Interior Designer were commissioned by the client to find a fabric for in her BR in her Tuscan Tower. We selected & charged to her American Express una stoffa found in a fantastic fabric remnants store in the historic depths of old Genoa. The client would not, could not abide by the colour. It’s Brown, guys. Who in the World likes Brown? No sense in arguing it was Cognac, and a predominant accent colour off the Oriental carpet and curvilinear upholstered furniture in the BR of her Tuscan Tower. Admittedly, we had gotten it wrong. Discovered too late the client is an adherent to the ID Philosophy… Pick one colour and do the shit out of it. Cognac wasn’t it. Red was.
Whereas, I and the Professional American Interior Designer were team partners and enthusiastic proponents of a contrary ID Philosophy… The more colours, the merrier the room will be. The words chicer or, interesting, may be exchanged for Merrier. You may also need to add a more. Two distinct ID worlds counter-rotating against each other. OK. I was handed the bag with the despised fabric. Better still.
By the middle of next week, the sofas will be sporting the lovely antique Cognac in a brushed silk & wool velvet on their bolsters, pillows and mattress covers. Evviva!!! Well, once the seamstress has worked herself past the zipper crisis. The old covers were scratched to pieces… to Death works too… by the very effective talons of Nina-beena… may she RIP, Dear Pet… and The Croesus-person too, who had contributed to their cover’s destruction. Today, the Big Boy is the only Dog on the premises. He matured considerably during the COVID-19 Lockdown to become a relatively respectful canine of il Poggiolo’s Furniture & Furnishings. Bless the Lord.
So much for the w-a-l-k with the Dog. We made a very quick pee-pee and woo-woo stop on the way to forestall grave zipper hysterics. The seamstress was relieved to see me. Oddly enough, the Dog had figure out the hurry so, he hurried too. Thank you, Puppy. Come here. And he did.
Back at Poggiolo HQ, I discovered today is Thursday, Blog Post Day. Since February, I have had difficulty with the age old question… What day is it? Lockdowns can do it to you. Oh! How I miss those Halcyon Days of Peace, Quiet & Tranquility in Codiponte. Moving onwards, I had in mind something very IMPORTANT to belly-ache about on the blog but, I think I have done a bit of that already. I am so easily way-laid by controversy. And yet, I have not finished with Brown.
Poor lonesome, anti-fashion trend Brown. Who gets an alert from Pinterest that Brown is trending these days? Let us not leave it to fend for itself against the whims of ID or, Global Warming. The later another provocateur of Brown. It’s the colour in vogue here at il Poggiolo. In the garden. A yearly event. Damn-it. As the Wise Ones said once… There is a season for green grass and there’s another for brown grass. Guess which one is on today?
Every Summer I feel obligated to mention our Brown grass. It’s an outrage. My dear paternal grandmother fought long &. hard to keep her grassy lawns green in hot & humid South Carolina. I should be able to do the very same in hot & humid Italy. Every year, I think I will be capable of forestalling the deterioration of Green into Brown. But, alas, n’er a hint of a proclamation of success. Thanks so much to a certain recalcitrant individual…
Several years ago, the neighbour-signora in the Ugly Yellow House offered… if I paid her… access to her illegal water source. Ugly black tubes lace the territory behind the village feeding water from the little stream running along the village’s Virgin Mary Meditation Center to various citizen’s gardens. The neighbour-signora thought it might come in handy, what with all the flora You & I had planted and then lost to the lack of a proper source of H2O. Yes, originally a kind offer. I said… Si, signora… and forked over a bunch of Euros, so then, her builder son, Pirate Boy Toy, could put in the direct connection. You dislikes him. He once did work for us at Il Poggiolo but, You thinks he cheated on the quality of the materials used to make a few extra centesimi off of us. All of the stone walls Pirate Boy Toy built are crumbling from too much sand in the chintzy cement. Live & learn. But back to his Pirate mother… from that moment on and despite the fact that I had paid the woman, she turns the water off if she thinks any of Codiponte’s residents suspect I am watering il Poggiolo’s garden from her… I thought it was ours… illegal water source OR, that I am wasting the water. WHAT??? Just last week, unable to resist suspicions, she turned off our tap. I am now witnessing a horrible and perennial problem… creeping Brown in our garden.
It’s not easy. La Signora talks. She does not listen. Problema Numero Uno. That might actually be two problems. If La Signora would, could, might listen to me, then, she would hear from my Anglo-Saxon-living-in-Italy lips the confirmation that EVERYONE IN CODIPONTE KNOWS ABOUT HER ILLEGAL WATER SOURCE!!! And why? BECAUSE THEY TOO ALL HAVE AN ILLEGAL WATER SOURCE. Or, the same denizens just out-right steal water by pumping from the Aulella River. A Big No-No. It’s against The Law too. Very Italian to suspect your neighbours are bad-mouthing you yet, are doing the same. Snitching on you is the consequent segue. Sul punto secondo della signore, watering a garden is not wasting water. Wasting would be not to use it. A simple concept and beyond la Signora’s comprehension. Or, her ability to listen. She just waters her miserable collection of potted plants and is done. 30 minutes max. I have a two hour adventure to water what needs sprayed by a water hose in il Poggiolo’s garden… potted and/or earthed. In the meantime, her source has no ON-OFF. Why, I have no idea. There’s s one for our attachment. How convenient. Since the nieghbour-signora has no ON-OFF valve, she just lets the water run back into the little stream… could be something about maintaining suction, do you think?… out into the Aulella River, which passes by our village of Codiponte, and then, into the Magra River and the Mediterranean Sea beyond. Ta-daaaaa!!!
So, Brown is it.
An aside… using the public water system in Codiponte… called Gaia… is God-awful for plants and fish. Too much chlorine and other unknown chemicals. Can’t drink the water either after it rains. The bills are whoppingly high. And, imagine this… what it does to your Life paying an IVA or, VAT, of 22% on everything you do, or buy, or pay for, or purchase ,or charge or, or, or… of 22%. Browns your budget out for sure.
The Stigmata of gardening...
I had thought to belly-ache about something which has been on my mind of late but, in the meantime, this happened…
The Stigmata of gardening. Three views. A big annoyance. Hurtful too at the beginning. And, on my right hand. Have you ever tried to use a fly-swatter to KILL! KILL!! KILL!!! a fly with such a wound on your swatting hand? Awkward, to be polite. Rough business gardening is, and especially when under the gun, so to speak. I do not feel like either St. Francis or, Padre Pio. I suppose since they were in religious ecstasy, while I was labouring in a Summer’s heat
I got a call from You informing me…. yes, that is how it works in our family… that our five nieces had held a Whatsapp conclave and had mutually decided on the brilliant idea to hold a post-Lockdown reunion at il Poggiolo. Arrival was tentatively scheduled for the Friday before last weekend. Three of the nieces would be towing their fidanzati... or, boy-friends. The focal point of the get-together would be a Pizza Party on the Saturday nite. Ahhh, the convenience of having a Medieval wood-burning oven was too much to resist. One of the boy-friends enthusiastically volunteered to tackle the job of pizzaiolo. A nice boy. Think… a tallish Harry Potter with contacts and in great need of a haircut. He is a prideful maniac of culinary procedure and equipment. I would let him have at it. Always glad to let others do Kitchen Duty, wherever or, however possible.
I did a quick computation: 5 nieces + 3 boy-friends + us 2 uncles = we have enough beds. The Dog sleeps with me. Relieved to know this, I began making lists of what all needed to be organised for the weekend invasion:
call in our wonderful Cleaner to scourer the three separate parts of il Poggiolo… La Casetta, La Casa Grande and the L’Appartamento Azzurro… make the beds, set out towels, deodorise against any trace of Weimaraner…
grocery shop for lifetime supplies of breakfast goodies… Italians mistakenly think a robust breakfast is a bit of caffe’ drowning in latte parzialmente scremato or, skim milk, and an ample quantity of biscotti or, cookies. Preferably with cioccolato on or, inside somewhere. White sugar stars are enjoyed no end too. I guess we must forgive them this need of sugar in the morning. We, Americans, cannot open our mouths on this subject, unless ready to be soundly condemned for our Kellogg’s Coco-Puffs or Frosted Flakes habitually eaten at 7:30 in the morning before catching the bus fro school. At least, we do not drink caffe as children in the USofA!!!… Coca-Cola & Fanta, potato-chips, white wine & beer though most just drink water. Blehhh. There is always hope someone in You’s family will nourish a taste for the products of the vines… and, Oh! Lord! The garden must be brought to perfection.
I have diligently been employed since before Italy’s COVID-19 Lockdown in the first days of March in carrying il Poggiolo’s garden to the glorious splendour it deserves and more so now that the premise is home to a new array of stately terracotta urns and one Baroque vase…. with much thanks to You for his generous donation of said artefacts. Aesthetic competition for the grass to grow like it should and after I have spent back-breaking hours raking, seeding & watering the grass, and yet, with few sprouts to show for my efforts. Birds and ants are the likely culprits. There have been many, many items on the Garden Task List. I won’t bore you with them right now. One items was to direct my Anglo-Saxon-in-Italy energies in building stone steps at the top of the grassy ramp leading from il Poggiolo’s aia or, courtyard, up to L’Appartamento Azzurro and the top most grassy terraces decorated with occasional bald spots of the grassy lawns… damn-it all to Hell.
They look a mess. I’m so embarrassed. More so from small small stains of my blood. Must be my moment for such emotions these days. I won’t belabour you with its list. Disconcerting.
I do not like to wear gloves. They suffocate my hands. I want to feel the materials, Terra Madre… glass & metal shards, in a few instances. These later examples are the vestiges of the previous tenant’s AND neighbour’s respect for The Land or, their rank lack of such an ecological regard to the Mother of all Mothers. The absence of direct contact with whatever I am working with spoils the phun. However, and I keep forgetting this keen fact… denying would be a word closer to the Truth… gloves are an effective prevention against the blisters. Took just three jabs with a trowel and Ecco!!! An accurately placed blister… ON… MY… RAW… HUMAN… FLESH!!!… and in the middle of my writing hand. A personal aside… do forgive me
I was born knock-kneed & pigeon-towed. Like the Tom Hanks character in the movie with the same first name… a fine & historic Southern first name… I had to wear metal splints on my legs for over eighteen months when I was four years old. NO WONDER I AM A PERENNIAL BASKET CASE!!! To add further injury to my already heavy physical woes, I was also born left handed. The last vestige after an enforced and rigorously administered re-training is: I still hold a baseball bat like a left-hander. HA!!!
But, alas, I troweled away with my right hand. The wound or, Stigmata Giardiniere… as opposed to a Stigmata Religiosa… is happily on its way to a complete though somewhat scared recovery. Undeniable proof of my suffering, eh?
Briefly, about the post'-Lockdown Reunion Weekend…
a fine & dandy time was had by one and all. The pizzas got better as the boy-friend gained experience… the Mother Lode of any Education. Everyone slept like babies… because our mattresses are exceptional… and I was not eaten or drunk out of house or, home. They will all be invited back.
An additional aside…
and one I sorely wish I did not have to relate but, nevertheless, I am not responsible for the grotesque gaffes of another person, and in this case, Mr Prince You. If anyone has noticed a white haired person resembling an American game show host wandering about in the above offered video… well… that is Mr Prince You’s ex-boy-friend. Our little pensione in the hills of the Lunigiana was al completo… bed-wise. What a Joy.
Ten days of heat has browned out my grass.
An urn too many?...
You and I sometimes do not see eye-to-eye on improvements for il Poggiolo…
I like infrastructure. Good, solid, practical infrastructure. I attribute this to my Southern Methodist roots. However, rest assured this vein of utilitarianism is alleviated by a counter-dose of Quakerism… Peace & non-violence… Catholicism… The Virgin will take care of it all if properly consulted… which resulted in my being raised within the auspices of the Episcopalian Church, thanks to my Yankee… read Philadelphia… maternal grand-mother. I just cannot help myself. I positively vibrate in anticipating a new dishwasher, seeing the Laundry Room with a new coat of paint, and oh! How about a new fireplace or, two? And, if only our Geometra… the Best in the World, by the way… could only corral the Cowboy Builder, who is holding hostage the two fire-boxes I had bought and stupidly stored in his barn, we might see the installation of two necessary-for-heating fireplaces in La Casa Grande’s Salotto & Sala da Pranzo. I am debating also punching out the wall towards the garden to put in glass French doors for much needed light in the Sala da Pranzo. The room is currently so dark…. yeah, yeah, I know. Means COOL during the HEAT of Summer… it’s has become a warehouse of rolled up carpets, You’s extensive collection of decorative pillows… see what I mean. Stuff Addiction can be so fierce… and other paraphernalia no one can see to avoid tripping over, for cryin’ out loud.
Instead, You leans heavily towards rendering il Poggiolo in a more signorile, more principesco, more fou-fou manner, what with urns & statuary in every corner and prospect of the garden surrounding what is, in fact, a Tuscan farm-house. Thank God, none of the stuff needs to be dusted. I hose them off from time to time. But really, how many urns does a garden require… in its lifetime? To You, the number should be unlimited. Oh, boy! Can’t wait.
No sooner out of Lockdown and gracing the precincts of house & garden in the Lunigiana, did not You propose una gita by driving down to Forte dei Marmi and pay a visit to our friends at Recuparando. This is Urn & Statuary Heaven. Oh, and ditto for a Heaven for ceramic tiles, marble sinks, iron garden furniture, etc. etc. etc. Before I proceed with the successes of our Friday morning foray, let me explain You’s well thought out motive. Take notes, if it will help…
You holds me obliquely responsible for the ever more radical inclination to the grassy terrace right above L’Appartamento Azzurro. I try to deflect these criticisms by kindly referring him to the vagaries of Mother Nature and her efficient participation in the matter, ie Her Earth shifts from Her Rain, Cold, Heat. Si, ma mi disturba… He consulted Instagram for possible landscapers. None past muster with me. Sorry. I do not want il Poggiolo’s garden to resemble that of one adjacent to a mausoleum. You then encouraged me to call in the local landscaper, who had worked on a Codiponte friend’s garden, to great acclamation, for advice on how best to resolve the situation of the tilting terrace, so irritating it is for You. Unsightly wears him down, apparently. None of the local landscaper’s suggestions struck a chord, neither with You or me. Wood logs behind the phalanx of fruit trees? No! You & I agreed. We all collectively adjourned into a two month Lockdown declared not three days later. The terrace discussion promptly got lost with our mutual preoccupations about COVID-19. You as a Coronavirus dottore and me barricaded with a crazed Weimaraner puppy, The Croesus-person, as a likely victim of said malady. Then, suddenly, You could speak of nothing else, as Italy slowly, methodically exited from Lockdown. His newly formulated idea… obviously, the break during quarantine had served him well… was not to rebuild the terrace flat but, the less costly notion to distract our natural visual inclination… hahaha… by installing a series of terracotta urns & vases along the fruit-tree tract, the one with the most slope. I piped up with an opposing yet similar concept… distract from the slope by placing the terracotta beauties on the opposing side. The reply I received was Silence. A killer. Now, not the I can pride myself with a consistent record of Democratic conciliation, I did opt to table the discussion, let You get the Urn Thing out of his system and see how the lay of the land, so to speak, settles.
We drove to Forte dei Marmi.
There were once the Glory Years for Stuff here in Italy. A national phenomenon. Back when trash pick-up was nothing more complicated than a great big bin… for everything. So simple. So easy. Relatively neat. And, on one day a month, the Trash Folk would deign to pick up anything you cared to chuck. Whatever. In Genoa, twenty plus years ago, it was the first Tuesday of the month. The city would bloom… No! Better still… EXPLODE with piles of junk, stuff, furniture, furnishings, kitchen utensils!!! and entire households put out on the sidewalk to be carted away early the next morning and not necessarily just by the Trash Folk. Citizens of Genoa too. Our Tradition was… You would come home from his Office, we’d eat something quick and then hit the streets. Walk the neighbourhoods close by or, often, we would tootle around in You’s by-then beat up ol’ AUDI, joining thousands of others in their cars to search for tesori. Enormous traffic jams would develop in certain sectors of the city. Usually in the large residential neighbourhoods of apartment houses scattered throughout Genoa, from one end to the other and, towards the mountains too. It was like a party… a street party. We’d run into friends AND family!!! Fine pickings always. Many of our finds now have found a nice home at il Poggiolo. It was a stellar event since killed by recycling. If you want whatever to be hauled off, you have to haul it yourself to a collection center, open to the public from 9 to 5, Monday through Friday. Not everyone has a beat up ol’ AUDI to do so. won’t demoralise your imaginings about Italy, as to where the stuff ends up. It’s not pretty.
This is how the owner of Recuperando got his start. By day, he was the manager of Alitalia’s reservations offices in Florence years ago. By night, he and a buddy, who had the ape… a three-wheeled scooter with a bed in back to haul… would carouse the byways and alleyways of Firenze on the anointed evening, and, Lord!, did they find the stuff. On weekends, they would spruce up, paint up, patch up their tesori and then sell them at street flea-markets and by word-of-mouth. Business boomed. So much so, the operation was expanded to make copies of some of the more refined or, historic tesori for sale at a better price. There was no stopping it. The majority of the clientele were persons with means. So much means they had grand vacation homes in resorts like Forte dei Marmi. The owner eventually moved there and opened an open air showroom. A Heaven on Earth.
You managed to spend a few Euro’s on two urns and two stands plus, a large pedestal vase with handles. Took two trips with my scuzzy SUV to bring our tesori home. Rather beyond discussion which side of the grassy terrace they all should sit. I let it happen. Shhh, don’t say a word to You but, I must say, they all look quite nice nestled in the chaos of flora of fruit trees and other agglomerations of flora… rosemary, iris, roses, lavender and lilac bushes. Take a gander…
Got out & got back...
You and I were reunited. Finally last Friday. I got a hug. You got one back simultaneously and a big smack on the lips too. He had steered me to an out-of-the-way corner in the parking lot of the restaurant where we had met for these sorts of shenanigans and a meal. You had come down from Genoa after a very necessary barber’s appointment to trim his unruly coiffure and me, having no such need, arrived fresh & unshaven from Codiponte. No Social Distancing for us. And what bravery too. Intimacy with a COVID-19 dottore. Now I read on the BBC about the global health authorities worrying that many folk may carry the virus yet, show no symptoms whatsoever. God help us! My own personal Coronavirus doctor says Social Distancing is The Most Important Measure. There are exceptions apparently, ie the above special encounter. Next is washing hands with soap & water. Masks and gloves are a courtesy, shows responsibility, thinking of others and not just yourself. Of lesser importance.
Feeling frisky… could’ve been the hugs… after a pleasant though short weekend with You, I hit the road yesterday in my scuzzy SUV and drove to Pisa to the IKEA there. Quest for duvet covers and baskets. A glorious day to do so. But first…
a stop at My Preferred Bar for an out-of-Lockdown cappuccino. Having un caffe’ before doing something on your Task List is A Tradition in Italy. And, if possible, a church afterwards to light a candle. Got to cover all critical elements of Life here. I elected not to do the candle thing. The nearest church to My Preferred Bar is a hike to reach and I was on a schedule. The cappuccio was delicious. Since Liberation Day on the 3rd of June, the bar must have submitted before to a good scrub and a clearing-out to within a millimetre of its post-Lockdown Life. No La Nazione newspaper for the Barbanera horroscope. A pity. How can one do anything without celestial input? Virgo is in agitation too. Discovered an enormous but, soundly constructed plexiglass barrier sul banco del bar, and with a small opening to pass your cappuccino to you. Nothing gerry-rigged like at the creepy bank branch I am now obligated to frequent. The consequence of a pre-COVID-19 restructuring. Ample containers of hand gel at the entrance. And, an outdoor piazza with plastic green grass carpets, tables & chairs AND umbrellas to promote the all-important dictates of Social Distancing. Ate up a few parking spaces. Just as well since it contains…. key word… the confusion with how Italians swing a car to STOP for a run into a bar. Spacial sense is not a forte of Italians. Just look at their gardens. Anyway, all good for the bar owner. An amiable chap and was rather glad to see me hobble in. He asked me about my hips. Had something happened during my 3 + 1/2 month absence? I replied it wasn’t really the hips but, too much heavy yard work. He smiled. I paid and resumed my jaunt.
Shook off the lingering sense of Lockdown on the drive South. Wind blowing through the open driver’s window on my bald head, little traffic and very few trucks, the SUV humming along as I watched the autostrada and occasionally admired the stunning sky-scapes above the Apuane Mtns. & Apennines. Rarely do I see such monumental cloud constructions and of every type on the chart. High above was this extraordinary azure sky. A crystalline clear blue. One reminding me Italy is on the same latitude as Toronto, Canada… more or less, a Northern sky.
I went to McDonald’s. It’s in IKEA’s neighbourhood. Sorrowful one too. Huge boxes for buildings with vast parking lots next door to wildernesses of tall weeds and partially completed construction sites. More huge boxes to come. Scenes from post-WWII movies of Neorealismo Italiano. IKEA is the most visible. However, the Double Golden Arches beckoned me to come hither for a double cheeseburger… the pickle slapped on cheese and a beef patty, we think, is a capping glory of fast-food architecture… a large French Fries and a Coke Zero. Yellow tape on the pavement showed me where I could stand outside in line to enter for proper Social Distancing, hand-gel and groovy Italian Blu plastic gloves were provided. Few folk inside. There, mostly to place their orders for delivery to their tables outside. Is this an Italian invention? Service to your table at a Mac’s? Seems un-fast-food-ish…
back when il Poggiolo was under construction and when the builder had finished the complex of new roofs, he asked if I was intending to host a meal to celebrate. Had never heard of that but, thought it a great idea. My English Friend in Codiponte confirmed the local Topping-off the New Roof Party custom. I whipped up lots of stuff to eat… from torte salate to una pasta calda to un dolce. On the appointed day, the builder, his crew of 6 and a few privileged guests showed up around 5 in the afternoon on a pleasant early October day to partake della festa. I made a little speech of thanks and then, invited the assembled to serve themselves. No one moved. I re-issued the invitation to please go to the buffet table on the Loggia and help yourself. Still no one moved. My English Friend quietly stepped over and whispered to me… Gli italiani non si servono da mangiare ad una festa. Dovresti farlo tu! So, I climbed up to the Loggia and started piling food onto plates and handing them out. Suddenly, I had 15 people clamouring to be the first. McDonald’s has had to do the same, I suppose.
Done with eating, I drove over to IKEA, parked in the D for Dog lot of cars and walked over to the Entrance. A masked & gloved employee in a dark Blue combat style uniform came up to me holding what looked like a gun. We exchanged Buon Giorno’s… mine was forceful yet, with a tinge of reticence… while the young man pointed what looked like a gun at my forehead, a bright red light lit up like a laser tag, and where a bullet might have shot out. All I got for the sudden fright was a… Okay, si puo entrare… or, You’re good to go. Grazie. Off I trotted to the separate Linen and Basket Departments. What a mess. People everywhere, scurrying about with their carts or, yellow carrier-bags or, not, and blocking aisles where I needed to go. Social Distancing was a Bump & Grind. Dottore You would have been appalled. I was. Then what? Could not find what I had in mind from the last visit to IKEA four months ago. Stock was upside down, topsy-turvy, out of regimental order or, non-existent. The store must’ve liquidated their personnel during Lockdown. No one was about. Certainly, there wasn’t anyone visible to put the place back into some semblance of order. THERE ARE RULES FOR DISPLAY!!! I used to work in retail. I know. I debated various possible candidates for both single & double duvet covers. Cancelled most for being too expensive. Euro 80 for a piece of fake linen in cotone? You would have had my head if he knew. Then, he called. Must’ve sensed I was going to spend Euro’s. I explained. He suggested No. I said OK. He rang off. Shoved into the bright yellow carrier bag one single and one double to try them out and headed with Hope for better luck in the Basket Department. Dinky things. Miserable selection. Anxious to leave… consumer disappointment can be difficult to bear, if unexpected OR, unwanted… I picked up two 50’s looking basket things I discovered later were too small for holding even 1/10th of our pillow archive at il Poggiolo. Fled to the self-service cash stand… and without picking up more stuff which had caught my fancy… used a laser gun similar to the one previously seen to scan my scanty purchases, paid, left. D for Dog. Whew!!! Oh, well… I may have to shop Maison du Monde. The French competition. Mais oui!!! At least, I got out. Had a caffe’. Ate a burger. Enjoyed the views. Arrived safe & sound. Home Sweet Home? Yes! The Joys of Lockdown? Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far but, there’s certainly Peace & Tranquility and one very happy Puppy waiting to have me back home again. The drive was nice.
The comforts of Radio...
The photo is not of the radio in my filthy SUV.
The filth is thanks to the ministrations of the Dog.
The car’s interior is a dump of the Dog’s found & discarded sticks, bits of bark, slivers of wood, a rock or two, and, of course, dog hairs galore. My car’s radio is faced in a mock tortoise shell material long since faded into a dirty brown miasma. The contraption is unrecognisable as a radio were it not for the Scan and Tune keys. Thank God, they are clearly identified.
Since February, I have lived a lonely Lockdown with The Dog. Conversation is a bit lite and never exits past me giving him orders or praise. Treats follow both. Beyond the lack of chat, he’s OK company. The usual and consisting nominally of the ups & downs on the scale of Stupid Dog Tricks… his boundless enthusiasm in stealing my trainers… and assorted Weimaraner Shenanigans caused by their extraordinarily powerful DNA…
he scappated Lockdown a couple of days ago, while we were supposed to be heading to the Scuzzy SUV for a programed walk-in-the-woods but, the Dog took a hard right, bolted and disappeared. I waited. Normally, he comes back. We are very attached to one another. I had thought. I waited. No Dog. My mobile rang. A friend called to tell me the AWOL canine was in her sector at the Commie House’s parking lot, clear on the other side of the now busy SR 445 highway!!! Got in my SUV and drove over. No Dog. The friend pointed indicating the direction towards il Poggiolo. Drove around the village on the way. No Dog. Drove to the Madonnina, prime sniffing area every afternoon of our Lockdown Life together. No Dog. Drove to our other Lockdown walking spot on the way to Acqua Paradiso and its natural spring and where I had intended to run the creature to exhaustion. No Dog. Went home to fret. No Dog. And then, he appeared and just as quickly as he had disappeared. Out of breath. Reunited, we rested on the loggia. I, to intoxicate myself with caffeine, and the Dog with a doggie cookie of modest dimensions. The world still turns…. safely and confined.
The car and house radios are better company for, at least, listening to Human chatter which cannot be provided by one very spoiled Weimaraner. Italian radio is a combo platter. Mainly, because the Italians are audible multi-taskers. They are not happy unless there is variety, fun, constant Human exchange. Their radio stations are medlies of music, talk, information, gossip, games, jokes, news, call-ins and it’s instructive too… this last may brush against what many elsewhere would consider to be propaganda but, so be it. And, HELL!!! Everyone needed to hear over and over and over again: WEAR A MASK! WEAR GLOVES!! WASH YOUR HANDS!!! and STAY AT HOME, for the Love of God. Eventually, the Italians got the Lockdown Message and abided by the New Program. Mostly thanks to the radio.
Italians characteristically plug-in through the gift of the Human exchange, the Human voice, Human contact. They do read but current events are conversational. They have filters for it, I suppose. Radio is just one source. Shopping and hanging out at bars are two others. Through chat they are reminded about what entertains and discover what informs, reinforcing their traditions, customs and their indefatigable curiosity for the latest novelty.
This is not so much World of Radio in America, my former home country and since renounced due to late Breaking News… Portland, Oregon burns? White House besieged? Oh, goodie!!! Go for that man with the bad dye-job, please. COVID-19 spikes in North Carolina? Oh, dear. My Mother lives there… There’s hardly such thing as No Talk radio in Italy. Or, I’ve never found such a station. I must confess though, I haven’t really searched. I don’t like only music or, just chat. How dull. How can you enjoy anything if it’s unerringly all the same? Becomes a monotone. Numbing. That’s the impression of the Vatican’s Radio Maria… prayers, discussion, lectures, sermons of a sort and then, 3 minutes of a minuet by Mozart. Ditto for RAI Radio 3, the ex-Commie station of the three RAI was forced by law to maintain. Everyone got a piece of the Italian political-social pie back in the Good Ol’ Days. RAI 1 for Christian-Democrats, RAI 2 for the Socialists and, RAI 3 for the Commies. Each with their own distinct flavours of transmission. Radio RAI 1 was the safe, traditional bet, balancing music… no Heavy Metal, per favore… information and instruction in equal portions throughout the 24 hour day. RAI 2 was zippier, dipping their toes into the latest musical trends from America and the UK, probably for fear of being considered not-with-it… a hallmark of the Socialists!!!… and news commentary spliced in between the headlines and music. RAI 3 danced the gamut of taste and education. Classical music to groovy jazz and contemporary tunes, airing precursors to podcasts and at times you could actually listen to them, and the news from around the Globe. Now they have all melted together. I skip the lot.
My bias is for popular Italian radio. Italian music, a snippet of Late Breaking News which, pronounced in Italian comes out as, Laighttt Brekkking Newzzz, and the fun of Italian banter. I am in love with Radio Subasio. Its out of Florence but, the broadcast can be heard throughout Italy. The spot on the dial changes from one area to another. In Codiponte it is 98.7, when the Dog desists from pressing the Tune key while attempting to murder a fly. This is true of nearly all Italian radio stations.
Years ago, for il Poggiolo’s three residences, I went to a huge store in Sarzana… long gone by now… and bought three of the same Yamaha radio/CD players. Sadly, tuning can only be done with the remote and none work these days… damn-it. And yes, I’ve changed the batteries. Did not help. So, I am stuck with the default radio station of RDJ… Radio Disc Jockey. You can stroll into a bar and the big-screen TV will have RDJ on. A guy and a gal or, a gal and a guy, depending upon the hour of the day. One does most of the talking and the other laughs. All the women have annoying voices, varying from beginner truckers to baby-dolls with whiney yet, bubbly intonations. .Quite a feat. Sorry, ladies. Why men find these creature’s voices sexy is a mystery to me. One of the guys is a famous drag-queen. On Italian TV. A talent show. For RDJ, however, he’s out of drag. Distinctive voice though.
Subasio is my station. The music is weighted towards Italian. Nek, Raf, Diodato, Giorgia, Laura Pausini, Emma, Tiziano Ferro, Elisa, Marco Mengoni, Gianluca Grignani, Elodie, Cesare Cremonini, Zucchero… the only Italian whose voice and music fits the rhythm of Rock’n Roll… Alex Britti, Adriano Celentano…. the Italian Elvis Presley… Loredana Berte’, Francesco Renga, Gianna Nannini, Anna Oxa, Mina… the greatest of all Italian singers… EVER!!! Streisand = 7.2. Mina is a 10+!!!… Claudio Baglioni… who was a knock-out young and strummed a guitar and sang his tunes from the balcony of his parent’s apartment in Bologna to attract girls. He had NO PROBLEMS there… Carmen Consoli, Tiromancino, Ermal Meta… a cracker-jack singer-song-writer… Mahmood… who won the San Remo Music Festival last year and I think he is genius. Dottore You finds him icky. Oh, well… and Malika Ayane… who has done a wonderful rendition… though abbreviated… of Volare…
which brings me to the songs of Lockdown. Volare in all its versions was tops on any Lockdown playlist. Another, Il Cielo E’ Sempre Piu’ Blu, composed by Rino Gaetano, a genial jack-of-all trades… actor, song-writer, singer, cabaret personality… tragically killed in the late 70’s in a bizarre automobile crash, and his song has become The Italian Lockdown Song. Here’s Rino singing his classic…
And then, here are practically every popular Italian singer on the charts worth their pasta singing the same song to raise Moral & Money during Italy’s Lockdown. A Lockdown Hymn. The singers look a bit scruffy, but hey! They were all in quarantine. Give them a chance…
In between Lockdown songs, there were the games and call-ins. Some are a bit silly but the DJ’s know how to milk an item…
It came across the wire that George Clooney had hosted a dinner party… pre-COVID-19… at his mansion in Southern California to thank 14 of his oldest & dearest friends, who remained with him through the thick ‘n thin of his stunning career. Apparently, it was not an easy climb to stardome. At the end of the meal… what? champagne & cake?… 14 large suitcases were wheeled in by armed guards and each guest was handed one. Inside each was $1,000,000 in $20 bills, tax and fees paid for by Mr Clooney. Well, that was absolutely fodder for the Italian’s fascination with America and Americans, especially the Hollywood variety. They ignore what does not correspond to their fantasies, ie, that nut-case in the White House and Portland burning. Anyway, they have no idea where Oregon is. Fine by me. I did a five year stint there.
The DJ’s asked the listeners to phone in a story of an unexpected gesture of thanks. The response was overwhelming. None rivalled the monetary dimensions of Mr Clooney but, many did on an emotional level. The story I liked the best was a fellow waiting for his girl-friend to come home from the hospital after she had lost her father to COVID-19 wearing a mask & gloves and holding a bouquet of flowers for her. The girl-friend called-in. Touched the heart. The mine and the DJ’s included.
Just a smattering of Italian radio for you in the Era of Lockdown. More tunes & chat for you all.
I've stopped counting...
…the days of Lockdown. I’ve got more important things to occupy myself with than Math.
Nor do I care what others are doing in any ol’ COVID-19 Phase, I am still maintaining Phase 1 Coronavirus Lockdown. It is Life as it was, still is and will be. I don’t mess with always.
I do not naturally follow Rules. I come from Colorado. Wild open West. Mountains, plains, wilderness, don’t fence me in, OK? What are Rules? However, in the case of this Coronavirus pandemic, I AM FOLLOWING THE LOCKDOWN RULES!!! del mio Dottore: avoid folk, eschew places folk congregated, consistently elect to… stay… at… home. Ample time to walk the Dog, work on photography, do yard work…
…by the way, I don’t think I have ever KILLED!!! a hydrangea in my life. Other plants, yes, mai una hortensia. Poor thing. Its flowers were so splendid cascading out of its 1930’s terracotta vase for a couple of years, keeping Dr. Bacchus company in his lonesome statuary vigil tucked off, as he is, to a corner of our Scenic Overlook. Dr Bacch- overlooks some peonies, a smattering of oak leaf hydrangeas and the sad one. This past February, while Coronavirus was gathering steam in Italy, I tried to move the plant in its large terracotta vase to a better location. The rim snapped off in my hand. I tried lifting the vase up from the bottom but, it would not budge… much. Found the plant’s roots had sought more fertile contact with Mother Earth through the drainage hole. A major exodus. Stopped-up the exit completely. Surveying the entire hydrangea-vase situation, I was alarmed to see the plant was drowning. Oh, dear…. Oh, my… drowned! I busted the pot. Water gushed out soaking my Adidas trainers…
They don’t lace. Hidden cords. Push a button on the side and twist it to tighten the shoe to the foot. They make my feet stink. Chinese synthetics. But, very cool looking footwear, I don’t mind saying. Black and Jamaican yellow and green. A modern day Rastafarian?
I went and got a shovel to dig a large hole and promptly re-planted the drowned hydrangea directly in the waiting guts of Madame Earth. I fear it was too late. No signs of life after two weeks, ie leaves, perhaps?
What I would so dearly love to KILL! KILL!! KILL!!!, however, would be the roving vines. Probably, yes, I could concede the flora-type I am annually afflicted with might be a nice contribution to un ambiente piu’ naturale, just not at il Poggiolo, thank you very much. Long, elegant and purple tendrils with delicately articulated light-green leaves easily distributed along the vines’ length, a lighter version of an ivy, are taking over every single plant, bush, tree in the garden. They go everywhere, respect nothing, and are totally indifferent to what they are strangling in this or in any other year. One can no longer enjoy the greenery You and I sweated to plant for the last 10 years. A menace.
A couple of weeks ago, I stopped by to see My English Friends in Codiponte to say Ciao! and find out how they were bearing the pandemic. All was OK so, I then steered the conversation to my unsuccessful war on roving vines. I received a prompt suggestion for the trouble of my visit with a guaranteed knock ‘em DEAD method…
gather up the vines, curl them into a ball, stuff them into a plastic garbage bag, spray poison inside… ABUNDANTLY!!!… tie the thing up and let the chemicals do their prescribed work. Though optimistic in winning this Chemical War, the tactic does decorate our Lunigiana premises with a disconcerting variety of blue, light-grey and light-green plastic garbage bags. There is nothing less decorative than plastic. Like, suddenly, the place has begun to return to its recent History… lo’ these 10 years ago… of being a community trash dump. Ahime’.
On an up-note… modern Italian technology has saved me from carrying around a very bad attitude regarding the weed-whacker. Previously thought to be the most odious machine ever thrown onto our modern gardening society. Mostly for equipping the plastic cord… we just can’t get away from plastic, can we?… in yet another plastic housing. The installation ruins the flow of the initiative to bush-whack grass & weeds into oblivion. The housing gave up the ghost this afternoon, while I swayed the machine back ‘n forth across il Poggiolo’s ramp’s tall, rain-nourished grass & weeds. Meant a drive to Gragnola… mask & gloves on… to the local hardware store. A fantastic establishment. All guys and they are extremely courteous & helpful for my city mouse dealing with a country mouse’s chores & tribulations. The Head Guy replaced the housing with a new one where you just insert the plastic cord… there we go again… into a hole, run it through and out another hole, turn the top dial and the plastic thing sucks the plastic cord into the plastic housing. Glorious. Totally. In ancient times, I would have had to disassemble the housing, separated the three pieces, wrap a long plastic cord… we we go again… around another plastic piece… gads… struggling to encourage said plastic cord to go around in circles against its plastic will… of course… slip each end through their respective holes… against their plastic will… the material is a plague… then quickly pop back on the rest of the housing before the plastic cord decides to spring out and land several feet away… to start the struggle all over again. I came home with the new housing and made clean work of the tall grass & weeds on the ramp. Done with great satisfaction and pride.
And now, for a bit of Spring color…
Il Poggiolo’s garden is inundated with flowers. A bumper crop. And how, with so little H2O? A trick of Mother Nature, perhaps? Here is a photo-medley…
If you will excuse me, I must return to the Chemical Battle.
Day 11 of Phase 2 in Codiponte...
Not much has changed in Codiponte from when Phase 2 was kicked off on Monday, May 4th. The only hardship is the isolation from You and our friends, many of whom are stuck in a Holding Pattern awaiting entry into Italy to return to their homes here. All the rest is a God Send: still no airplanes flying overhead…
oh, I spoke too soon! The sound of a lone aircraft. What could it be? Hark! A Kenyan Air Force two-engine cargo plane flying from Milan Malpensa MXP to N/A, meaning Rome and then some military airport near Nairobi. Well, after delving into the headlines at BBC and The Guardian Newspaper, Africa is now up to the tips of their tribal spears with Coronavirus. And sadly, Kenya is another hot spot. All on the African continent are in need of medical supplies & equipment to battle the pandemic’s invasion into their countries.
One of my hobbies during Phase 1 & 2 of Lockdown has been to check aircraft flying LIVE above the entire globe at flightradar24.com. Previous to the COVID-19 pandemic, the sky above Codiponte was a multi-lane, multi-directional flight highway connecting Italy to the rest of Italy, Western Europe North of the Alps and the UK despite Brexit to the Near East and Eastern Africa… Egypt south to Kenya, for instance. At all hours of the day and night. I’d sit out with friends, happily sipping an excellently chilled white wine from their cellars in their lovely fattoria high above the valleys of Lunigiana and in line with the Apuane Peaks, offering stunning, unblemished skyscapes. The friends look at stars off apps, while I pull out the ol’ iPhone 11 Plus, for cryin’ out loud, click the flightradar24 app to see what’s what flying above. Just click on a yellow airplane icon to find out the from and to. I am easily carried away with fantasizing of the places on many of the aircraft’s itineraries… Istanbul, Cairo, Beirut, Port Louis, Mauritius! I’ve been to the first two. Not sure when for the others but, Beirut is tops. Since March 9th, the highway is empty but for the sporadic domestic flights flown by Alitalia to connect Milan & Rome to the country’s major centers: Napoli, Palermo, Turin, Venice, Bari, etc.; and slightly more often, Italian Air Force and Police cargo planes and Airbuses to shift personnel, supplies & equipment for the Italy’s fight in this Coronavirus pandemic. The majority of airplanes, however, flying in our skies, and are about 1/100th of the normal traffic, are cargo airplanes. Again, shifting stuff to combat the emergency. And yet, the Boeings and Airbuses are also carry general goods & foods since, the belly-cargos of the passenger aircraft are empty and parked on aprons and runways all over the place. Major hubs like London Heathrow, Vienna Schwechat, Frankfurt-am-Main, and Hong Kong’s Chek Lap Kok have become huge parking lots for B-777s, A-380s, etc.. And so too at many a minor airport. There is one airport out in California… Victorville, California… a famous aircraft cemetery… is now home to umpteen hundreds of furloughed though ready to fly airplanes of all sizes. Oh, well.
… and car & truck traffic has dwindled to a trickle though there are tiny Rush Hours in the early morning and late in the afternoon. The Codiponte Natives are out yet, rarely far from home or vegetable gardens and they rigorously wear masks but, NO GLOVES!!! And the church’s campanile still rings in the hours from 7:00AM to 9:00PM. Hope it stays like this.
Day 60 Lockdown Corona-cartoons...
Best remedy for a Lockdown, of any sort? Laugh. And the simplest way? Cartoons. Fast, efficient, a sure fire method to provoke, at least, a good chuckle. Often a good guffaw. The cartoons below are a sampler of those which got me through the Low’s of Lockdown, and with much thanks to the convenience of Whatsapp and a wonderful pack of family & friends with a terrific sense of humour…
Semi-Coronavirus Liberation Day...
… or, in the current jargon, Phase 2 which began on the first Monday of May, the 4th, 2020. Coronavirus-COVID-19-pandemic-plague. Liberation? I didn’t think about it. Preferred to think about the many positive aspects of the strict Italian Lockdown here in Codiponte…
the general Peace & Tranquility… except when the kid in the the floodplain of Codiponte insisted on blasting Vasco Rossi out a speaker set in his BR window during the sacrosanct hour of Nap Time… knocking off innumerable items on my To-do List, the garden accounting for about 70%, pleasant chats on the telephone with family & friends from Italy to the UK and over to the US, exchanging terrifically funny videos, cartoons and messages through the auspice of Whatsapp, long morning walks with the Dog in the woods surrounding Codiponte… the Dog searches for a better stick, while I photograph sculptural and long forgotten chestnut trees… and fresh air!!! A simpler, healthier and remote Life.
Now, Phase 2? Had no idea. Then, reality hit. At 6:30AM, last Monday morning, I was unexpectedly and rudely awakened by traffic over on the Strada Regionale 445. Cars, trucks, flat-beds, buses, pullmans. Heading to work after a 2 month hiatus. Why the rush? The work might’ve disappeared or will with the economy shot. Anyway, the roar was occasionally accented by casual honking. Italians cannot seem to resist a friendly toot to friends & family seen along the road or, at the bus stop at the Rimessa to catch the corriere to Aulla, the Big Town of lower Lunigiana, and apparently, at any hour of the day. They think: we’re up and so should the rest of the World… at 6:30AM in the morning.
It came as a shock. Mostly the amount of traffic. I hung out the window of my bedroom in La Casetta, which affords a direct line of sight, providing an eyewitness account of the noisy flow of vehicles. The Dog was confused when I got out of bed way before the standard signal that Our Lockdown Day had begun, Codiponte’s church’s campanile unwaveringly ringing in 7 o’clock, Lockdown Day in and Lockdown Day out. The four-legged creature elected to stay in bed. Wool blankets are so inviting to snuggle and especially when the human body has left. I went for a restorative caffe. I needed caffeine to ponder the new developments. Such as, arrivederci to Codiponte’s lovely Peace & Tranquility of Lockdown so ignobly shattered. I felt threatened. Seemed more dangerous now than ever before to run for groceries, buy dog food and hit a friend’s nursery for urgent gardening supplies which, I needed to do after the Dog’s excursions into our local wildernesses. I’m not used to traffic. Up until this May 4th, I was normally, the King of the Road. I enjoyed the privilege, the privacy and the absence of stress having an Italian in a white VW Golf try to butt-fuck me because he needs to be somewhere faster than my SUV can go and thus, I WAS IN THE WAY!!! And too, there will be strange people about the land of the Lunigiana. I only saw people I regularly see in my normal Life at the grocery store, etc. No more, I suspected. They could be COVID-19 carriers! Masks & gloves are no guarantee.
Dottore You confirmed the above and doubly confirmed later in my morning. You strongly suggested that I stay… at… home… as much as possible. Good he didn’t add… as humanly possible. He continued by reiterating the concept of… There’s no sense in risking one’s vulnerable health as a prime Coronavirus candidate by co-mingling with errant rabble, racing to shop at the OVS super store after being shut-in at home for 8+ weeks.
However, My Human Nature has frayed a bit despite the rigours of my particular Lockdown in Codiponte. I have been in self-quarantine for 10+ weeks now. I wanted to break away. Freedom. Freedom of movement, like those folk racing to & fro earlier in the morning. A desire to belong? For so long, I only left Codiponte on Wednesdays. On Moral, Psychological… Emotional Grounds… I felt the strong urge to head to Aulla on this Liberation Day… to enjoy civilisation.
Then, I ran into this…
Again, for second time in less than two hours, I had unwittingly become an innocent victim of Coronavirus Liberation Day activities. The Dog and I made up part of a long convoy of vehicles rolling to Aulla. And the same in the opposing direction. The Dog was miffed: he could not hang his large Weimaraner head out the SUV’s back window for a breath of nostril flaring fresh air, ‘cause he’d been trained!!! to tuck said head inside, if something comes towards us.
And what… a… snarl… of… traffic! Cars darting in & out from all directions & angles, bottlenecks at critical curves along the road or, at stores NOW OPEN FOR BUSINESS, cars double-parked at all my stops…
the first: to buy dog food. Took 7 minutes. Next stop were nurseries: the Aulla Consorzio for a fungal disinfectant to cure our suffering verbania… planted in what was 11 years ago the main dump for garbage thrown there by the admirable citizens of Codiponte and is probably a sort of chemical waste pit of deeply submerged plastic bags and other I-don’t-want-to-know stuff… Katia & Paolo for pots and a fragrant rose bush as a belated birthday gift for a Codiponte friend, and finally, a visit to Cristiana, my dear Codiponte friend, and owner of the big nursery, for potting soil and some inconsequential plants necessary to plug some holes in our green Privacy Screen. I overbought. Walked out with a snow-cone plant, a photinia, several corbezzoli and several geraniums. The poor SUV was sluggish from the weight of it all. Had to hit three grocery stores too for my newly discovered am-not-drinking-white-wine substitute. An Italian ginger-ale. It’s orange. A festive color. And, it’s Zero. Slimming, perhaps. Two establishments had no stock but, the Conad did. Cleaned them out. I know, I know, not very considerate of others. However, I need all the help I can get and especially for not resorting to white wine in these dawning days of a lesser Lockdown. Kind of hate to think about Phase 3. A possible YIKES!…???
Day 54 The Lockdown Musical Cavalcade...
Weather on this May Day 2020 is cloudy, cool and the rains ain’t going to happen no matter what any Weatherman says.
A sampler for all you to enjoy with the music I have and am still listening to in these days of Lockdown Codiponte. A medley, a variety… un pasticcio of songs, instruments, lyrics. Onward then with my…
Lockdown Musical Cavalcade
Swingle Singers… JS Bach Harpsichord Concerto No. 5 in F minor.
Diodato… Che vita meravigliosa.
Franco Fagioli,… Vo solcando un mar crudele from Leonardo Vinci’s opera Artaserse.
Oesch's die Dritten… Jodelmedley.
Mahmood… Rapide.
Handel… Rompo i lacci from the opera Flavio.
Wintergatan… making music from a marble machine built and piece composed by Martin Molin.
Cocteau Twins… Carolyn’s Fingers performed by Elizabeth Fraser (vocals), Robin Guthrie (guitars).
Jean-Philippe Rameau… Danse des Sauvages performed by Sergey Shamray on a button accordion.
Relaxing drum music… created by Best Relaxing Music.
Henry Purcell… Rondeau from the opera Abdelazer.
Feng E… arranged and performed Chandelier/Sia.
Vivaldi… Vedro con mio diletto from the opera Il Giustino sung by the counter-tenor Jakub Józef Orliński.
Tchaikovsky… Sugar Plum Fairy performed by Glass Duo on a glass harp.
Jean-Baptiste Lully … Passacaille Les Plaisirs ont choisi pour asile from the opera Armide.
Aphex Twin… Jynweythek Ylow
Erik Satie… Michael Christian Durrant performs Gymnopédie No. 1 on a classical guitar a piece originally written for piano.
Billie Eilish… No Time To Die, the theme song for the 25th James Bond film of the same title.
Nek … Se telefonando originally sung by Mina.
And, hey! In Italy, you can not get away from the Village People, KC and the Sunshine Band and… Queen. Some clever person took the group’s Bohemian Rhapsody and turned into Coronavirus Rhapsody. Enjoy!
Day 53: The Lockdown Masquerade 2020...
Yes, and gosh, here I am at my personal Day 77 Lockdown Codiponte. How time flies when one is locked-down. I haven’t seen You in 67 days or, 9.53 weeks. Absence makes the heart grow fonder? I believe so, though I have hardly had any time to notice, what with the number of telephone calls & Whatsapp messages from him. And, we will have to bear the separation as best we can for another 31 days or, 4 weeks. The Dog is thoroughly worn-out from my discussions substituting for the absent Dottore You. The exhausted canine naps elsewhere.
Passing quickly onto the Weather: cloudy, cool and there’s an infinitesimally fine spray today, Thursday, the last day of April and a day before May Day. What are people going to be able to do tomorrow to celebrate the holiday during a Global pandemic? Socialisms has been switched to Social Distancing. Not quite what was originally intended but then, who knew? And a parade of masked & gloved folk would be a no-no, unless there’s only family members… in Italy.
I have made light of You’s constant tele-communications but, his and those too of the masked folk of family & friends below have been A MAFOR MORALE BOOSTER!!! for this COVID-19 shut-in Codiponte, Tuscany, Italy. To thank them… one and all… for their constant messages, calls, emails, videos and cartoons, here below is…
Lockdown Masquerade 2020!!!
Thank you, thank you, thank you… grazie, grazie, grazie!!!
Day 46 Lockdown Codiponte...
I am personally in Day 70 Lockdown. I have not seen You in 7 and a 1/2 weeks. He says 8. I might be able to travel to Genoa to see him by Week 10, according to Dottore You. He has an inside track on the latest COVID-19 Lockdown measures. He’s on the telephone with the Ministries of Health and Interior several times a day. Oh, wait! I am getting ahead of myself. The weather…
sunny, pleasantly warm after a cold start this morning, light breeze from the Mediterranean Sea, birds are tweeting so, at least, they must be happy. I would be totally happy too, if it weren’t for the grotesque absence of a good, solid three days of RAIN. The forecasters can stop advertising 20%, 50%, 70% chance of rain ‘cause we all know here in Codiponte what that means = NO RAIN. Spray does not count, by the way.
I smell rebellion in the air. Oh, not here in Codiponte though a bomb did go off last Sunday. Sounded like a bomb. I know the sound and reverberations of one because, I was in Florence in a hotel right behind the Uffizi Gallery where a bomb detonated, killing a couple of people, injuring many others and damaging the heck out of one of the most wonderful museums in the World. The source of Codiponte’s explosion has actually not been determined. Several neighbors trotted off towards Acqua Paradiso, the general location of the big noise, to investigate. They came back with little information. I suspect nothing was found. It will remain a Codiponte mystery. No. This air of discord seems to be everywhere else than my bucolic retreat in the Lunigiana though occasionally marred by big noises, whether by a bomb or the kid in the flatlands blasting Vasco Rossi after pranzo. An Italian singer with a raucus voice and a musical line which works well for guys who have just scored with their fidanzate. Gads. No. Disorders in Paris, America, Brasil… when we should all be calm and collaborative with each other from our respective Lockdowns…
I can understand Paris. Frawnce’s Lockdown has been as severe as Italy’s, if not more so, from what I have understood from friends in Lockdown Nice. They had fled the UK at the end of March for their country’s total lack of any Coronavirus measures though now, several weeks of Britain’s Got Lockdown have passed and with the commensurate fatalities climbing etc. and endless complaints from anyone there having an opinion. Don’t you just love Democracy? The two got caught by President Macron’s Verrouillage en Frawnce. Their only option at that time was to return subito to England. They said… No, thank you. Why be forced to stay inside an apartment and look out at cold, grey and rainy Ol’ England, when they could stay in Nice on their apartment’s balcony overlooking le Promenade des Anglais and the Mediterranean Sea lapping the deserted beaches below. Not surprisingly, Nice ahs not seen any riots yet. Just Paris. And, my suspicions are that the rioters are those who sadly do not have means or, mentality, to stay inside and self-isolate by doing something constructive… Honey-do’s… or, watch TV, play with the children. Cook. Dally with their iPhones. That they are asked to stick inside to protect others has not crossed their minds. Thus, easier to let off steam by rioting.
America is a mess. We can start with Trump at the top, passing by the bully recalcitrant and overly verbose Dr. Fauci… though people love him ‘cause he spars with Trump… and work down until we hit bottom. Those resting there are the ones suffering the severe effects of the disorganization and fraud of those above. I am ashamed of America. The entire political and business orders need a GREAT BIG HUGE SPANKING!!! I have requested Him, Who Rests Way Above the President about doing The Right thing… to smote the lot… and soon. In the meantime, demonstrations with ill-written banners & placards & cardboard signs carried by the motley array of folk fed up with what to the rest of the World ain’t a Lockdown. None have the balls of the Italians, French, Spanish, etc. And yet, my family & friends, an aware and conscientious group remain to independently stay safe at home. N’er a thought of heading out to bowl or hang-out at a tattoo parlour.
Not much to say about Brazil. Their lockdown is probably akin to being held after school yet, without a note to take home to the parents. Why should it be when the country’s president doesn’t heed the advice or council of those in the know? I won’t waste the energy being ashamed for the Brazilian people. While waiting God’s intervention, they should take matters in hand. Seems they have by demonstrating and rioting. However, it is not entirely clear for what they are demonstrating or rioting about. I’ll leave it alone.
Here in my part of Italy any rebellion is often caught now by the Police or, by the Carabinieri. Folk in their cars cutting out through the back door, so to speak, of the Lunigiana and into the Garfagnana to Lucca, Pisa and Florence beyond, I suppose. Wednesdays are my day to grocery shop, buy dog food, hit the pharmacy, the piece of official paperwork in my gloved hand, mask in place over my nose. I do this in the morning. Yesterday, I came back to Codiponte around 12:30 PM and there was a Police road-block in place, right at the most convenient spot to nab the escapees, where the Casciana Road meets the Strada Regionale 445 of the Garfagnana. Later, and after dark, it was the turn of Carabinieri to park themselves at the same spot, blue lights flashing on the tops of their late model FIAT and an ALFA-ROMEO. Both had caught a few. Good.
But, mostly, all of us here in Codiponte are awaiting the Italian government’s Game Plan for Coronavirus Phase 2. Since You is my own Personal COVID-19 Authority, he has said the general consensus coming down the pike from the Ministries of Health and Interior, their experts from WHO, CDC and other health institutions world-wide, plus the Italian doctors, like You, nurses and medical technicians actively engaged in battling Coronavirus, like Dott. You, is we first must give priority in protecting the health & safety of the general public. Yes, getting people back at work is important but what do you do if that provokes another and possibly more serious return of COVID-19, as the indications imply? How can you liberate lockdown when you cannot identify a carrier of the virus? Open factories, for instance, the young workers might be infecting people in the prime group vulnerable to infection from COVID-19. Open the schools? Right. Kids could be carrying the virus which could jeopardize the health of the older teachers. Complicated, isn’t it. Our only guarantee is what a lockdown is supposed to do: isolate and contain. Stop. Pay the consequences otherwise.
I do agree with jump starting the economy… and that would include agriculture… is vitally important. The second challenge of this pandemic and possibly provoking yet more dire consequences. Again though, if your population is unhealthy or unprotected or, sick, it will only confound any progress or safety. It will be worse.
I have no way to take the pulse of my Codiponte neighbors about all this. Better not to.
So, I know this… I have a dog who adores me. I have a boy-friend, who is counting on me to stay safe so, when we can see each other, I will be healthy & safe. I have wonderful friends, both here in Italy and many others scattered across Europe to America. They have never swayed from remaining in constant contact with me through the genius of the telephone, emails and Whatsapp. I have food in the refrigerator. I can pay my bills and even order stuff off Instagram I apparently cannot live without. Waiting for the DHL Guy to call me about leaving a package of something at the Scuzzy Bar is nearly the most absolute Joy about.
The absolute Joy of a delivery
…in these trying days of Lockdown.
Day 41 Lockdown Codiponte...
Unofficial Day 65, a Saturday: cloudy, overcast and cool. NO RAIN.
A typical Lockdown Day in Codiponte…
Get up feed the dog Make a caffe Look at the news on BBC Look at pictures of muscle-men on instagram sporting body bragging…. their bosoms are mouth-watering… custom made T-shirts for 70 euros Take a shower Get dressed Make the bed Fix the pillows on the sofa Sweep downstairs of dog hairs pieces of wood chewed off the dog’s special stick and bread crumbs Grab keys and emergency sacks for the dog’s bio donations Go out and start watering before going on that walk with same dog to a place behind my house where there is the madonnina meditation sanctuary I cannot because I must watch to make sure the dog doesn’t pee on the Virgin Mary and instead encourage said dog to go find sticks Take photographs of trees Look at funny coronavirus videos people have sent me overnight Call Dottore You but no answer He calls me back Asks if I am all right? I am Call for the dog to stop terrorising the Mother Nature… she’s stressed enough… go back home make a late morning caffe Open windows in la Casa Grande and turn on wi-fi Walk up to to do the same nel Appartamento Azzurro Come back down and sit at the table on the loggia wearing a sweater and a scarf Open the laptop to work on my Your Italian Concierge website Entails considerable time to do the desired adjustments Driven absolutely batty with how nit-picking squarespace can be with their market orientated templates for millenials…. which I am not… to the point that I have to call my IT fellow and have him take a peek remotely I make another caffe this time a decaffeinated one as I am already berserk When the nagging issue has been eliminated by my IT fellow I get up and change the water again This goes on until 6PM since we have had NO RAIN for the last four months Come back and continue to labor with the website Go down and fix lunch which is usually a grilled cheese and hotdog sandwich on this terrifically good whole wheat bread The dog gets a treat too of a piece of hotdog from my sandwich slathered with cheese goo We both climb back to the loggia and I eat my lunch while the dog stares at me for a possible hand-out… which he ain’t going to get… and I look at the news on the BBC off my laptop I take a nap on a chaise in the sun with a hat on to protect my bold head and fall asleep after reading the same paragraph of my book I wake up dazed and confused and hungry but I seek to resist by making a caffe I continue to work on the website cross-eyed Change the water once again and so throughout the day about every hour on the hour The dog gets rambunctious Means he’s hungry too and yet he cannot resist He bothers me starting around 3PM and continues until I get up and go down to la Casetta to feed him I make him suffer until his traditional feeding time of 4PM Once he has sucked up what was served… Pedigree for Dogs beef with a veggie slop… we come back to the loggia for the dog to digest his meal resting on his mattress and for me to continue with the website An hour later I grab the SUV keys and the dog goes wild with happiness and joy He knows we’re going in the dirty SUV to drive to the dog’s special spot to run wild run free for an hour In the meantime I take a French Lesson off an app on my iPhone I gave up on Russian There’s more a chance of going to Frawnce with You than to Roooissia J’ai appris a’ dire que je comprends le francais and other beginner’s sparing with the French language Pardonne madmoiselle… are there any still left in Frawnce?… es-que vous etes francaise? Ate up the entire 30 minute lesson I take some nature photos for instagram thinking I am an amazing photographer but even I am weary now of nature pics and hanker to shoot something else But what since I am in lockdown And I have not seen Dottore You for 7+ weeks though I do get many telephone calls from him, videos and even selfies in his Coronavirus protection gear I call the dog back off Mother Nature and we hop back into the SUV and drive back home to change the water and for me to pour myself a tall glass of white wine I sit up with the dog on the loggia admiring the golden light of late afternoon streaming across the hilly landscape of Codiponte and over our aia mulling over what’s for dinner And I have to say there have been some culinary masterpieces of late I made a delicious risotto with dead lettuce…. lots of dead lettuce I had over-bought during my once-a-week foray to the D’Oro supermarket in Pallerone which is outside my legal confines… and some dead spinach too, sauteeing them with pancetta in a large frying pan I opened a can of sgombero grigliata… smoked mackerel dumping the pieces in with the arborio rice, white wine and borth 20 minutes later I sat down on the sofa upstairs had enjoyed a tasty feast Normally on Mondays I do something to last a few days This week I made a tomato sauce for pasta open face sandwiches on that terrifically good whole wheat bread with pecorino on top and put the slices into the broiler to brown the pecorino to a golden crust One night I steamed zucchini & carrots and let them sit in the refrigerator for a half an hour and then tossed in salmon strips and olive oil to make a salad This is an attempt to eat more veggies than foraging stuff to put on that terrifically good whole wheat bread I have gorged myself on for the last seven weeks of myself and government induced quarantine Once dinner is over with I try to find something to entertaining to watch on Netflix but there never is So I end up watching for the umpteenth time The Crown Sense and Sensibility or The King’s Speech The other offerings are too violent too psychotic too mean or too stupid or demeaning Stuff for american tastes And because I watched a South Korean TV show 3/4’s of what the recalcitrant Netflix feels I now should enjoy for an evening’s Feature Presentation are other South Korean TV shows Disappointed and/or exhausted I go to bed with my book and fall asleep in mid-paragraph to a slumber of lockdown nightmares… about the Future. Day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day.
Day 32 Lockdown Codiponte...
Officially, a day over a month of Lockdown. Day 56 for me. Just saying. Read on to perceive my mood…
Weather continues to be sunny, warm… overly dry, damn-it and causing me to water the garden here at il Poggiolo every darn day of Lockdown… and breezy. But, HELL, it IS Spring! And yet, there is this lovely soft, fragrant scent to the air at dusk. Like it’s been sunny, warm… overly dry… and breezy. So much for the current forecast.
I don’t really have much to say. Oh, yes…
one thing is the silence we are all experiencing here in our back-of-beyond posting. I hear only the breeze and birds chirping. There are moments when I hear NOTHING! What a luxury. Occasionally however, and usually right before la pausa pranzo, music from a loud-speaker comes around the corner of il Poggiolo blasting from one of the houses down in the Codiponte Flood Plain. I know who too. A young man with the intelligence and tendencies of a 3 year old is the responsible person. Or, so I was told by a neighbor I had spotted her working with her chickens. We kept about 12 feet apart. I was without a mask and so was she. No gloves for either of us too. Thus, the overly cautious Social Distance. I got what little news was about. In fact, the disturbing-our-silence music was the only bit the neighbor could offer me. It’s tough. Kind of enforces one’s sense of loneliness and isolation. No truck or car traffic from the SR 445, no noises of people talking at/over the din of their machinery working the land or, no airplane traffic overhead. I can provide a screen shot taken from flightradar24.com just 3 seconds ago. Please note: in the left hand photo, the blue dot marks My Spot in Codiponte, Lunigiana, Tuscany and look! No airplanes, and…
in the left-hand photo is Dottore You at his command post in hospital and sporting his Coronavirus protective gear. This modest selfie ought to satisfy any curiosity of what an Italian doctor looks like who is battling in prima linea this COVID-19 with his very own gloved doctor’s hands and other…? Other…? Other doctor’s defences. And yes, yes, a thousand times, yes, we all know his interior mask ought to also cover his nose. However, he had just gotten off the telephone before this photo-op. One which made me very, very nervous… no, sorry, EXTREMELY NERVOUS, WORRIED, AND UPSET although I have know this Truth for the last 56 days. That expressed and explained, try this… pinch your nose while talking and see if anyone will understand you.
I am going to sign off for now. I seem to be on a Lockdown rhythm of one Day Yes! and the next a Day No! Guess which one I am having today?