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
