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.