A gardener's hands...
I do not biter my nails… anymore.
My hands are ruined. A yearly event. The culprit? Spring yard work at il Poggiolo. And, my consistent refusal to wear gloves. What can I say? I like the feel of Mother Earth and its fauna. However, the consequences are lacerations from shards of glass from a long chucked beer bottle back when il Poggiolo…. abandoned for years… was a stealth receptacle for the Citizens of Codiponte to vent their anger against the former owner, a woman from the town above Codiponte, who had inherited il Poggiolo AND HAD NEVER SET FOOT IN THE PLACE!!!, sharp edged rocks because they have nothing else better to do, iron wires left to rot just under the surface… What? left to enrich the soil?… shavings from terracotta roof tiles, which are more deadly than the glass, and other fun stuff: syringes, metal bands, wood stakes. Oh! And let me also direct blame towards the local water… what little we have going since, there has not been any Spring Rains of note. Water in the Italy, in general, and locally, in the Lunigiana, is quite hard. I have delicate Anglo-Saxon skin. A fluke of My Birth. The liquid is full of chalk. Acid chalk. Coupled with the hard water are the super, extra-concentrated and nearly gel-like detersives in the giant family-sized plastic containers. Chemical Warfare. My skin is raped of its natural oils and moisture. A Modern Day concept of cleanliness? My hand’s skin is dried to the point that bits of skin try to flee the scene of the bio-crime. Naturally, I cannot resist the temptation to chew at a finger or thumb too of some itzy-bitzy piece of skin or, two, unhinged by the above circumstances which, only makes matters worse. Would you like photo-documentation? Take a gander at the above photo.
None of the above explains in visual terms the cramps and soreness of holding pruning shears during warm afternoons of what I most enjoy to do in the realm of yard work: pruning. Raking does come in as a close Second. Both rival each other in the Satisfaction Dept. Quickly identifiable results. And too, I find the twangy noise of a rake gathering dead leaves and twigs and my Kleenex’s fallen out of my trouser pocket into transportable piles extremely meditative. Or, the start of a Country & Western tune, if I were so musically clever to dream one up. Pruning has more abrupt sensations. A brief cracking. Ecco! As the recalcitrant limb falls to Earth.
You is horrified by this off-with-their-limbs tendency of mine. I think he actually enjoys berating… criticising… condemning!!! me right after one of his Giardino Tours of Inspection. I dislike this sense of superiority…. or, do I mean his Democracy in possibly defending the Innocent?… towards what I am forced to do with il Poggiolo’s Plant Life. It’s not him at 5’ 4” whose head gets severely gouged by a low hanging olive branch. So much for Peace. And is there not A Gardening Rule on the books, which states trees and bushes and things actually appreciated having their Dead Stuff hacked off? Though, as for the live manifestations of Mother Nature, it might be prudent to leave well enough alone. Let things grow. Go sip a cappuccino or, enjoy a chilly white wine. Our Future is so uncertain now. But what happens when letting things grows means loosing a precious view or, provoking too much shade for the other members of the near-by Plant Life, ie our grassy terraces… to flourish too? Once, however, You did not maintain his Cool, while I whacked off the tops of a high… a very high… hedge planted to protect the interior of il Poggiolo exposed to the harsh Garfagnana Winter Winds on the Eastern side of the house. It was killing the grass below. On another point, that hedge… or, any hedge, for that matter…might reach such a height that any thought of lowering it would be eliminated just by the obvious logistical concerns, ie climbing a wobbly ladder too low to reach its tips. You screamed and he hollered, and then, he promptly left in a clipped huff and went back to Genoa. I continued until completion of my task at hand assisted by our ever true Weimaraner, Croesus. I trimmed and he watched and sunbathes. Took 36 hours before You called me. C’est la vie. Shave and a hair-cut, two bits! But my hands! After a day’s efforts in Pruning… or, Other, I could barely hold a fork to eat the post yard work and one of my Most Favourite Feel Good Meals of bastoncini di pesce e patate al forno. Buon Appetito!
A Saturday of sunshine...
The last Thursday of March, it was overcast and cold. A grey day which later supplied an annoyingly weak form of spray for all of about 37 seconds, ON & OFF. If we have to do without sunshine, at least, couldn’t Climate Change give us abundant rainfall? Our garden needs a long drink of H2O. As for the last Friday in March, there were morning clouds opening up to a breezy afternoon of filtered sunshine. Still fairly cold. We stayed inside by the fire. The nine foot sofa can just about hold two dogs and two guys. On the First Saturday of April… NO JOKES, please… it was nearly 80F degrees. Fine frying weather. You-know-who, our two Weimaraners, Croesus and newly adopted, Anthea, and me, got to work on our respective tans. While graced by the Sun, we did what God had intended us to do on a Saturday afternoon: reading for us two-legged creatures and incessant barking at alien neighbours and UFO noises by the four-legged ones, our own in-house Protection Squadron.
Humans normally go slowly from white to tan, hopefully with protection 50 slapped on to forestall the risk of a sunburn. However, You goes from already black to way much more blacker, even with Protection 50 abundantly applied. It’s why he always gets sequestered by TSA when arriving in the US of A. You’s operandus primarius is his abbronzatura… or, his sun-tan. The consequence of being an eye doctor sequestered in darkened rooms with folk who have glaucoma or, other eye-sight issues. The dogs haphazardly evolve their hides into an ever paler version of their inimitable taupe chic. As for me, I just burn & freckle. Ahhh, the joys of being an Anglo-Saxon in Sunny Italy. Wish I could roll around on warm stone and rise up beautiful. Not to be. And, sadly, too much wine.
There is no better place to pass a hot, sunny, and blessedly quiet Saturday than out on our aia. Google Translate tells me that the three-letter Italian word aia means barnyard. Not any more. What with a wrought-iron pergola and draped grape vines, a terracotta topped table & chairs, an iron chaise with more cushions than even a Pasha could want, plus six Baroque-y cement vases at every quadrant, all when the warmer Seasons are about. Like having another room in your home. And the largest one too. The aia is il Poggiolo’s Summer HQ for our daily life: dogs sleeping it off in the mornings, pasta lunch under the shade of the pergola to buffets of assorted salumi e formaggi e vino d’ogni colore for early evening aperitivi and on to dinner parties lasting past Midnight. Then to bed elsewhere in the complex. There are nine of them.
But back to Saturday’s idle… You propped his 5 foot 8 inch frame on the latest flea-market acquisition of a shoddy white adjustable cabana lounger… circa 1970’s. He aimed it directly at the Good Ol’ Sole to read his paperback book. You is a voracious reader. I fear he knocks-off three books in a week to my half of one or, perhaps, more likely, one quarter of one. Sometimes, feeling lonesome or overlooked to You’s preference for the Sun, I attempt to strike up a literary conversation during what I have since realised is tacitly construed by You to be A NO TALKING SUNBATHING PERIOD, by enthusiastically asking what he is reading. I get a garbled reply of some title in Italian…
A word about translations between Italian and English book & movie titles. The translations are hardly literally matched. The difference can strike one as being an invention or, a disclaimer. For instance, Joseph Heller’s book, Catch-22 is translated as Paragraph 22 in the Italian. Does paragraph imply an impossible situation in Italian? Might be. Ever see how an Italian law i s written. Catch-22.
I opt for an immediate closing with one quick question: whether he’s enjoying the read? N’er a grumbled response can hide a definitive, No! The poor record. Few Yesses given.
I instead nestle my ample Scottish backside into a rattan wonder-chair…. wonder, because it has wonderfully survived so many cold & muggy Winters in the cantina and not shattered into nothingness… to read a well written and fluid biography of George Washington obliquely positioned to the Sun’s rays. I can use my good right eye to read and shield myself with the book, out of shot of the sunlight. My late breaking Read List of arduous non-fiction tales have lately ended up by Page 37 to be only vanity products, entailing years of paying for massive research, bought-for literary consultancies under the call for organisational H-e-l-p!!! and publisher’s theoretical editing for the likes of Dame Antonia Fraser or, that megalomaniac journalist-media-entrepreneur-person, Arianna Huffington. These gals and others apparently couch the need to make a splash by scribbling away upon ever frigging tidbit of their biographee’s life & limb. Means my arms wear-out holding a 608+ page tome against the Sun, risking a black eye or, a bruised cheek, in the process. I do not want to know what the person ate for breakfast or, what occurred in the vicinity of their birthplace two-hundred years before. Though ranting, I did learn that President Washington had constant problems with his dentures. But that was it. What I do want to learn and savour, possibly, is for someone to distill ALL THE INFO into a viable and entertaining and illuminating description of who the person was. The Best Bio to date has been a two-hundred & fifty-eight page biography on Sir Winston Churchill. It rocked and I was given a great idea about the gentleman to carry with me for the rest of my life. Thank you.
And, because I am a superior Mommy to our Adored Canines, both insist with various motions of body language… stray looks of turned head and energetic tail wagging… that the only acceptable spot for their mattresses is to be laid nearly on top of my person. And, if not, then right next door, say, at my feet. It’s called worship.
The afternoon passed with n’er a sound of motorcycles barrelling up the SR 445 towards the Carpanelli Pass and the Grafagnana beyond nor, hikers trooping past our back exit to take in the derelict Castello di Codiponte above & behind us, and other disturbances. No. Only Anthea on the alert for Neighbour Aliens and Noisy UFO’s. Disappointingly, Croesus, now has learned to follow suit. The World does not require two Weimaraners barking up a storm. Poor Neighbours. Both women came out to tend to the laundry flapping in the easy breeze only to be audibly assaulted by first a 23 kilo Weimaraner outraged by their appearance in her presence and secondly by another weighing in at 36 kilos. C’est la vie. The current tactic in our household, however, is to approve whole-heartedly Anthea’s barking, bathing her in warm approbations of… Good Girl… It’s all right… You’re so Brave, so Fierce, so True… if only a certain person would aligned himself with The Program. Most of the time she stops and comes for a back scratch. If not, then, as the Anointed Mommy, I have to yell… at full volume… BASTA!!! Shuts her right up. Back scratch? Doggie cookie? A lay-down on a mattress? Anthea choses all three.
A couple of us sought shade. Not You. The man stuck it out until nearly 6:00PM. I eventually repaired to La Casetta to begin preparations for our Saturday Night Dinner. You is so lucky to have me as his Chief Cook & Bottle Washer. Besides, the Sun seemed to be permanently stuck at 4:00PM over yonder chestnut tree decked hills. Felt I had already gotten sun-burned. This would not have been the case, if it were not for Le Ore Legali…. or, Daylight Savings Time… recently instituted last weekend. Not a fan. I see NO REASON to ruin a lovely & bright Spring Morning to instead have DARKNESS at 7:00AM, and then, to be subjected to the terrorism of ENDLESS LIGHT past 8:30PM and soon to be way beyond that hour. But, enough, our Happy day of Saturday Sunshine turned into a Happy Saturday Evening with steaming bowl of pumpkin & potato soup and toasted pieces of brown bread perched on our laps before a fire. The dogs previously fed snore on the sofa between us. I love this time of year.
Mystery all'italiana...
A bit of a hiatus from posting regularly at Italian House Blog. Sorry. Let’s blame it on Lockdown. Easy enough. But, oh! Not actually doing Lockdown but, Lockdown as an unavoidable topic of daily conversation, news, written discourse, whatsapp cartoons anf funny videos, self-inflicted thought vortices from the isolation chamber of our lives these days. Just couldn’t bear it any more. Took a break. But, I am back…
I have lived in Italy for over half my life. I’ve chocked-up a lot of experiences. A few left lasting impressions. Many are the consequences, and, today, one is that I look at Italy as a place full of mystery. Mysteries. Mostly on religious grounds and anchored, if that is the right verb, to the Madonna. Disparate sightings even here in Codiponte. Otherwise, statues bleeding, trees along country roads crying real tears, other tears on statuettes in chapel alcoves. Still, the Madonna was a woman, wife, mother and then, lastly, a saint. Yeah, yeah, so her kid was the Messiah. Some Italian women think their sons are the Messiah. And the sons in turn think their mothers are Madonna’s. Equality is, apparently, an attribute of the Catholic religion. While the sons decide to toe the line or not, the mothers… of any nationality!!!… hoping for the former from their off-spring, are responsible for a worrying mystery: their destructive relationship with vacuum cleaners. It is a speciality of our five cleaning ladies… all of them, Catholic. Only to say. And then, there’s You’s mother…
The mother killed my Miele vacuum cleaner when she used it to clean up the mess of a family Christmas pranzo. I was co-habitating with You and his mother for a short while and I brought along some Essential Items, ie. my Miele vacuum cleaner. The Best! All it took was for the mother to run over a grotesque accumulation of walnuts and pistachios shells and other junk on the carpet of the Sala da Pranzo for the poor mechanical beast to gag and expire. 10 days later, the fine folk at the Miele Repair Station, located in the mountainous hinterlands outside Genoa, entrusted me with a revitalised vacuum cleaner and a strong recommendation to keep it away from You’s mother.
I… we… did but, it then fell into the destructive hands of our First Cleaning Lady. She came on board when You & I moved into our first apartment we had bought together in Genoa. The Cleaning Lady #1 managed to kill the Miele out-right. Never understood the circumstances. Neither of us shared Italian as a common mother language and You wasn’t around. So, a mystery. The repair Signori’s faces demonstrated shock & dismay at such an unfortunate event. Augurs ill with the Italians… men. The machine was left with the Signori for its parts.
You & I went to a sooper-dooper appliance store just this side of the Genoese mountainous hinterlands and bought a brand new fancy Dyson vacuum cleaner. Just out on the market in Italy. Cost a bloody fortune. Our Second Cleaning Lady…. the first found an easier job caring for an elderly gentleman. Walks twice-a-day, plus two hot meals and lots of TV… and, she didn’t like Our Puppy!!!… took her chores with a rapt endeavour to clean and arrange our apartment to perfection. Motto being No More Dirt, No More Grime , just Spic ‘n Span.
One fine day, she took it upon herself to fare una pulitina to the apartment’s terrace overlooking the city of Genoa as it rises from the Mediterranean Sea up towards? Mountainous hinterlands, of course. The Cleaning Lady #2 rested the main body of the Dyson up and onto 2 oleanders in large terracotta vases set in an iron trough for such things and anchored to the railing running around the terrace, while directing the nozzle at the dirt & grime she spied behind tubes next to said plants. Pulling at the nozzle, the machine said Adio! to the oleanders, leapt off its perch and fell 9 floors to a fragmented… totally pulverised… Death along the rail line of the funicular below. This, I surmised, were the circumstances for the vacuum cleaner Volare! Oh, Oh! from a mixture of Spanish & Italian of the Cleaning Lady #2… because neither she nor I shared Italian as a mother language… again. Why everyone thinks Spanish is so similar to Italian is another mystery to me. Nothing is the same and especially the verbs. Babble only.
The Cleaning Lady #2 was understandably upset… mortified. She feared loosing her job. She asked and I gave her a short whisky and sought to calm her anxieties about any doubts regarding to a secure employment with us. Machines can be replaced. A good cleaning lady cannot. And she was a good cleaning lady. Perhaps a bit too rigorous but, a good cleaning lady. She also adored our Weimaraner Puppy. And he adored her too. The Cleaning Lady #2 promised to avoid any more gymnastics. Discovered later she resorted to using a broom… mostly. The Dog was afraid of the vacuum cleaner and she respected his fear. Too much ruckus and he could never get the hang of where the thing was going. He’d bolt for the safety of il suo posto underneath my computer. But, she liked his company. Followed her wherever she went. How she got rid of the Weimaraner hair-loss yet another mystery. Three years later, she divorced her creepy first husband… a Ray Liotta type as in that gangster movie but, definitely not as cute… became an Italian citizen and, I guess to celebrate, fell in love with a real nice Italian man, whom we met and liked, from Parma and moved away. to be with him. We stay in touch via Instagram.
Cleaning Lady #3 dropped the second Dyson down stairs, injuring its plastic but it still sucked up Weimaraner hair. Another who preferred a broom. Maybe. Not sure. A couple of years later, she moved back home to Nicaragua to nurse her aged mother & father. She kept odd working hours despite our encouragement to come either in the morning after 9AM or after 2PM in the afternoon. Not at 8PM at night!!!
Cleaning Lady #4 let the Dyson choke to death because, she was afraid to actually touch the thing. EXCEPT to pull the cord out… which later she literally did rip out completely… and to turn it ON. A hint for all of you and it would apply to any type of vacuum cleaner: if you want to suffocate the contraption until it’s lifeless, DON’T EVER EMPTY ITS CONTAINER. Guaranteed method. Works every time.
You & I bought a third Dyson. Latest model. Lot of plastic. Lighter. Cost rivalled the GNP of… Sierra Leone… perhaps, Ghana AND Togo too. You asked me to conduct an obligatory training class with our new Cleaning Lady, #4, on the proper care and use of the new Dyson. She is still in our employ. And the machine works though is showing the effects of its work-a-day life. Cleaning Lady #4 likes to slam her foot on the Big Red Button to turn it ON or OFF and let drop to the Travertine floor, come-what-may, the nozzle, every time her mobile phone rings. Children needing their mother. Requires more instruction but I am not in Genoa. Figurati se You facesse gli istruzioni!!!
Meanwhile, here at il Poggiolo, we have Cleaning Lady #5. We had two Dysons for il Poggiolo. One for below nella Casetta and another upstairs for l’Appartamento Azzuro. One or the other was used to vacuum la Casa Grande in the middle. These two Dysons were sadly on their last suck. Country Cleaning can be a tough go. Dog hair, ashes, Mother Earth in all her variations!!! The oldest… a model from 2009 died inconveniently in the throws of performing its duty as I vacuumed the sisal carpets in the Stanza dei Tini. No funeral or memorial service. The carcass was left in the company of an odd-lot of rejects at the trash containers area in the parking lot above il Poggiolo. Someone had thrown an even older PC out… a cathode monitor large enough to require its own room, a basket with a ruined handle, which I half thought of stealing… You has trained me to spot worthy trash for larceny… and some antiquated gas containers. Those, no thank you. The other Dyson inhales filth pretty well but, its plastic structure has seen better days. It has been put out to rest until an emergency requires its Dyson perfected suction action. Like no other.
I went to the local sooper-dooper appliance store in La Spezia and bought 3 well-priced Hoovers. I did so on the recommendation of an English friend, who swears by hers. The price of the simplest Dyson would’ve dented Brazil’s GNP but, alas, they were out-of-stock. Very disappointed with the Hoovers, I must say. Cannot handle Weimaraner hairs or fireplace ashes. I wanted another Dyson.
You loves Lidl, this German discount grocery chain. He insisted on one rainy Saturday that we go there to do his grocery shopping for the week in Genoa. Brand new, slanted roof, lofty ceilings warehouse of a grocery store. Contemporary German Architecture. Spiffy, clean, orderly. Takes time to recognise what you need or want looking a decapitated card-board boxes. Eventually, you get hang of it. The real reason You loves the store so much is there are two isles dedicated to stuff. Sorry. Stuff. And, at the end of one but, what did I find. A Dyson stick vacuum cleaner!!! And at half the price of those at the sooper-dooper appliance store. Bought one and proudly took it home to il Poggiolo.
Our sweet and hard-working Cleaning Lady # 5 came last week to put back to rights la Casetta, My Winter HQ with the Dog. Takes no time at all for the Weimaraner to shed his pelt creating the most luxuriously grand hair balls… under my bed, on the stairs, in the bathroom!!! Then, his croquettes end up lodged in the strangest locations or, Option B, all over the Kitchen’s floor. Dog refuses to eat anything outside his doggie dish.
She was so happy to see the Dyson over the Hoovers. I left her to do her thing. She called me to say she had killed the Dyson. What? Si, non va. Did you re-charge it. Si, ma niente. OK. Non preoccuparti. Got home later to find the lid to the dust container wasn’t fully closed so, the machine would not go. Easily resolved. Cleaning Lady #5 was relieved to hear the Dyson worked when I called her with the Good News.
But why all these troubles with vacuum cleaners? Cleaning Ladies #’s 1 to 5 do not kill dish or clothes washers. They can turn ON & OFF lights without short-circuiting the house. They flush toilets, and yet, there are no floods, Thank God!!! Just vacuum cleaners. Are they afraid of the noise? Or sucking up something never to be found again? They miss the quiet contemplation of a good sweep? A sentiment I share, by the way. They dislike being pursued by the very thing they are dragging around or, is it that they do not want to be entrapped by the long cord? No idea. A mystery.
Dyson stick vacuum cleaner.
Sainted weather...
The topics in Codiponte these days are two: Covid Lockdown or, the weather. Let’s talk about the weather. I haven’t belly-ached about it for a while…
it’s been raining for the last two months! The story…
You calls me about 10 times a day. A mainstay of our shared Lockdown since last February. The first call is usually around 8:30AM. I have already had one caffe’ and am working on a second when the iPhone squeals the arrival of his call. They are a forum for him to ask… Che tempo che fa… literally, What’s the weather?… but, in another sense of the Italian, it’s really to ask… What’s up? Well, more than a month ago… on December 2, 2020, to exact… You called at Our Anointed Morning Hour and I took his query as an opportunity to complain about the weather…
Pretty darn shitty, You. Cold and grey. IT’S RAINING!!! And, there’s a new Moon tonight too. Means we have to put up with this crappy weather for the next month, thanks to the phases stuff.
Va’ be’… buckle your belt… said You… because, besides la luna nuova, it’s also the onomastico for Saint Bibiana. The saint’s name day. You’ve got rain coming for the next 40 days.
What? Saints get an extension to the month-long climate change?
Go to go.
And, lo’ and behold, our weather has obeyed the saintly order of things. The January weather forecast is for continued rain to reach the 40 days!!!
Lately, we’ve enjoyed a rhythm of 6 days of cold, grey, rain, wind and 1 of semi-sunshine. Ephemeral is our Signor Sole. Covid-19 has taken a back seat along with Donald Trump, Brexit, the recent Christmas holidays. People are going nuts about the wet.
Who is Saint Bibiana? A virgin and martyr, of course. Wikipedia states 2 legends. One is soft-core suffering and the 2nd is XXL suffering to martyrdom. Let’s focus on the later. Bibiana was the daughter of a Roman Empire functionary, Flavianus, who unfortunately irritated his emperor by being a devout Christian. The emperor wanted to rid Rome of the scourge of Christianity, and so named one, Apronianus, as governor of the Eternal city, entrusted with the mandate to bring a hasty end to any Christian when and where found. Flavianus was discovered, tortured and banished. Bibiana’s mother, Dafrosa, was beheaded… which seems a bit unfair… while Bibiana and her sister, Demetria, were relegated to a life of poverty under house arrest. The two fasted and prayed. What else could they do? It didn’t end there. Apronianus was so appalled the two women could survived his punishment, he had the two women brought before him. Demetria confessed her Christian faith and promptly died at the governor’s sandalled feet. Saved herself a lot of trouble and pain, which fell upon Bibiana. She was turned over to a wicked-woman, who tried to seduce the poor virgin. Rejected, the vile female beat poor Bibiana yet, she steadfastly remained true to her faith, like her sister. Apronianus, furious, took the matter in his own hands and had the poor virgin dragged and tied to a pillar and viciously beaten until death. Bibiana’s body was then tossed to wild animals who refuse to touch it. Years later, Pope Semplicius conferred upon her a holy martyrdom. And, the martyr’s former house was consecrated as a church dedicated to her and her martyrdom. And, for all those sufferings, we are now paying penance with rain, rain, and more rain. Snow for tomorrow afternoon. Naturally. We’re in January.
Mid-life home crisis...
It’s a question.
It is not what you think…
11 years at il Poggiolo. And, in the last 5 months, You & I have built-in 2 fireboxes in la Casa Grande and painted the Salotto and the Sala da Pranzo in Our Signature Blue-blue-blue paint colour. Also, we’ve tag-team-ed to re-waxe every blooming terracotta paver from down at la Casetta to the farthest reaches of la Casa Grande. Farthest reaches? I am referring to the Laundry cum Bathroom. The mould build-up, which does need to be addressed but, not until after Covid-19 takes a hike and departs… forever… does lend a mild air of Black Hole of Calcutta. Often, party guests ask if there’s a more normal bathroom to use… somewhere else. Bet it’s the slatted double-doors. They scare everyone… including the Dog. Their procedure is not clearly evident to My Adored Canine. Nor do we have anything similar around. People these days hate any infringement upon their privacy. I’m really just joking. The black mould is only around the base of the shower platform. I occasionally take an old toothbrush to scour it out. And no, I will not post a photo to prove it. Just trust me.
What else?
I have single-handedly spiffed up the pergola… a major enterprise with il Poggiolo’s decorative infrastructure and done with the same amount of toil & trouble committed to our garden & loggia furniture. Killed some wood-worms too. The beasties were housed in a few of the wood slats of our favoured Loggia chairs.. Died a stinging Death with the anti-rust treatments and paint. The big wood-worm job will be to do the 220 year old tini… wine vats… suffering from the on-going onslaught of our bros, more of the local wood-worms. They are not particularly clever creatures. They leave identifiable piles of their masticated bio-waste on the concrete floor below the tini in the passageway between the great outdoors on the aia and the Laundry cum Bathroom inside. Might be the piles which discourages guests to risk the trip to use the toilet, do you suppose?
What’ really going on?
I think the above chores are actually a decennial re-evaluation of il Poggiolo. Ongoing. And year late too. Well, maybe not. Last year I spent a whopping amount of Euros having new windows and doors made for l’Appartamento Azzurro and la cucina in la Casa Grande. So whopping because, the firm, which was entrusted to do the work, told me after the done-deed about some extra and very necessary items not included in the original estimate. Really? How much? That much? BOING!!! I had to scurry to a Higher Authority… Our Esteemed Geomatra… to mediate. You was livid. Nearly choked on a pasta spitting out his indignation of the newly requested Additional Funds.. Per fortuna… Our Esteemed Geometra negotiated a more acceptable arrangement.
I do think Covid-19 might be to blame for this year’s re-evaluation and subsequent changes to il Poggiolo’s decorative infrastructure. I have spent so much time at il Poggiolo, it has become Our True Home. This, mentioned in a previous blog post. Work as a concierge/travel planner or house hunter has dried up. The new Lockdown Lite keeps me nailed to Codiponte…. obviously. So, My Only Job is to keep after il Poggiolo… garden & house together. Apparently, this crisis, so to speak, is catching. You’s caught the fever. Showed up at our Loggia with gifts from his 10 day R&R in Sardinia canvasing flea-markets, fairs and antiques shops, when not sunbathing on a beach… in late-October!!! Those Sardinians can sure can liquidate the stuff. Silk & wool area rug for Euro 130. Others smaller for Euro 5 or 10. Richard Ginori porcelain services for Euro 50… or, for less!!! He spent last weekend… our last weekend together before the Italian Government’s new Lockdown Hard sent one of us back to his respective corner in Genoa and his work in hospital in Savona, a den of Covid-19, on Sunday… finding spots, locations, places for all of it. I sat wearing my wooly slippers in a poltrona sipping a chilly white wine and admiring the fire in Our Home. Cin-cin to crises.
Chores this Fall 2020...
It’s Fall now…
days are getting noticeably shorter. Sunrise & sunset are now more like it ought to be. I am not a fan of Springing forward and Falling back. Let’s just stay put with Time as Time wants to be. Before those time-change gymnastics… near to Halloween… mornings were dull & dark and evenings were brighter later. I want to eat, but cannot do supper when the sun is shinning with full force. Imagine what hour we eat in June. You loves the late hour. Italians. No breakfast and dinner at bed-time. I HATE it. Hungry at 6PM, on the dot and in the dark. Now, at 7AM it’s light and at 5PM it’s dark. Good. The Cocktail Hour. Supper’s on the table at 6pm.
A bad patch of days and days and days of heavy do-nothing clouds… the time spent with this grim scenario was equal to that spent with anxiety-attacks anticipating an acceptable outcome with the American Election on the 3rd of November… the nights are now cold and the days are sunny & warm.
Trees’ leaves have turned about as much as they ever will, and though not rivalling the Fall Colour in the US & Canada, there is still great beauty to Italy’s show. Softer, subtler, a more intriguing beauty. And so it goes.
But, let’s go back to that bad patch…
nothing could be done with the garden at il Poggiolo. The grey, misty weather brought a sodden, muggy mess. And occurred when the days’ length warranted warm & sunny afternoons to work in the garden. Now, the terraces hardly see the sun but for a couple of hours, from 2PM until the sun slips gently behind the chestnut grove covered hills to the West of Codiponte at 4:30PM. Grass is too wet to cut, leaves are too wet to rake AND/OR blow and, transplanting roses and other flora may have to be put off until Spring. About all I can do is amble around il Poggiolo’s mushy garden delicately watching out wherefore I tread, so as not to disturb The Croesus-person’s well-laid and abundant bio-donations, coupled with the risk of bringing along some unwanted trace thereof.
In the interim, I had to retreat to the cover of the Loggia to scrape, sand, treat for rust… and paint, for cryin’ out loud, various ornaments of our aia…. or, courtyard… and garden. Chairs, tables, benches. An exception was the 19th Century pergola in dire need of first-aid. We have been lax with up-keep, a noted Italian Tradition. I administered a stop-rust, an anti-rust, and then, painted it in our delightful Signature Outdoor Pale Green, on the few days the misty rain withheld its visit. And, I now know why re-painted outdoor furniture, railings, pergolas and stuff always look so lumpy. Tons of anti-rust cures underneath the last layers of paint. Much like You looks with his multi-layers of clothing against any suspected cold of Fall. A sever chill is due in at the end of the week. I feel a Plant Moving Day coming upon me in the next 48 hours. All which remains are to treat & paint four garden chairs… one of the photos below… and two benches off a ferry boat, both bought at a mega-antiques fair in Parma. Then, I am going to have to deal with the garden. So, mush I will!
Right before the Italian Government put Italy into a colour-coded Lockdown, You and a niece’s boy-friend… sporting Little Lord Fauntleroy long hair… erected a balustrade with pieces from the villa in Genova which used to belong to You’s family before WWII. Pretty, no? Heavy, for sure. Unfortunately not permanently fixed. I sent an iPhone picture to Our Builder to entice him into giving us a date to come and put secure the marble villa compilation and other chores needing his attention. No such luck. He did reply admiring You’s hutzpah of impatience. He can skip a meal, if he must but when it comes to stuff, he’s right on it.
Ma il cielo e’ sempre piu’ blu...
A friend in Genoa sent me a message the other day remarking… Brutto momento in questi giorni… An ugly moment in these days. A typical Italian comment and one obviously directed at our country’s return to Lockdown, a soft-core one decreed last Sunday night by the Italian PM Conte…
No one likes the word Lockdown. The PM tried to avoid its use in his announcement. .Many in government & business are worried by the economic situation in Italy provoked by last Spring’s Covid Lockdown. None like the word pandemic either. Might be exhaustion. Apparently, the powers-that-be do love the word crisis. One word I rarely hear is jobs, unless it is about their disappearance. Just the word economy. Bandied about by the G & B worriers. I was wondering… does economy pay a family’s bills? Put food on their table? When there are no jobs? Economy only produces anxiety. Nothing practical about that. I digress…
I say typical comment because, the Italians say the same when the forecast calls for a week of rain. And, we have had more than a week of it. Oh, well, back to Covid…
In the arc of 6 weeks, Italy has gone from a daily average of 150 new Covid cases to yesterday’s astounding 27,000., less 169. Predictions are for 30,000+ by the end of the weekend. The graph line is supposed to continue to climb. May call for a re-think on the above words no one likes.
I am upset by this news but, I am alos not upset or, especially surprised. Dottore You has repeatedly stated, and from last March, that loosening the Rules & Regulations of movement & activities del popolo coupled with the traditional Fall/Winter Flu Season would create notable to frightening spikes with Covid-19 cases by October. Eccoci… 26.831 on October 28, 2020. As many know from the News & Internet, these massive increases of new cases are duplicated in the rest of Europe and the World. And, the US is the winner of the Covid-19 Do-do Award: number of new cases, deaths, and Intensive Care patients, etc. Congratulations? You reap what you sow. Whereas our Good News in Italy is the number of deaths and cases requiring Intensive Care in hospital are low. Way low. Early detection? Might be. The numbers for Covid tests are now running well over a 100,000 a day and increasing. Good deal. It’s not all un brutto momento. Well, then…
Codiponte is now no longer untouched by Covid-19. Unfortunately, a worse case scenario on several fronts. The worst being the prejudice against Muslims in my adopted country. A Muslim family from Viareggio moved into a rental house right on the Codiponte’s piazzetta. The natives became restless to the point of alarm and asked… Why did they move in a pandemic and to of all places, Codiponte? The authorities were called. Officials showed up with the Carabinieri and Public Health staff decked out in the medical coveralls, masks, helmets, gloves and notepads. They discovered 2 of the family of 6 tested positive for Covid-19. Immediate quarantine. The natives are now restless to the point of hysterics. No one walks about anymore and particularly across the piazzetta. They drive.
And, the Lunigiana is now too a Covid hot spot. Tabaccherie, bars & stores, which sell giornali… or, newspapers… tack-up pre-printed posters outside with the day’s headlines to catch your attention as you zip by in your car. Me, sporting a mask and housed in my beat-up SUV with a crazed Weimaraner on the back bench huffing & puffing to Run Wild, Run Free in the surrounding wildernesses ASAP…
23 casi nuovi ad Aulla… Fivizzano Hot Spot… Lunigiana assalta dal Covid… and so & so forth.
My dear German friend cruises the ASL website…. the Italian health service… to check the latest Covid statistics in Tuscany. FYI…
Codiponte is a village in the Lunigiana, which is a contiguous area within the Province of Massa-Carrara, which is in the Italian region of Tuscany.
The Tuscan stats are not encouraging at all. Suddenly, the pandemic fells like it is on top of us. Better not to look? I think so…
I have been in Lockdown, only slightly modified since Lockdown Liberation Day last June 3rd. At You’s insistence. He’s still getting regular Health & Interior Ministries Covid updates. They are not what il popolo italiano vuole sentire. Bad news. Thus, I am back to Full-tilt Lockdown.
Unexpectedly, and though I could not find anything worthwhile on Netflix to watch back in March to June Lockdown, I am happy to report or, possibly, more like embarrassed to admit, I have found a few things to enjoy on the channel. Nothing cruel, mean, scary, gory or plain d-d-dumb. The bill-of-faire? I especially liked The Fundamentals Of Caring, an independent flick with some terrific actors… Paul Rudd, who is still cute and his face has lost its baby-fat, the famous Jennifer Ehle for her Elizabeth in the BBC’s Pride & Prejudice of nearly a century ago… 1995… another English actor, Craig Roberts, and the formidable Selena Gomez, who had the best part, lines AND delivery in the movie. She was fantastic. I was so impressed. Made me laugh a lot too. Story…. must be a phase we’re in that nothing is truly interesting to the Viewing Public unless traumatic baggage are brought along to give Rhyme and/or Reason to the tale… Paul’s character lost a child in an accident, spinning him off towards divorce and job loss. He takes a course in Caring and ends up knocking on the front door of the mom played by Jennifer Ehle, and her wheelchair condemned son, Trevor, played by Craig Roberts. Dead pan humour aiding & abetting a road trip to confront Life’s pain…. Start the car. We’re going to the fucking pit! Good Flick. Highly recommend it.
Another was A Suitable Boy taken from a 1,500 page tome… Really? 1,500 pages?… written by the Indian/English writer/poet, Vibram Seth. Ever hear of The Golden Gate? Fewer pages. It’s a novel in poetic form. The Limited Series produced by BBC and developed/directed by Mira Nair… remember Salaam Bombay?… has a sizeable Indian cast with wonderful actors. Here is the blurb from Netflix…
A vast, panoramic tale charting the fortunes of four large families and exploring India and its rich and varied culture at a crucial point in its history.
Yep. Partition. Mostly the story interest is about a young woman destined to marry a suitable boy. Her intended who won was so endearing. Thought her choice a good one despite that fact he was her mother’s choice too. An hysterical and mildly stupid woman… alla Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice. Elizabeth’s mother in a sari. The 6 episodes consumed 3 evenings with white wine sitting in a cosy poltrona next to the new firebox in Casa Grande’s Salotto.
Alas, Feature Presentations are not my main Lockdown pursuit. Household tasks galore…
After the enormous success with the installation of the two fireboxes, You & I have gotten on our hands & knees to wax ALL of the terracotta floors at il Poggiolo. You was ruthless. Single-handedly brushed & buffed the stuff in la Casetta. He seemed to take to buffing as something fun to do. I did la Casa Grande’s Laundry, Kitchen and Loggia. We together tackled the same house’s Salotto’s and Sala da Pranzo’s pavements. Big sweaty work and long overdue.
Alone, I have treated the pergola with Stop-Rust, anti-rust too and, when the sun finally comes out long enough, I will paint the thing in our Signature Out-door Stuff Paint Colour. There are more garden furniture pieces to treat & paint, the wine vats to lather with anti-wood-worms… another instance for wearing a mask. The fumes are lethal… nearly. Must re-paint the Entrance Stairs cupboard door. This will require lots of sanding before I ever get to the paint. Got to clean out and… shhh… throw away junk we don’t need. And, there are the Garden Tasks of cutting the grass, raking leaves, re-planting some roses and moving plants, which cannot stand cold temps, into la Casa Grande’s Kitchen, a partial green-house, thanks to the glass doors and the sink’s window and the room’s Southern exposure.
All in all, not too bad a Covid moment. Good News. Bad News. And, I’m out of circulation, got things to do, enough white wine & Netflix to remediate the after-effects of any hard labours, there’s the crazed Weimaraner to drag me out of il Poggiolo for yonder forests, and, You is due in Codiponte soon. Now, if everyone would buck up for little while longer, put themselves in Lockdown for a month or two, we might just win faster this battle against the coronavirus. May sound a bit like… If they do not have bread, let them eat cake… but, there is help. from the Italian Government and laterally from the Catholic Church et al. More assitance is on its way from the European Community. Ifthe G & B Worriers would step aside or, remove their greedy paws from the pot and let it get to those truly in need, more would be able to say… Ma il cielo e’ sempre piu’ blu!!!
Home...
You & I bought il Poggiolo because, I wanted a house in the country. Since we live in Italy, the nearest acceptable country to Genoa, our permanent residence, was the Lunigiana. This little known corner of Northwestern Tuscany is similar to the kind of territory I had known and adored from visiting relatives in The South… predominantly, the Piedmont and Appalachian areas of South Carolina, North Carolina and Georgia. Destiny did the rest.
The house is large and is divided into three parts. The inhabitants had once lived up in the Appartamento Azzurro. I know this Codiponte family. Many were born in what is now my Bedroom. Every now & then, one comes across their initials etched into stone pavers around il Poggiolo. Then, the last of the children grew up, married and moved out. The parents relocated down to La Casetta which, was given an economical re-do by the owner of il Poggiolo… a woman who had inherited the property and rarely set foot in it. Wonders of wonders, a new, modern AND indoor Bathroom!!! The central house, our la Casa Grande, was a vast hay barn and small workrooms for making salamis, cheeses and wine. The garden wasn’t a garden but, a vineyard. The only remnants of this past are the two tini… wine vats… in a passageway connecting the outdoor courtyard…. l’aia… to the cool room where those fruits of labor were once stored and is now il Poggiolo’s communal Laundry and Bathroom.
We had to completely rebuild il Poggiolo from the foundations to the roof. No foundations with Italian houses of yesteryears. Instead, they were either built… lent would be another verb here… against an existing structure…. in il Poggiolo’s case, the remnants of the perimeter walls of the Castle of Codiponte which, one can see on the aia… courtyard… or, erected upon a rocky mount. Akin to keeping something stationary, thanks to a rocky lump. Seems to have held for the last 800 years. See no need to worry. Now buried or hidden below from our renovations.
When you reconstruct, you are think house, not home. Reinforcing walls, dealing with humidity issues, modern plumbing & electrical plants, new roofs, flooring… ad infinitum. Massive work, lot of moola, time consuming. Of the three, the first… FYI… is contained in all the blog posts at Italian House from 2009 to 2014. Nothing to say about spending money except it was spent. And, as for the last, it took You & I four years to get il Poggiolo up & running as a house.
From restoring, we moved on to Maintenance & Upkeep. Not my favourite category. And, historically, the Italians aren’t much better at it either. Oh, they can certainly design & build glories, but then, those treasures fall into a state the rest of us think is so chic, so charming, glamours, and Italian, though rarely do we mention the word decrepit. You & I have replaced several windows & doors. Terrible the ravages of rain & cold & wind. We have reworked some electrical switches & outlets and added more lights. And, in a few instances we’ve even gone totally LED. Always too bright. New washers and cooktops too. Most recently, we installed two fireboxes to have a modicum of heat nel salotto e nella sala da pranzo… the Living and Dining Rooms… of la Casa Grande. Such dust & disorder. I was forced by night to sleep in my Bedroom up in l’Appartamento Azzurro… with the Dog… normally preferring to sleep in a bed posing as a sofa in the Salotto during the late Spring, Summer and early Fall months… and living by day out on the Loggia and cooking in the Kitchen of la Casa Grande. The Dog has not understood n’er a wit of any of this. Putting the main part of il Poggiolo back into some form of cleanliness & order post-construction, and taking the example of our German friends, who are re-doing their historic abode fai-da-te… or, do-it-yourself, though two amazingly informed persons on construction will one ever be so lucky to meet… You & I re-waxed TWICE!!! the terracotta flooring throughout la Casa Grande, the Laundry & Loggia included. Back breaking, knee ruining, hip crushing work. You was a beast. Brush, brush, brush, he worked. I attempted the same. At one point though, fed up listening to my grunts & groans while brushing each paver with liquid wax, he told me to go walk the Dog. I did. And felt remarkably better and ready to resume the chore. I tried new positions with some success. Taking a pill helped considerably.
You spoke of protection and enriching. I thought… home. The wax left a nice, warm scent of one. A surprising concept… home… for il Poggiolo. it was time. The idea dawned on me while nursing a recuperative white wine in una delle mie poltrone… shot from too many Dogs sleeping in them… before an active fire that, yes, indeed, after all these tweaks… for lack of a better word… actually render our house as a home. Settling in. Finding a happy rhythm of sleeping in our originally assigned BR’s and spending the day nella Casa Grande. A medium of comfort, convenience without causing the house any undue distress in undergoing changes to its infrastructure. One idea on that score was to bash out a wall and put in French Doors nella sala da pranzo. I got a blood curdling… Over my dead body!!!… from You. I suspect the house was actually using him as its spokes-person because, it willingly underwent the construction of the two fireplaces without a hitch. Now, if we can find places for the stuff displaced by the two fireboxes, we really will have a home. A home? Yes, a home.
The dogs of Codiponte...
My Dog, The Croesus-person… AKA Adriano, Puppy, the Dog, and the often used, Come Here!… does have himself a reputation. A bad one. He’s considered to be A LARGE DOG by folk here in Codiponte. Thus, an animal to fear. Mostly though, his reputation is cemented as a notorious Kat Killer. It was highly traumatic. Imagine it was for the kats too. Officially, the Dog, has killed two kats. I cannot divulge any further information on the topic. Prudence dictates I do not. Never know who’s reading this blog.
To forestall any further disgraces with kats or, to have local women erroneously screaming Pitttbuuulllll!!! upon sight of Il Mio Cangolino Adorato… many habitue’ of the Italian House Blog know of The Croesus-person’s exalted pure blooded Weimaraner pedigree. Screaming Pitbull at the top of one’s lungs just demonstrates Ignorance… and to stem calls from You for Reflection & Repentance regarding Kat Kills, we have put in a solid perimeter fence all around il Poggiolo’s garden. No escape. Twice a day, I carpool the Dog in my beat-up SUV to points far removed from our village of Codiponte. To avoid the watchful eyes of our neighbour citizens, many of whom are tremendously prejudiced against our pure-breed Weimaraner and his multi-infractions, though n’er they speak a contrary word against those of their canines… Mutts, You!!! They are all mutts!!!… let loose to carouse our community such as, pooh-poohing on our newly installed pavements, mangled carcasses of animals of unknown provenance left to rot along our local by-ways, and the continual rummaging through & spreading of trash around Codiponte’s several Trash HQ’s. No, but as it happens, The Dog & I are unmolested, free, unencumbered and, alone to enjoy the solitary comforts & beauties of the woods around our corner of the Lunigiana. Here is a sampling…
To see more of my landscape photography, click here for the latest landscapes at forrestspears.com and/or click here for those posted on Instagram at forrestspears.
Now for the carpooling video…
So much for that.
The Croesus-person just has it in for kats. No one’s fault. Mother Nature’s. Yeah, let’s blame it on Her. It is the Dog’s only flaw, in my mind. Otherwise, he is an intelligent canine, an affectionate companion, COMES WHEN HE IS CALLED!!! and he will eventually learn not to take up all the roooms on my antique bed from 1820. Oh! And then, what is not to love, as he willingly frolics with his Best Buddy, Leo, who lives up in the Borgo Castello? A few action shots…
How about the video?…
Despite the Dog’s ill repute, his is NOT a bully. That distinction belongs to this black mutt belonging to a couple, friends of ours, who live up in the Borgo Castello. Their dog is a terror. No wonder. His name in English is Growl. I have included a quick sketch in case he happens upon you getting out of your car at the Borgo Castello Parking Lot. I posted four pics. Don’t want anyone to forget his face and memorisation can be of help…
And he does, growl, liberally, at Dog and Man. Without bias.
He’ll hear me walking to dump our trash in the containers at the parking lot of Borgo Castello and in 60 seconds he’s down yapping at my feet to… go… away… now. And, he doesn’t let up until I do. How rude. And, so annoying. We all here in Codiponte share in this menace. Passing by Codiponte’s piazzetta one afternoon, there was Growl, barking away at the old men & kids out for a bit of fresco under the poplar trees during our incessant heat wave of June, July and August. Said dog was stationed in the middle baring everyone’s way. Then, he trotted off. A grumpy old man dog. Poor thing. He’s flea bitten, bow-legged, nearly toothless… what Joy! to know the worse he could inflict is to slobber or gnawed you… and he has never recovered from the attack of the mange from a couple of years ago. His only occupation is to tour the village and growl and bark at what disturbs him. Lots on that score from the noise he makes. Master of all he passes, apparently. Then, home to probably growl at gechi. By now, I know the territory he’s covered by the rusty red of his bio-donations hither & yon. Mine’s is dark brown.
The Croesus-person cries on two accounts… there’s a female dog in-heat in the vicinity or, Growl is lurking somewhere. The hair on my Dog’s back rises, he frets and then speed pees on every single green thing and car tire available. Then, he wants to get away by jumping into the back seat of my beat-up SUV. My Dog cried terrorised when I played this video a minute ago…
The Croesus-person’s buddy, Leo, is so afraid of Growl, he runs off and as far away as possible too. His master has to drive around & around looking for him. Leo was lately found running with his tail between his legs along the shoulders of the dangerous SR 445 highway, which passes through Codiponte. He was nearly five kilometres from his home. Poor thing. He could’ve been side-swiped by a pedal to the metal female driver in her late model FIAT 500 speeding to meet her fidanzato.
We have Happy News… Growl is now in quarantine. Not from Covid-19 but, on account of Leo’s fear. Being locked up, however, doesn’t stop him from barking or, growling from his perch on the small terrace of his masters’ house. The Croesus-person still cries though I try to tell him he’s safe from Growl. It’s a video, Croesus.
Past & present threads….
Unexpected though very exciting developments at House hunting blues. New and favourable circumstances are blowing the German couple in their quest to buy a home in Italy. They have made an offer on il Cedro and are actively involved in the ongoing negotiations. The usual. First offer rejected. Owner made a mark on the ground and said, he would NEVER cross it, and then he did. Was nudged by the real-estate agent. Good. THE LATER Earning his keep. The wife of the couple heartily agreed with him… said it seemed silly not to come to an agreement over the difference of a few Euro’s. May I say?…
this particular real-estate agent, a young man, is and has always been a congenial, available, honest!!! person and I am quite grateful for his help and participation. People like him are not often found in the real-estate business… here in Italy. What I remember from my experiences with real-estate agents in America were they were either bored housewives needing to make regular leasing payments on their late model Jaguars or, Gay men with too much personality and doctored smiles. Honesty or, much less, integrity were not on their maps. To be fair, I can tell you stories about said creatures on both sides of the Atlantic. Would raise the hair on your back or, make your hair curl. Whichever happens first. Might even make a book. But, back to the winds of blowing…
Price has been agreed upon and, apparently, a contract written and sent to the two parties for their signatures.
These kids are sharp. I say kids because, now that I am actively brushing 70 years of age, most of the World is younger. They have been remarkably thorough with their conditions, requests, solicitations, participation. Good deal. They are purchasing a house they have not seen with their own eyes. Other have sussed the place out. It passed muster. These kids took the reins and are riding well and onto a happy conclusion. They have my respect and admiration.
But, not so quickly for others. I have comments…
I have followed clients over the years, apparently successful and wealthy individuals, couples, who have bought properties at home where they live full-time, and yet, in doing the same in Italy, chuck Good Sense or, simply and completely ignored the procedures, details and the questions to ask in buying or, selling property here or, they have blindly deferred to others, as if on another planet, raising their heads only when it came time to write out a check. Real-estate is no different in Italy than anywhere else in the World. One simply needs to ask the obvious questions, take the time to read the documents, which can easily be translated, reply in kind, actively participate. It’s part of the fun. Some get it. Others not.
And, it’s important…
years ago, in our own search for a home in the Lunigiana, a real-estate agent sent me an email with a listing of a hay barn. Its caption was… Potrebbe essere un gancino per Voi nella Lunigiana…. or, hook, for You & Me in the Lunigiana. T’was truly time to get things rolling after a four year off & on house hunt. Some disappointments along the road. Never did manage to see the gancino place but, a week after that email, You & I were on our way to acquiring il Poggiolo. Our circumstances, our attitude had changed, allowing us to find just the place to our liking and budget. When it happens, it can happen fast. Wake up. Be attentive. You & I did. Same story for the German couple.
Now, I wonder if they are planning some kind of celebration? Understand they had three wedding parties. Our German friends sure know how to party. They drink. An indication for a good party in my book. They’re young.
No special reason but, I thought I would mention it anyway…
the first bit of colour, say around mid-February, harkening the arrival of Spring, is the yellow of Forsythia or, January Jasmine, if you come from The Deep South. You HATES yellow flowers. Forsythia is one vigorously prohibited, as is any other yellow flower, for that matter, in our garden at il Poggiolo. Right now though, at the end of September and with the 21st behind us, the garden of il Poggiolo is overrun by yellow. Cistus plants and its yellow blooms. An oversight on my part. The tag showed white-ish flowers. I bought several. And, I am probably and deplorably not good at obeying Rules & Regulations. From anyone. Duplicating the previous mistake and, oblivious to the pre-declared edict/s, I extracted from an abandoned house’s garden these stalky, flowery things with huge, bright yellow flowers. I thought they look charming, festive things. They were weeds. WEEDS!!! Now, You & I are indentured to pulling up these abhorrent flore at every whisper of their germination. And, as the culprit, I must endure You’s grumblings on why I cannot follow The Rules & Regulations. His Rules & Regulations. Not mine. Yet, a Lesson learned and not repeated to date. Only to defend myself. Though, in hindsight, I wonder why, after twenty-one years of sharing real-estate, canines, stuff, You hasn’t gotten the Math about me? Oh, well. Got news for the man despite whatall. The last flowers of Summer are these daisy looking flowers… in Small, Medium & Large dimensions… and in the same darn yellow colour You hates so much. Must mar his views of the Lunigiana landscape driving in his beat-up AUDI from Aulla to Codiponte. Oh, well.
And, for the moment…
as for A light at the end of the tunnel, You & I are happily inside enjoying the warmth of our two newly fitted out fireboxes and, weary from our collective and individual toils with our latest adventure in Home Improvements. YIPPEE!!! The Dog’s keen too though he dislikes the noise I make loading logs onto a raging fire. Ahime’… But, Good Riddance to those toils. Not the attitude to take, yet really, folks, too much time and stress and over my dead body to suit a sensitive soul as mine. I earned my 68 years old. Cannot speak for You. Un carroarmato.
I want everyone to know, however, You single-handedly re-hung and placed everything you see in the above photos. As many insiders are aware of, I do not drive nails into walls. Gives me the creeps. And, I hate to see freshly painted stucco walls marred by a misplaced slam of the hammer, creating unsightly defects… ugly shots of white, so evident with our Signature Blue.
Yes, ladies & gentlemen, You diligently worked for two days during our last weekend to return what all to their previous-places/former-homes/roosting-positions. Dusting & cleaning were also involved. Required several referrals to my iPhone photos stocks and a great amount of patience…. ON EVERYONE’S PART, THE DOG INCLUDED!!! Oh, and my wisely arranged absence from the premises. I worked in the garden, making amends for the lack of a three month avoidance, due to the extreme heat & humidity in these parts we citizens of Codiponte and elsewhere must now currently endure. After a stint of staying inside in relative cool, but with n’er a window or, shutter even cracked a tiny bit, I might now gladly huddle on an iceberg in a down parka holding a placard calling for more efforts to stem Global Warming. Sadly, I can’t get a flight out of Pisa Airport to go anywhere.
I now have to pay off everyone involved in the initiative.
Summer break...
It’s not what you think.
I went to dinner at my English Friend’s house the other night. Codiponte, in its own way, is a very international retreat. Many of the World’s nations are represented, besides the Brexiteers or, non-… me, as the lone American then, a clutch of Dutch, a Brazilian family though they now live in Argentina… did not quite understand the explanation as to why, so I filled in the subsequent blank with Tax Dodgers. Buenos Aires seems the last place on the face of Dear Mother Earth to avoid the financial worry of excessive taxation… and some Australians. These later persons haven’t shown their faces in a couple of years. Must be the abominable airplane trip through Dubai since, QANTAS eliminated Rome from their docket of destinations or, now, the COVID-19 scare. Oh, well… back to my English Friends….
The wife is a determined Good Cook. She served a shrimp cocktail with homemade mayonnaise… a Southern Down Home Favourite, especially the mayo. Well, the shrimp too ‘cause I have relations who hail from Savannah, Georgia, Shrimp HQ… broiled to a crip outer shell river trout and an unofficial version of ratatouille. Odd though there were NO POTATOES!!! Like Italians, who do not count a meal a meal without bread, I thought the same with the English and spuds. What found a brief home on the plate before me was delicious and a bit Fall-ish. Summer fair cold meats, steamed vegetable and/or too many salads. Blessedly, there was lots of white wine and conversation to cover the absence of no roasted tatters.
One whirl of conversation that evening was on our Summer weather. Ghastly hot. Terrifically muggy. LITTLE RAIN!!! The English Wife is a True Believer in the Phases of the Moon. N’er a move without consulting the Lunar Calendar. I was remotely aware of this info conveyance but, typically, gave it scant thought. Filed it away and next to the amount of pressure for my beat-up SUV’s tires. Ah, she said, new Moon tonight, dears. The weather is due to change its tune. Yes, rain will be our music for next week. Get ready. It’s going to rain like it hasn’t since October of 2013. Gosh! Well, we are in next week and all I have seen was some spray just at the moment I needed to carry off the debris after two days of gardening, while You grumbled & groaned setting to rights our salotto and sala da pranzo post-camino construction. Three months of dawn arrivals of the workmen… the Dog and I are communally comatose until at least 9:00AM, he contemplating an imminent evacuation, me on nursing my third tasse di caffe’… no shows of others, vacation interruptions, for cryin’ out loud, dust, disorder, depression. The English Wife said Summer would break. Come on…
My first experience with a Summer Break… can’t recall experiencing such a phenomenon in America but, boy do they need it in California, Oregon, Colorado… was the first Summer I came to Italy. Florence. To learn Italian. August. Not the month to be anywhere but Greenland or, in the upper reaches of Norway. The city of the Medici is in a bowl. The prevailing winds pass right on over the place, leaving a desperate sort of heat & humidity. A smoggy dark brown haze soddens the antique stones and roof tiles. Must be why I found the Florentines so grumpy and unpleasant. I have since altered my perspective on the city. I fell in love twice in Firenze. One stuck!!! I have to confess… I stopped going to the Leonardo da Vinci School of Italian after the first week. I had paid for a month. Annoying teachers, treacherous students from Eurolandia and, my own personal freak-out in attempting to master Italian beyond Ciao! and Arrivederci. I will not speak of two difficult Italian verb tenses, except to say, I still, after thirty-six years, steer clear of any linguistic necessity to resort to them. One, however, is only used in places like Sicilia and the darker regions of Calabria. Ahime’. Travelled instead. Talked to old people waiting for the corriere at, Thanks to the Almighty Lord, a shady bus stop… normally these spots are situated on a large expanse of asphalt charmingly referred to as la piazza… and saw stuff. Best trip was to Assisi. But never mind. Oh, but no! It was upon my gainful return to Florence from the city of Francesco d’ that an enormous thunderstorm struck Florence and environs. Black skies, multiple & simultaneous bolts of lightening ripped across the sky, pounding torrential rains, a good deal of pandemonium with traffic, fear, terror and, a number of trees knocked down too. OK… so no electricity for a few hours afterwards. Candle light is so atmospheric. Yet, the next morning sprung a gloriously beautiful August day of blue skies, breezy, cool temps, DRY!!! Fall like weather. WONDERFUL: Summer was broke. The drenching heat & humidity snapped until the following June. That is what the English Wife was implying. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must practice my Italian Rain Dance. Still no sight of rain, darn it.
Doesn’t look like rain to me…
…but, my laundry is drying nicely. No, that’s not my stuff hanging on the line. Mine is on folding stands in the courtyard, where it belongs, out of view. I’m not from Naples, thank you very much!
A light at the end of the tunnel...
I’ve been holding off on sharing this….? This…? This latest episode in a home renovation project at il Poggiolo. It’s been a bit stressful. I’m no longer the robust, and perhaps foolish, American who, along with his boy-friend/partner/companion of a similar calibre, embarked upon the purchase and fitting out thirteen years ago… took two years to bring it to fruition… an 1,800 square feet loft in an important & historic 1930’s building right at the old port of Genoa, and then, almost simultaneously, we same two characters…. You & Me… and apparently feeling our real-estate oats, bought and completely re'-built from top to bottom… it took four years and we still are not finished… an 800 year old Tuscan farm-house, il Poggiolo a Codiponte.
The loft does needs some attention after all this time. You is basically the only inquilino. Pads around in his -jamies on his off time. The Dog & I prefer the clean living in the Lunigiana. For starters, way fewer people in the Age of Coronavirus. Loft Task List would be new paint, a couple of alterations to the floor plan… like, eliminate a bathroom and turn it into a closet for You’s ever growing stock of Men’s Fayeshion… and possibly replacing a few appliances. The MIELE washer & dryer, however, are still doggedly plugging along and have been the ONLY washer & dryer with reasonable and effective cycles from my sixty-eight year experience with such conveniences. Here at il Poggiolo, we have AEG…. German technology… and they were purchased upon the high recommendation of an American woman. It would have been better had we ignored her. The AEG has senseless cycles. No one in our family wears jeans. No one in our family wears silk. Out. And no one in our family would dare wash wool in a machine. Out. And, duvets are sent to the lavanderia. They come back fluffy & clean smelling and not balled up into accumulations of duck feathers at the corners. Out. This is what I want in a washer…
CYCLE 1) Really, really dirty with extra washes & rinses and can take heavy loads up to 20 lbs., from all the sheets & pillow cases from one bed, to the 4’ x 6’ printed cotton rug I picked up for few Euro’s at Maison du Monde or, my gardening clothes from the week’s worth of garden assaults; CYCLE 2) Dirty ma non troppo up to 10 lbs., You’s -jamies, shirts, pants, his sunbathing suits and, his gardening clothes from pulling up weeds, a much less dirty work than what I do in the garden; CYCLE 3) Not really dirty at all but, hey! It’s Sunday, and electricity costs less; CYCLE 4) wool; CYCLE 5) synthetics; CYCLES 6 and on for separate or, collective rinses and spins. STOP. AEG has a partial selection. Only its Cotton Cycle is much used. The others waste time, energy and money.
Different case at il Poggiolo. You & I took our Game Plan for restoring our farm-house from the house itself. La Casetta had radiators and a fireplace so, we put in new heating system & radiators plus a firebox in the upstairs salotto. Our Winter HQ. La Casa Grande had no heating at all. Fine by us. It would be our Summer HQ. And, L’Appartamento Azzurro had a fireplace… it was the cook top and oven… and so, we put in a new firebox for an Early Spring & Fall HQ. Since Roberto sussed out his own separate kingdom in the former kitchen of La Casetta, he stays burrowed there the whole year round. I got tired of the constant relocation. I was offered and bought with a terrific discount two fireboxes…. a close-out sale at a local building supply store nearby and the same models we put in at La Casetta and L’Appartamento Azzurro. I had thought to use a local builder to install them, one in the salotto and the other in the sala da pranzo nella Casa Grande. He was never available to do the work. Fed up, frsutrated too, I went to see our Esteemed Geometra and sought his help to scare up a builder to do the work. Turned out our original builder was ready & willing.
Then the real fun began. I had to bodily move EVERYTHING into the middle of each room, cover it all with wispy plastic sheets which, naturally, blew away as soon as someone open a window or, came through a door. I relocated to L’Appartamento Azzurro with the Dog, all our food and all my clothes and all the Dog’s sticks. I have had to submit to the lamentations of You on every one of his visits for the dust and disorder in our home. Two months. Going on three.
Yet, there is a light yonder at the end of the tunnel of this week. Dim but perceptible. Getting bright with every passing day. Could it be? Yes, we may be nearing completion. In the meantime, feast your eyes on these…
House hunting blues...
I had a late evening plate of pasta and white wine with my Dear German Friend. Husband had abandoned her on her hill top abode… a historic former tower turned farm-mansion by a pope’s confessor in the 13th Century… having taken their only car back to Germany for urgent work. Lately and for obvious reasons… must I spell it out? C-O-V-I-D-1-9… automobile travel is the ONLY way to travel these days. Few flights going to the wrong places and any good ones are already booked up. Ditto for trains. Bad enough to be cooped up for two+ hours in an Airbus full of masks, can you imagine what an eight hour train journey would look & be like? As always, the excuse for dinner was the entree for a gab session. House hunting the initial topic. I led the kick-off.
I had concluded a long day in said pursuit with a young German couple spending their free-of-lockdown holiday near Camaiore. He, charming, handsome, full of personality & energy, and is the brother of the wife of my German clients. She, quiet, pretty and I learned early on that when she speaks, better to listen, ie “You should’ve turned left back there”. Oh, well, God gave us navigators to extract us from our mistakes, I suppose. The wife of my German clients had warmly asked if I might escort her brother & girl-friend to see two candidates for a vacation home in Italy. Silly question. Of course. So, early to rise, early to drive down to Camaiore, a vacation enclave turned nearly into a city with the gift of being close to the beaches yet, nestled in the hills far enough away from the madness to be quite a popular place. Arrived at the La Cappella in time to meet and get to know my travelling companions for the day.
We drove to meet the real-estate agent at the first house situated at the end of a borgo way up above Camaiore, enclosed by a rustic stone wall & gate for a compound of grassy terraces and a lovely pink stucco house. All one would have to do with the 3,700 sq. ft. on three floors would be to buy it, take the keys and move right in with your suitcases. All done, four years before, top to bottom, complete with furnishings. Done with simple taste, nothing obnoxious for a re-do. Very hard to find. The house clicks all the boxes of the German clients but two… no direct car access… borgo means village and cars often cannot get through what was lo’ those many years ago a cart path… and no pool. The first can be dealt with. We do at il Poggiolo. You learn logistics fast. The pool could be added but, unfortunately, it would consume a goodly portion of the small exterior space of one of the two grassy terraces.
The second I had scouted and rejected months ago, when I first began to research for houses for sale. Thought the garden, though planted with a lovely Mediterranean variety of plants and trees… lots of olive trees… actually suffocated the terraces and stone house. And, inside the rooms seemed large but, that was because every photo was taken outside the room itself. Gave the impression of space. The pics did not show the many steps… even in the middle of the Salotto!!!… numerous and treacherous staircases hither & yon and the sense of dimensions of the few rooms. All too small in siaze and quantity for my German cleints wishes & needs. All this was the reward of a long and torturous dirt road from civilisation to this hideout on the side of a Tuscan hill. The girl-friend immediately asked about the road when the downpours hit. Good question. I found out from the Mr Renter of the property that the road is a disaster in the rain and must be re-graded every Spring. Oh, well, and I had thought perhaps this house was going to be a winner. We all were glad to leave. For lunch at one of my favourite spots in the whole World to eat outdoors in the Summer… La Baracchetta.
Got a refresher course in Lessons lLearned from House Hunting… stick with your first impressions, however they come and no matter the means. But, the Law of House Hunting came to me as the consequence of the telephone call the brother and I made to the clients in the US, stranded in a COVID-19 limbo. Their circumstances are… the husband has a Green Card, which also covers his family of wife and two small children. He has full rights, they do not. They all may leave the US, go to their home in Germany, even travel to Italy. The problem comes… he may re-enter the US. The wife and kids not. They are in the US until. Most of the conversation was with the wife. A fantastic person, full of intuition, insight AND Good Sense. Fun & charming too. It has been the family’s dream to have a house in Italy, for her ageing father to get him out of far away Spain and as Summer HQ for one and all. We have had the discussion many times of getting no where with house hunting by remote. The fantasy persists. Any prospects of a dream house in Italy were dashed. Not so much by which way we were pointing our thumbs but, by her circumstances. And so, I said this…. There is a house waiting for you here in Italy. It’s looking for you and you will find it when your circumstance allow you to do so. I thought that was one of the wisest statements I have ever uttered from my likes-to-give-lectures mouth. It’s true. Was for You & Me with il Poggiolo. It was true for my Dear German Friend. And will be for my German clients. Now, let’s get rid of this menace of COVID-19, please.
Summer reading: an epilogue...
Last Sunday around 4:40PM on a day of drenching rains from a series of haphazard thunderstorms…
Hallelujah, Praise be to the Good Lord, and !!!sruoY pU, to the Signora Neighbor Lady in the Ugly Yellow House, who has never vacillated in keeping our access to water OFF in saving Nature’s H2O by allowing it to simply run down the stream, into the Aullela River and off into the Mediterranean Sea…
I satisfactorily closed the third and last book of Hilary Mantel’s trilogy, The Mirror and the Light, on Sir Thomas Cromwell.
I was WRONG. Every single one of the 912 pages in the book… written as nine hundred and twelve pages from Ms. Mantel’s suspected literary penchant for writing it all out and then some… were necessary in telling The Story. Quite a feat. Exhausting. But, a feat.
I found the ending of the last two chapters moving, brilliantly written, a quite believable rendition of one person’s steady progression in confronting his imminent end. Conversations, interrogations, contemplations, actions slowly degenerate into a whirl of grasping for the last sensations and thoughts before the fall of the axe. I felt bereaved by Cromwell’s death, by his now absence, so long a presence endured over the four and a half months I struggled to read the book. I was not originally keen on it. I am now. I may start all over again.
The stack of other books awaiting my attention are distributed on two night tables next to the bed nel’Appartamento Azzurro, where The Dog & I are camped out during our Summer 2020 House Improvements Project, still an on-going affair. Blocked for two weeks, there was a rush of activity last Monday followed by nothing on Tuesday. Then, on Wednesday, a workman came and spent two afternoons diligently working. Now today, this Thursday, nothing again. We hope for a gainful return of activity on Friday afternoon. Rome may not have been built in a day but, I betcha it didn’t take as long as that which we have embarked upon at il Poggiolo. May the Good Lord speed the work a pace. Let us pray?
The last days of August...
I want Lockdown back. I think. Surely for the part of no vehicles… cars, trucks, vans, pick-ups, apes, motorcycles or, bicycles… and, for those airborne… no helicopters or, passenger planes. Only Peace & Quiet. OK… a few tweeting birds, clouds floating by. The later sometimes rumble…
I spent a full hour yesterday stopped in a massive traffic jam, and with a semi-crazed Weimaraner jumping from the passenger seat to the larger back bench behind. Said adored creature wanted to get a better angle by shoving his snout out the double picture sliding glass windows opened primarily for air. Not for entertainment or, sport. There was something aromatic outside. A sensitive nose. Trash along the road? Wafting of an imminent pranzo? Certainly not the saturated smell of fresh asphalt being laid on the highway ahead. I heard the teams of men and machinery to arrive at that conclusion. Too many cars, trucks, vans, pick-ups, apes, motorcycles, and bicycles between me and them for a view. The same story looking behind. Endless line of vehicles. As the clock on the SUV’s dashboard ticked the last minutes of that full hour, a gentleman in a bright white and new Peugeot SUV passing us in the opposite direction and seeing me and the Dog hanging out windows with nothing possible to do but hang, slowed and WARNED… Turn around. It’ll be another hour before you get to Aulla. A mere kilometre away. I did. And, it took a comparable hour driving over a series of twisting & winding back roads of the Lunigiana to breach the town’s limits. Better to move than to be stuck, I always say. I can run the AC, if the car is moving.
You know there is an active and oblivious authority operating when, at the worst possible moment… Like hey! At the height of the August Vacations you have to do this? With everyone racing around in their vehicles?… they march in men & heavy equipment to make some stretch of infrastructure safe or, efficient per il popolo italiano. Typically it is the autostrade. Now, they are going for the secondary arteries. As we are told, God rests in His Heaven above but, above the Italian government rests the European Union. An EU flush with funds coupled to a rabid bureaucracy eager to launch new edicts to make A Better European Community. A wonky bugle blow would be appropriate here. The EU feels its mission is Good Works. They throw money at them, ie the reconstituted Medieval Ponte of Codi-bridge. The latest, lo’ & behold, is the wizardry of our times entrusting upon us of a new form of asphalt, one which absorbs rain water. Fancy that? Somehow it does the trick and eliminates the risk of hydro-planning or, sliding into a slowed-down FIAT Panda during a cloud-burst while an elderly couple inside can genuflect passing the cemetery at Rometa. What a novelty! Not the cemetery. The asphalt. A blessing? Maybe. I’ll let you know towards November. We are loved and protected. By the EU. Someone has to do it. A Big Brother? Maybe, and when all the highways & byways of Italy are beautifully re-made & safe according to the terms of the EU bureau-edict. Black, smooth asphalt and bright white road markings. The beauty lays in the contrast, you know? The EU edict-ed that too. And, it shall remain ever so. Bureaucracies don’t change.
The Dog & I made it to Aulla. It was Our Wednesday Morning Mission. I must say it was a productive visit despite the hindrances and time constraints. Managed to picked up the prepared marble pieces for il Poggiolo’s home improvements before the place closed for pausa pranzo. And, more importantly, I got in some necessary shopping. It’s great to be a guy! New underwear! Certi modelli in 100% cotone e altri in 100% micro-fibre… the fabrics caress. Could be dangerous. Or, noticeable. And the colours? Black with bright green, grey with orange, white with Navy blue, and solid bright blue, petroleum, and asphalt. No kidding. I’d post a photo but I am too shy. Oh! And, new tight round collar T-shirts to go with the new slip-boxers. Checked out the nice lady at the local designer shoe store and waltzed happily out with new pair of Premiata trainers ON SALE in black, yellow & grey. Very cool. Very comfortable. Very well built. All the better for one with two hip ops walking the Dog. New drafting ink pens and a box full of black BIC pens purchased at the cartoleria, and then, off the Dog & I travelled home and as we had come. The Long Way.
But what an August it’s been. KA-KA-BOOM!!! Ferragosto. Work suspended ‘cause operai fled on a week’s vacation. Heat & humidity clamped onto to the Codiponte forecast like there was no tomorrow and there may not be with the Coronavirus spikes here, weirdly dressed families resembling cartoon characters in tell-tale bright colours escorting obese children clutching their mamma or, large groups of teenagers trooping up & down behind il Poggiolo to do what? Take a walk? In this heat? Check out il Borgo Castello? At 3PM in the afternoon? Anything to get away from i genitori? Admire themselves in the rear-view mirrors of cars parked in the Borgo’s Parking Lot exhibiting the current and most hideous feminine fayeshion to date of micro-boxing shorts and A-shirts? I sent the Dog to bark at them at our back gate. He did so willingly. I love his enthusiasm. A threateningly basso profondo. Good Dog. Squeals were heard as a consequence. He was awarded with A Mighty Reward. of a wurstel. Cars practically double parked below the Codi-bridge and Borgo Parking Lot. The list goes on and on, but I will refrain.
And yet, after nightfall, the world of Codi-bridge in August becomes softer, easy, cooler. Voices of folk outside on their terraces for dinner and after. Often well after Midnight. The muffled talks floats above the town’s rooftops. Many beautifully seen from the perch of our Loggia at il Poggiolo. From the heights of L’Appartamento Azzurro’s terrace, I can spy a few dinner tables set with the easy-to-wipe plastic checkerboard & flowers table cloths, plastic bottles of Coca-Cola & Fanta and water from Acqua Paradiso, plus many dishes & plates with traces of the evening meal. The calls of kids playing in the cool night air out on the Piazzetta. Often well after Midnight. Italian children. Guess they can. Schools re-open on the 14th of September, if all goes according to plan. We’ll see. Collections of people strolling below our house, meeting and stopping to chat with others out doing the same and before they risk Life & Limb on the Medieval Ponte. A nice rhythm pervades. Pleasant atmosphere. I let the sounds circulate and dissipate while chugging along with my book. 34 pages to go.
The August mornings I like the best. Both Dog & I up and out of the bed as the campanile strikes 7AM. What a racket. it reminds the Dog that he will eat shortly. But first… he goes to pee somewhere inauspicious in il Poggiolo’s garden. Me to open windows, make me a caffe’, maybe wash a few dirty dishes before His Excellency saunters in to be fed his breakfast. The Dog always looks astonished his bowl is not already full and on the rug next to his water dish. I take my caffe and a laptop to read the newspapers on-line out on the terrace… overlooking beautifully the Codiponte’s roofs… in a lawn chair You bought for Euro 10. Most comfortable chair for my Scottish fanny around. I savour the No Noise. Well, the birds can’t help themselves. Just Peace & Quiet. And a caffe. The Dog is on the bed.
7:15 Am at il Poggiolo in Codiponte, Tuscany Italy
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.