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

Notes from Your Correspondent on the Ground

Notes from Your Correspondent on the Ground

Around the Corner in Castiglione Messer Raimondo

The Journey: 

 I am heading back to Italy. Americans are not allowed in at this point. But I am an Italian citizen and officially registered as a resident in my little town. There is a house to care for. There is my soul to heal. I go. 

Curbside at HIA

Harrisburg

Wide open, empty space in an airport? I've rarely flown out of Harrisburg "International" so I can't say how different this is. All I can say is that I've never seen any airport I've been in so empty. 

The staff was so relaxed, friendly, and REAL (as in - like real people-to-people interaction not official veneer mode) - you almost felt like you were at a spa instead of an airport. Yes - that  surreal!

The plane was so empty the flight attendant actually said "Go ahead and sit wherever you want so you can maintain social distance." Everyone moved to optimize the space. Everyone wore a mask. 

And then.....

Dulles!

I thought having my second stop in a small-ish airport would also make this leg somewhat laid back. I thought I could ease my way gradually up to the larger airport that was my last layover in Frankfurt. 

But NO!

It was chaos. 

It felt like the airport and United staff were caught off guard with a renewed crush of travelers (or Europeans trying to get the heck out of Dodge) and they were making stuff up as they went along. There was a crowd of people going every which way, trying to determine which line they should be in. There were at least 4:

2 for boarding

1 for a "document check" for people holding American passports

1 (or so) for a document check for people holding non-American passports.

And some scattered milling about between all of them. 

It was hard to tell which line was which. You couldn't board without the "document check".  So even  if your seat number was called for boarding, if you got to the front of the boarding line without the stamp on your boarding pass that verified you'd been "checked", you were sent to the back of the "document check" line. 

Like me.

As a result, I was the VERY last one to board the plane.

The check-in guy turned to the gate attendant and said,

"We're good to go. Master-bruno is here."

"Mastr-oh-bwon-oh", I corrected him.

He was still looking at the gate attendant.

"Yeah. Master-bruno is the last one."

But I have to say, once we were high in the air and I looked out the window into the clouds, the joy of being airborne was delicious. 

The Plane

Full. Packed. No possible social distancing. The only thing about it that looked COVID-minded was that everyone was wearing masks. Most properly. 

Of course, United DID give me the option to re-book if this situation didn't suit my taste. 

Right. 

From one mess to another. 

United had already nearly sabotaged the trip by re-routing my return journey with an impossible connection. Without telling me. 

Anyone for a 10:20 AM flight out of Rome, with a connection in Brussels at 10:10 AM? 

i didn't realize I had booked time travel. 

I was not initially allowed to check in because of this impossibility. An unhappy Italian woman is not a pleasant Italian woman. The travel agent with whom I'd booked changed my return itinerary within an hour. 

So - I subjected myself to the sardine can that was UA flight 989 and sat in an aisle seat facing the aisle, creating as much breathing room as possible between me and my fellow passengers. 

I didn't eat or drink anything during the flight. I'd brought my own, thank you. I ate when no one else did, pulling up my mask just to put food in my mouth and then pulling it down to chew. When the rest of the passengers ate, all simultaneously with their faces uncovered, I tried to hold my breath for as long as possible between taking in air. Could they not have staggered the feeding so that 200+ people did not go naked faced in a small metal box all at once? 

In no time I stunk to high heaven of alcohol wipes and hand sanitizer. 

Shortly after the feeding ended, the flight attendants passed our forms we were required to fill out that asked for our names, destinations, contact information, and certifying that we had no COVID symptoms and hadn't had any for the past 14 days. Um. Shouldn't that have been asked BEFORE we boarded the plane? What if I said, "Yeah, I have a fever and chills and have had a dry cough for the past week."? What were they going to do? Issue me a parachute and oxygen mask and boot me out the door? 

Usually I nod off shortly after the plane reaches cruising altitude. Not this time. Difficult to sleep with a continuously screaming baby (how do they have the stamina to do that for 7 hours?) and an unhappy dog somewhere within 5 rows of mine. Plus, I didn't want to chance slumping over onto the giant man sitting next to me in the middle seat. He should have had his own plane, never mind his own row! He might have been a little peeved if I'd drooled on him in my sleep, as well.  I didn't want to chance it. My only choice was to lean away, into the din. I did finally fall into a deep sleep. Only to be nudged shortly after by this same man so his travel companion in the window seat could exit to go to the bathroom. Timing is everything. 

Frankfurt

Ahhhh....Europe. They've been dealing with this COVID thing longer and with more organization than the US. Everyone at the airport was masked, except those eating.Most even wore them properly - covering both mouth AND nose.Some people even wore both masks and face shields. I gave that piece of equipment a D-, though. I ditched them early on. They're ok if you enjoy the feeling of walking through thick fog, guessing what was a foot in front of you. 

Marks for standing 1 1/2 meters apart were everywhere. Seats sealed off so you could not sit directly next to anyone. 

Every 15 minutes or so there was an announcement about travel safety:

"We would like to remind you that it is obligatory to wear a covering over your nose and mouth at all times. And to remain 1.5 meters distant from other travelers. Thank you for your cooperation." 

No one pointed an automatic weapon at the loudspeaker and threatened to blow it to bits for taking away their liberty. How quaint. 

I allowed myself to purchase food and drink at an airport eatery. Then found a secluded place where I could eat. Airport food never tasted so scrumptious. I realized I had eaten only a plastic container of rice and broccoli and a few cherries since I'd left home 16 hours ago. 

I settled in to wait for my flight to Rome to board.

And waited. And waited. And waited. For 4 hours at Gate A62 - the departure gate listed on my boarding pass and all the departures boards throughout the airport. 

1:30 PM. local time. Boarding time for my 2 PM flight.

I listened for my group to be called. 

But,wait. They're giving boarding instructions in German and....not Italian. Some language I don't understand. ???? And there are too many numbers for this flight to match my flight number. I walk to the gate counter. The flight listed on the board above it is going to Warsaw, Poland.

Whaaaaaaaa..............???

Frantically, I try to open the United app I've just installed on my phone. It is taking forever to access flight information. So I hoist my backpack on aching shoulders, put the rolling suitcase wheels into 5th gear, and race to find the nearest flight departure board. And race. And race. Putting every bit of conditioning of thrice weekly, 3 1/2 mile runs to maximum use. Think it's hard shopping in a mask? Try running with a 15 -16 pound weight on your back pulling an equal or greater amount of weight behind you. And this gal ain't no spring chicken, honey. 

Finally -like the Lady of the Lake - a departure board appears ahead of me. My flight is listed -  leaving from Gate A1.

It is now 1:40. More running. But is it a straight line down the terminal to A1? Heck, no! There are at least 2 turn-offs into new, loooooong corridors. Speedier running. 

At 1:50 I finally see people gathered up ahead. Through the glasses which have now slipped down to my upper lip, I can barely make out the sign above the check-in counter. I think it says "A1". And I think the destination is Roma Fiumicino. 

Yes!

I scoot into the first line I see. It's raining like crazy outside. And gusty. Will we even take off?

Yes, again!

As soon as we do, I close my eyes. When I open them again, I look out the oval window to see it framing the red terracotta rooftops and ochre fields of the Italian countryside. 

I'm home!

When I enter my actual home 2 1/2 hours later, I unmask myself for the first time in over 24 hours. There are deep grooves behind my ears and red crescents under my eyes.I strip naked and throw my clothes into a plastic garbage bag, including my shoes. I never want to see them again. I shower, then march straight to the kitchen and gorge myself on the salami, cheese, and fresh tomatoes my property manager has left for me. After which I collapse in bed.

The next morning I part the shutters of the front bedroom to open the scene on the Gran Sasso Mountains glowing purple-grey in the new sun. Birds glide on the updrafts rising from the valley below them. Olive groves on their slopes shine silver-green in full leaf. 

The church bells start to ring.

My hungry soul begins to be sated.

I would walk through fire for this. 

The Gran Sasso Mountains (un photo-shopped) 

The Sense of Being

 We are making our way around the walled perimeter of town on our evening camminatata. Me, my Italian friend and neighbor, Carina, and my friend Kristen, another "Americana" who was smitten by this town and bought a house here. Four circumnavigations around the outer walls equals 5 k. We pump our arms and encourage each other, chatting in English amd Italian, falling to silence when the hills demand all our lung power. As we move through a narrow alley lined with terraced houses, Kristen exclaims, "There are so many smells!"
So there are! We start to identify each: coffee, begun now for the post-dinner accompaniment to i dolci, fried pepper aroma left over from the main dish, bread which has begun baking at il forno, which is what the locals still call the grocery store, even though it is now more than its original  incarnation of the town bakery. The bread will be fresh and ready for sale tomorrow morning. I make a mental note to get up early. There is an array of other smells I can't identify, but they linger as we motor past their sources, strong and distinct, giving us an extra dash of pleasure and pep. They form a sensory collage of life in this village.

  

 It occurs to me then how much your senses are heightened and fully engaged here. Sound bounces off of stone walls with sharp clarity and echoes in the dips between the hills. There is a seeming closeness and immediacy to conversations going on around you, even outside of the separating walls of your house. One friend told me from the loggia of his home in the country he can hear folks talking in the town a few kilometers away. When I eat dinner on my terrazzo I can hear the young voices and guitar accompaniment of evening mass happening below and around the corner. It's like having my own private house concert.

 All the sounds are clear and sharp. Their vibrations tingle in the air. There is little motorized sound to overpower it. No traffic buzzes by incessantly, producing a constant drone. If you are up early enough, you might catch the creak and rattle of a tractor cutting hay. You might hear yourself gasp as you watch it turn sideways to change direction horizontal to the steep grade,feeling your heart pound as you marvel that it doesn't tip over. 

You might catch the occasional rumble of a construction vehicle straining up the road. Going god knows where it's possible to go on roads that grow narrower and narrower as they go higher and higher. 

You can gauge life by your senses here. The screech of a rolling metal door means Alessandro is opening his tabacchi shop. It mist be 8:30 AM. The smell of garlic browning with a chaser of aroma of hot passata  means it's nearing 11. Pranzo is being prepared. A bit of smoke in the air means the pizzeria is heating up the wood ovens.   Must be 7 PM. And the sizzle and aroma of meat coming from several places around town means arrosticini is cooking. Lots of it. There must be a big soccer match on TV.  Expect a raucous night.

It is as if your senses are being played like a fine, masterfully crafted instrument. A string plucked here, a key pressed there.  Becoming a part of a symphony of sensory enlivenment. The sounds,sights,smells, tastes, touch are a rhapsody of life. Experiencing it, you thrum, you buzz, you hum with life yourself. You cannot escape feeling fully alive. But then, why would you want to? 

Tonight the pizza smells so good,the laughter at tables below me on the bellevedere is so sparkling, I'm going down to share in it. I can already taste the "salume piccante" on my classic pie! 

Bells are Telling

In my mind I call him a little  old farmer guy, although he may not be much older than I am. His grey/white hair is cropped so close to his head you can see his sunburned scalp. He sits in a boxy Fiat Panda, green paint faded, seats leaking batting everywhere, rust dotting the open druver’s side door. A song crackles in and out from a tinny radio, but he seems not to hear it. He is hunched over a sheet of lottery tickets, scratching away. I wonder what he is wishing for. I see him every day I go for a run down the country road that leads to the surrounding farms. I pass him driving towards town on my way out and see him sitting there on my way back. We have never spoken, but recognize each other because of our rituals and always raise a hand in a salute of acknowledgment.
My ritual is temporary, though. After three months of pounding down and huffing up the dusty, rutted dirt road, I will return to my brightly lit, air conditioned gym with the smooth sprung floors and state of the art workout machines. I will grunt and stretch alongside men and women in stylish technical workout wear. Little old farmer guy will continue to sit in his car in his sleeveless white T-shirt or plaid cotton shirt and work jeans, scratching off his tickets.
I will leave the women sitting on a bench across from the church steps, sides touching, slightly leaning into each other, like young girls waiting to be asked to dance. They are actually waiting for the statue of the Virgin Mary to emerge from the church door, carried on sturdy shoulders of volunteers to be transported through narrow alleys for one of the regular  feast days. They may have left votive candles with pictures of saints on them burning on windowsills.
I will leave the town to the echoes of the music of Danilo’s fish truck. It announces his arrival every Tuesday and Thursday at 8:30. Or 9. Or 10:30. You never know.But he always arrives.
I will leave the town to views of newly cut hay lying in curving lines arranged as artfully as any painting. I’ll leave the regular wait in the post office that is filled with talk of why the air conditioner isn’t cooling the room off or with updates on a mamma’s illness.
I will leave the town to its ongoing life, to its steady pulse.
It is a quiet Sunday afternoon as I write this. It is hot, so people are either indoors or at “il mare “  cooling off in the water. Only the pigeons are taking advantage of free water in the town fountain below - bobbing for a drink or fluttering for a bath. Here on my little terrazzo it is just me and the bells above in the church bell tower.
The bells! They are calm now. But earlier they were rambunctious- swinging, booming, insistent in their jubilant announcement of ALMOST mass, START of mass, communion, END of mass. When they have fulfilled their duty to the faith, they continue their duty to time- sounding it out in regular intervals.
When I first opened Casa da Carmine to guests I was terrified the bells regular rolling would send them running. I went to the commune to see about silencing them at night. Or dampening them on Sunday mornings. I wrote a letter to the mayor pleading my case. I lined the bedroom windows with noise-dampening curtains. On the audio program on my laptop I checked and rechecked the ambient noise levels against acceptable standards.
I went to the priest. He listened sympathetically then said I must go to the commune. I wrote another letter. I waited. I fretted. Even after glowing reviews came in. I waited for the other shoe to drop or bell clapper to wallop me upside the head. If only the bells could be silenced! What the heck- don’t people have clocks! Why do they need the damn bells!
A few weeks after this summer’s arrival I stood with my neighbor Fernando at the bellevedere across from the bell tower. The bells began to peal, robust and sonorous, swinging with mesmerizing grace despite their massive size. I threw my arms our towards them.
“Ahhh! Quelle campagne!! [Those bells]
Fernando smiled up at them.
Ah, sì! Nostre campagne! Senza le campagne non si sta bene! [Ah, yes! Our bells! Without our bells we don’t do well!]
I recalled then one visit to the commune. I was talking to a police officer, who would ultimately have to give the safety okay for anyone to go up and adjust the bells. When I proposed a partial moratorium on their ringing, he chuckled.
“Well “, he said, “One time the bells were broken. The commune wasn’t going to fix them. But the old women of the town stormed over to the mayor and demanded they be fixed. We’ve never let them go silent since, But you can try.”
Now I thought of the ladies sitting on the bench, widows all. They wear lockets with their husband’s photos in them around their necks. I imagine them awakening in the middle of the night, alone in bed. Alone for who knows how many years? Sleepy.Wondering “Is it time to get up to start another day? Should I lie here?”
The bells cut the silence and answer “ No, it’s too early.” Or “Yes, go ahead. It’s okay.”
Their vibrations fill empty space like a heartbeat. The women can rise or rest, assured.
And I admit, they have saved me from missing a bus when the alarm didn’t go off, from
 baking bread when I was lost in Facebook. They have reminded me to get my rear in gear when running so I don’t miss a meeting with friends.
The bells, when I leave, will continue to be their bells, though. They are their bells, everyone’s bells in their town, the town where everyone lives while I’m gone. They live with the bells and all the town presents or withholds day after day. They live with their love of it, then sorrows, frustrations, memories, joys, celebrations, rituals. Their hopes for a lottery win. They open themselves and their town for me and my guests to see. They share all they are and all that have willingly, generously. All that is here. Including the bells.