Kathi's Coats

Kathi's Coats

    One of our first bonding experiences (after discovering our mutual mania for the Beatles) was the discovery of our mutual cold intolerance. As college roommates returning from fall break, we simultaneously stormed into the room with boxes full of pile and wool clothing we'd brought from home. We burst out laughing simultaneously, too.  Her laugh. It made you bouncy inside. She loosened it freely and frequently in response to my humor. Another thing I loved about her. She was one of my best audiences. 

    We also laughed about our tiny heads, bemoaning the fact that hats would never fit us. They would creep down over our eyes so that we resembled shady ladies about to sneak away with an extra muffin in the breakfast line. Hats would easily blow off our heads. We joked that we probably wouldn't make it through college because we must have pea brains. I don't know that I would have made it without her. She was tranquility to my drama, groundedness to my flightiness, focus to my dispersed inner being. I referred to her then, and continued to do so for many years as "The Rock". Her tolerance to me was commendable. My half of the room was a vivid landscape of my inner turmoil the year we roomed together. Clothes flung over desk and chairs, shoes whose partners had gone missing dotting my rug, dirty laundry piled willy nilly, bedcovers in a constant state of roiling rumple. Her side was pristine and ordered. She could locate anything in a split second. Before Christmas, I snuck a pet rabbit into our room and, foregoing a cage to be able to hide evidence of it at a moments' notice, I let it run freely. It never could find an open spot on my bed. So it pooped on hers. That did not elicit laughter. The rabbit went home with me at winter break. Kathi continued to room with me. 

    She began chemo treatments in the early fall of 2020. When her hair fell out, she fretted about being cold in the coming winter. I shipped two cloiche' hats to her. When they arrived, she told me she'd laughed. They were the exact ones she'd been thinking of ordering for herself. But she worried they wouldn't fit. They fit! She texted me a photo of her wearing one...my favorite...burgundy color. There was a huge grin on her face. I could hear that laugh again. 

    It wasn't supposed to happen. Doctors told her the cancer was treatable. She would recover. Kathi believed them. She believed passionately in science. Her father was a scientist. She followed to the letter every instruction given by her medical team and everything she'd researched herself. She had confidence that the treatments were curing her right up until she slipped into her final coma. When frankly asked, just prior, "Do you think you're dying?" her answer was a firm "No."

    Afterwards, her husband invited her closest friends to choose items of hers to keep. Among mine were three warm, exquisitely made coats. Kept impeccably. There was no indication she'd ever worn them, but I knew she did because of some tissues I found in pockets. And a few coins. Even the pure while coat didn't have a smudge on it. 

    I also kept the hats. Both of them. 

     I eventually gave away the white coat to a more worthy owner. It broke my heart to part with it, but better to find it a good home than to ruin it with my sloppy ways. The other items, plus a pink wind breaker, and two heavy sweaters followed me to Italy. I wore them all this winter. Wrapped in Kathi. Still able to laugh at my own cold woosi-ness. 

  This house, named after my father, pays tribute to so many people in my life through the items in it. Tribute to those I've loved and still love:

An afghan my dad crocheted while recovering from a WWII gunshot wound;

Items bought in places each of my children live or have lived: Pillow buttons from Philadelphia, Bath towels from Brooklyn, Kitchen linens from Los Angeles;

A quilted wall hanging pieced from my mother's cotton house dresses;

My grandmother's dishes and teapot;

Favorite dessert dishes from Gregg's mother;

A candy dish from Barb - my other best bud and partner in so many adolescent adventures;

Boots from my former partner in theater crime - Camilla.

An inked footprint of my newborn granddaughter.

    Walking around the house, I see, hear, smell, and live with those loved ones. I feel their spirits. I am reminded that this is a house and a life that all of them helped me make in one way or another. Like Kathi's coats, I am always wrapped in them.

Homage to the Olive

 

A bit ago, a friend - a kindred Italophile - pointed out something I'd never known - In olive groves, the centers of the trees are cut out to make room for sun to reach the rest of the tree. Ahhhh...sun seekers...like me!

I love olive trees. They're dramatic and expressive. They have personality and each seems to be a different character. Several years ago I used the image a 500-year old tree as the centerpiece for the set of a production of "The Crucible" I directed. It was deformed, dark, commanding, and scary as hell. 

Here in the Fino Valley, there used to be 11 frantoi - mills that crushed the olives to make oil. Few remain, but the tradition and importance of olive growing, gathering, and pressing is strong. Both Virgil and Ovid (our Abruzzese native son) wrote about the "olivacolture" here. The pressing of the olives is referred to as "transforming" the olive. Indeed!

Olive trees are both sacred and mundane. Like the buffalo of US first peoples, everything is used. There is the olive itself. A "paesani" recently gave me a jar of them preserved in brine. When I told him how much I enjoyed them, he came to my door and presented me with two more jars!

When the branches are pruned, they are left on the ground to fertilize it. They're also burned to smudge the trees to protect it from freezes. 

The wood is hard, dense, and non-porous. It's fashioned into spoons, bowls, washboards, axe handles - even, at one time, pistol grips. 

The pits can be burned as fuel for heating and cooking.

Then, of course, there is - THE OIL! Oh, the glorious look and taste of fresh pressed virgin olive oil! The pungent, peppery taste that enhances everything from bread to pasta, to grilled vegetables. The pressing of the oil is a community event. Many hands are needed to shake olives down from trees, carry them to the olive presses, press and conserve the oil. It was and still is a time for gathering of friends and neighbors - and all-hands-on-deck activity that has a very short window of opportunity. Usually it takes place anywhere from late September to early November, depending on the weather. It often coincides with all saints' day - Olgnisanti" It signals the last physically demanding work of the farmer. It's a short window of time. A lot rides on getting the timing just right for optimal taste and volume of the olive. So - when everything aligns right - it calls for a party. What's a party without good food, especially from the recently pressed oil! One of the foods is "spaghetti alla trappitarra" so named for the "trappa" - a part of the olive press. It's thin pasta with olive oil, hot peppers, and garlic. Simple, but oh so tasty! Tradition says that a person who heads into winter with "una buona corta (a good supply)" of olive oil is a "persona perbene" - in decent shape. 

But besides the practical uses of the olive tree, it holds many sacred and ritual aspects. 

I'm told that "i primi potatori" - the first to prune the trees - make the sign of the cross before the first cut. 

Of course, who hasn't heard of offering an olive branch as a peace symbol? In fact, the UN flag, created in 1946, used two olive branches aside a world map. 

Jesus descended from the Mount of the Olives to make his triumphant entrance into Jerusalem. The word "Gethsemane" is said to derive from the word "es-shemen" - tree of oil, further derived from a Hebrew word root meaning "to shine". Oh, boy, do olive trees shine! Even on this late January day, as I write this, I can look out and see olive trees in full leaf. When the sun is out, they glint silver. Through the shortened days of this winter, they remind me that all is NOT barren. There is always the promise of life. 

The oil has been used to anoint kings, prophets, and high priests. It's said to have antibacterial properties so it's used in pharmaceuticals. My grandma told me that warm olive oil could be dripped into your ear to treat earaches. I took her word for it, but never tried it. The oil is used in soap and cosmetics, and, at one time, for lighting. 

For me, though, the major symbol of those imposing trees is one of resilience and hope. The olive tree is a marvel of persistence and hardiness. A tree can live 1,000 years. It survives in poor, stony soil. Even when destroyed by disease, drought, frost, or fire, it is capable of regenerating itself. 

“I’ll Be Back”

The olive trees I pass on my run down the country road are my boon companions. As I jog or huff and puff past them, I see them, paused in graceful dance poses or manifesting their unique personalities. They speak to me, encourage me, inspire me. Sometimes they amuse me. They remind me to keep going or to do or be something - anything my mind can imagine - when the workout is done. 

The Scream

“Look, mom and dad- no hands!”

Old Man

Dancer

Shave and a Haircut

Dragon Head

Welcome, stranger 

I'd like you to meet the cast of characters along my country road. They're my good friends. I share them to make them yours, too. 

Trash Talk

 

Now that I have your attention...

Pardon my absence from the blog for so long. It's been a screaming tilt-a-whirl of a summer full of hurried waiting. 

I am now living permanently in the house that inspired this blog. I've heard a lot of people say that living in Italy full time is very different than visiting - even being here long term to run a guest house. It's true. Take, for example - here it comes - trash. 

In our town, it is collected 5 days a week. You separate different kinds of trash and each has its own pick up day according to a schedule that rivals the logistics of large armies. I've liked the system, though. It seemed ecologically sound. I got used to what went where and when it was picked up. 

And then...everything changed! Suddenly there were posters stuck on community billboards announcing the BIG MEETING about...trash! As a responsible citizen, I went.

The mayor presided and introduced several important trash-knowledgeable people. I could tell they were important by the way they scootched the one available microphone over to themselves with authority and thumped forcefully on it ino order to be sure they were heard. The voiceover actor in me cringed. After each of them had spoken, we were introduced to the BIG CHEESE trash guy. I knew he was the main event because he was handed the mic. No self-scooching. He didn't bother thumping it. It was set up for him. He spoke in calm, serious tones. For a long time. 

I had a difficult time following all the Italian (my vocabulary is lacking in refuse-related words), but the summary seemed to be this:

* You all have gotten out of hand with your willy-nilly trash separation.

* There will be tragic consequences for our region if you don't shape up

* So there will be lots of new rules which, because we know you'll try to circumvent them, we've come up with a way to police your trash

* Everyone in the communie will be gifted new, color coded trash bins. You're welcome.

* These bins have micro chips in them. If you try to cheat and throw trash that doesn't belong in a bin, checkers will point a chip reading gun at it and BANG! your transgression is recorded and you'll be issued a multa - a ticket, and fined. 

Example of bins. These are for public use. The individual household ones are, thankfully, much smaller. 

The used oil bin. I've yet to find the used clothing bin. 

The BIG CHEESE  trash expert explained all the rules - which bins were for what kinds of trash, what specifically went into each, and what day of the week each had to go out (between the hours of 10 PM the previous night and 5 AM the day of pick up). We had a little over a week to memorize everything before the BIG TEST on the first day the new trash rules went into effect. Thus began my studies for a doctorate in trash separating. 

There are 12 categories on our trash separation guidelines. Each category lists the definition of said category, what trash is included in each, what is FORBIDDEN in each, and what color bin each kind of trash goes into. 

Trash from A to Z  Actual brochure we were given. 

Note, in caps "Separating trash is obligatory!"

The categories. Same number as the number of apostles. 

I studied and studied. I circled around the bins, trash in one hand, list of rules in the other, thinking,

 "Are cellophane wrappers plastic or paper?" 

My housekeeper spent 45 minutes tutoring me in trash separation. I gathered two other American friends to have her explain it again to them. We took notes. (I'm not kidding!).

The day of the implementation of the new trash rules arrived on a Thursday. It was the designated day for collection of the dreaded and most confusing indifferenziato (formerly known as secco residuo - which translates literally to "dried remains". I've often wondered if that's where you hide dead bodies.) This is basically where you put everything that doesn't fit in any other category. With the exception of:

 - anything made of paper, cardboard, glass, metal, organics, plastic, green waste, used clothing, electronics, toys, light bulbs, batteries, pharmaceuticals, or recyclable packaging.

With a mixture of hope and trepidation, I placed a full blue plastic trash bag in the dark grey bin designated for the indifferenziato and placed it on my front step. 

Then, like a child awaiting Santa Clause, I went to sleep full of anticipation of the next day's find.

The morning broke hot and cloudy. I peered over the railing of my balcony to the steps below. There was the grey bin - open. The blue bag was still there! No pick up! I failed the test! 

I brought the bag back inside and opened it, and with the rules in hand, rifled through it to find the offending refuse. The trash police must have done the same. My husband said he'd seen them open and check other neighbors' bags. I was stumped! Everything in the bag was legal refuse. What was my infraction?

Through a process of ingenious sleuthing and the help of several neighbors, I discovered that the problem wasn't the trash - it was the bag! Blue bags are verboten for indifferenziato. That trash requires a plain, black plastic bag. That and only that! The commune did not supply that kind of bag, so I traversed the town and surroundings in search of. Luckily, a nearby grocery store had plenty in stock.

1 week later - time again for indifferenziato collection. 

Black bag? Check

Legal contents? Check - I think

Correct bin? Check

Correct pick up day? Check. 

Next morning - I open the front shutters ad peek over the balcony...

There's the monolithic bin. Open. And empty!!

I've passed the trash exam. Hopefully, I will have avoided any inclusion in the criminal records system and won't receive a multa. 

But now...how to I dispose of all the blue bags?

"Oh I love trash

Anything dirty or dingy or dusty

Anything ragged or rotten or rusty

Yes I love trash"

In Search of A Donkey

 

Today I went in search of a donkey. I could have written “in search of an ass.” The common word in Italian for “donkey” is “asino” - literally “ass”. Asina if it is the female variety. There is also a word I remember from childhood - slang most likely - that sounded like “choo-chool”.  It was used as a derogatory term for someone who was a patsy, a chump, a fool easily taken advantage of or parted with their money. I decided “donkey” would be the best choice of words here. 

So - I went in search of a donkey today. Every morning sitting in back of the house sipping my own made cappuccino (with varying degrees of quality I add lest envy possesses you) I hear two regularly recurring sounds: an overly cocky rooster and a braying donkey. The donkey’s tone is either pleading, complaining, or demanding of unrequited affection. In any case, it doesn’t sound happy.

My house is in the center of town. There are no farms I see that are close enough to allow one to hear braying (or crowing) so loudly and clearly. I decided it was high time to discover the whereabouts of donkey as well as rooster.

It was a quiet day- “tranquillo” as my neighbor declared with a sigh this morning. It is the Festa della Repubblica - the celebration of the day in 1948 when Italy declared itself a republic after its fascist reign and created its new and present constitution. 

I set off for a part of town to which I rarely go. It is outside the “commercial area” I usually traverse this part by automobile to head out of town to Bisenti, the next town over. I’ve never traversed it on foot. 

Italian hill towns are like nothing I’ve seen elsewhere. There are houses tucked down into steep drops and shoe-horned into tiny crevices. I was barely past the last residential buildings before empty country spread out ahead of me when I spied a sizable garden thriving on a dramatically inclined slope. 

Strolling around the perimeter was a rooster. We locked eyes. He puffed up to 1 1/2 times his size at initially sighting me and let go with a loud, strident crow. Almost mocking me. Yep. That was my guy. However- no donkey was to be seen or heard. There had to be a donkey somewhere, though. The two animals sounded like they came from the same space. I’d heard them together often enough, didn’t I? Now needing not just to locate the donkey but assure myself I hadn’t been mistaken in identifying the sound I heard day after day or even worse - imagine I’d heard - I plodded on further out of town. 

Past the nuovo faux castle built by an inhabitant far more full of himself than Mr. Rooster. 

Up a dusty hill. Back down. Up barely there ruts of a wagon path. In my search for the asino I began to feel like one myself. Or at least like the proverbial “Choo-chool”. Or “chooch” for short. I got tired and hot and hungry and mad at the world for tempting me to go on such a wild goose chase. That’s when I stopped searching and started seeing. I looked out from inside my head and viewed my town from a completely new perspective. High on a hill just below a ruin I’d never noticed before I saw a wider expanse of the surrounding valley than I’d ever seen before. I was struck anew by the sheer singular beauty of the place I’d been coming for 11 summers. By now believing I’d seen it all. 

I returned to the house and had lunch. Then set out to walk slowly around the town for probably the ump-  thousandth time and look - REALLY look at what is here. I peeped into narrow vicoli that hid abandoned or unobtrusively occupied houses. One dark warren of rooms still held a set of delicately painted flowered plates in a dish drain beside a rusted sink. There were pots of fresh flowers flanking brightly colored doors behind which I imagined people lived mysterious, romantic lives. There were narrow stone stairs that led to hidden gardens. All had been there for every one of the 11 summers that I’d been coming. They have been part of the magic of this town all along. Waiting for me to discover - if only I took the time to look. 

I never did find the donkey. Maybe I never will. But I found more of my town. I received a renewal of the inexplicable pull that led me here in the first place. It was like experiencing a first kiss again. 

So please - go ahead and follow the pull. Let curiosity lead. It may feel like an asinine pursuit. But you never know where it could lead.

Changing Currents

Changing Currents

This has been a summer of change, rethink, and re-do. On this, the 10th anniversary of owning this house, I'd planned to celebrate this milestone here with my hubby along with our our 20th anniversary, kayaking the cerulean blue waters of Sardegna, stuffing ourselves silly on my housekeeper, Giovanna's addictive fried bread, and reaching a few peaks in the Gran Sasso together. Of course, we all know what quashed those plans. I managed to be here despite the little virus, but events for which I'd planned shifted and changed constantly and rapidly. I felt like Bugs Bunny in the cartoons in which Yosemite Sam shoots at his feet and yells, "Dance, varmint!"

But, as the Rolling Stones told us "you can't always get  what you want....but you may find, you get what you need."

I believe in angels. Not necessarily the ones we're shown with flowing gowns and large wings. But Forces. Currents. In my cosmology, we're chucked into a river of sorts at birth. A confluence of currents into which we can flow on our way through life. Or miss them and really screw up. Our personal Moses effect. It's our job to navigate the currents of this river and figure out which ones are going to get us down to the take out. When canoeing with him, my husband has taught me that for each rapid we approach, we set a line and paddle like hell. If you've set the right line and hold it, you run the rapid beautifully. If not, think fast and adjust faster. Figure it out quickly. And be sure you're not going against the current. Sometimes you have a good line, but something unexpected forces you to adjust - higher or lower water level than you'd anticipated, a fallen branch in the way, a change in the river that happened since you last on it that may have altered, strengthened, or weakened the current. 

This summer has been the summer of changing currents and "figuring it out". Adjusting. There were new and unexpected currents, rapids, holes the entire time: purse stolen, the need to replace documents, this leading to the discovery that I'd lost my residency status leading to the need to consult a tax expert. leading to the need to confirm that I could still own my car...and on and on. This didn't even include the twists and turns of the plans relating to the reason I was here in the first place: to replace part of the house's sewer system. I struggled to find a new set of lines, to feel where the current was, how it was moving, and how to deal with it. The wrong choice and - bloop - you flip. You swim. You can get pretty banged up that way. 

Here's where the angels come in (you were wondering how all of this river talk related to that idea, didn't you?) Sometimes if you pause for a split second, breathe, and let the current take you - just long enough to feel where you need to be, where it wants you to be - you can be guided to a new line that takes you where you need to go. You get back on track. Maybe it wasn't a smooth ride. But it may have been an instructive one. Maybe you discovered a new line or new lunch rock or swimming hole. Maybe you improved your cross draw on your "bad" side. Maybe that's just what you needed and didn't know it. But the angels did. They pushed you into the right current. 

This summer I learned that sometimes my Italian was surprisingly good enough to get me through a situation and discouragingly bad enough to make it impossible to get through others without a lot of help. I discovered a new service station with a nice guy who patiently led me through the inspection process for my new "bombola" - gas tank for the GPL gas. I learned that the carabinieri can be really nice when they are taking your robbery report. I learned that there is such a thing as a pear and gorgonzola pizza and that it is yummy. I learned more about Italian real estate and tax laws than I ever wanted to know. But that I needed to know. You learned these things because your angels, the currents that move you along, pushed you into line. 

Like paddling, you may end up wet, tired, and bruised. You may not have gotten what you wanted, but from "figuring it out", from working over and over to stay upright, you got exactly what you needed. The angels steered you there. Damn them. 

The Figs of Wrath

The Figs of Wrath

            Ok. So not really wrath. Maybe a little wrath at times. Or great annoyance. But definitely figs. 

    This has been a summer of change and of the unexpected. Of a different experience of this place and its people. The entire year, of course, has been one unexpected occurrence after another. Mostly due to the unexpected appearance of a spiky little micoscopic ball called Mr. Corona. 

    For most of the spring I thought I would not be here at all. My May 14 flight was cancelled, exchanged for a voucher to use at some point in the uncertain future. That I am here at all is a minor miracle of a confluence of circumstances: 

online classes, an affordable flight, and some blind faith in my ability to survive it surrounded by 200 + strangers in masks of various effectiveness.

    But the biggest difference in this summer and summers past is the activity of people here. There are few folks strolling in an evening passeggiata, the summer festivals are gone. Our own eagerly anticipated San Donato Festival was scaled back to include only the religious part of the event. There were no vendors of tacky plastic blow up toys, or cellophane sleeves of lupini beans or peanuts. No food trucks with people lining up for a porchetta sandwich or il hamburger con patatine fritte. The local restaurants have dispensed with open freezers full of artigianale gelato. I have to drive 15 minutes to the nearest gelateria. It's great gelato. But still. I used to be able to walk to the local Bar Viale and have a coppa piccola with my favorite combination: choccolato fondante e pistacchio. I could sit outside and eat it while listening to the older men argue over cards or yell at the calcio game on the outside TV. 

There is not the never ending urging to come inside and have coffee and un dolce. I don't have to worry about refusing to keep from getting fat. For the first time in 10 years, doors are mostly closed to invitations to step through them.

    Plus....because I was not here in June, I missed the first fig harvest. Can I tell you how much I love fresh figs? Back in the US, I scour grocery stores to see which ones stock them. I buy as much as I can eat before they get rotten and then go back and buy more. I cut them up and drizzle miele di castagna - chestnut honey- all over them. It is my favorite snack food. The next harvest is in September, It is touch and go as to whether or not it will occur before I fly back to the US.

    But two days ago, on one of my bi-weekly run/slogs down the hilly country road west of town, my eyes alighted on deep purple globes nestled among the signature crenolated green leaves of a fig tree. Ripe figs! I noted their location and sped (my version)) along. 

    The return journey of the run is hilly - with most of it going up. But this day, I was on a mission that was more than working out my cardio vascular system and strengthening my glutes. I was going to harvest figs! My eyes were trained on every tree as I slogged along, making sure I wouldn't miss my target. It came into sight just as I had anticipated - just beyond a farm with a vast garden full of tomato vines supported by tepee shaped bamboo trusses. I stopped and began to fill my pockets. I pulled one, two, three, a half dozen figs off the tree. I grasped the branches and bent them towards me. I ripped the fruit from them and stuffed every pocket. When there was no more room, I emptied my water bottle and began to fill it. Rip. Tear. It was as if I was gathering all that I missed. All that had been lost as a result of those spikey balls. All I wanted to regain and with which to fill myself. I was trying with a vengeance to recoup it all. I became frantic with desire for those figs. I cried and tore and stuffed, giving way to my grief and anger.. When I was laden as far as I could get, I continued the run, being oh so careful on the gravely parts of the road not to slip and fall and squish my treasure. My symbols of the normalcy of past summers. 

    

Sunset after a storm

Flowers on the Terrazzo

    I've now washed and set out the figs on the table. I hope they're ripe. I hope they're edible. I hope they will somehow fill the hole that has been left by all that is missing this summer. 

     If not, if the figs prove only table decoration, I've realized that there is a lot that is still here: sunsets, the flowers on my terrazzo, the mountains - that are always here as a reminder that even with change, even with the unexpected, there is constancy, strength, permanence.

A Gran Sasso View from Monte Camarda

Mountain Reflections

 There are new and different and beautiful changes, too, like the new fountain on the belevedere. 

There is hope that change does not mean end. It means.... maybe that we harvest things in a new way and at a different time. Maybe we just enjoy what is there differently. Maybe.....

Summiting a Peak