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24/05: Fireflies and Goodbyes
The days are hot, and the shadows of the mill are a welcome relief, the afternoons turn golden. The nights here are bright; a silvery sliver of the moon casts a light through the night casting shadows of the trees and the mill. In the grass in front of the house fireflies have appeared – we dragged a heavy blanket out last night and watched as the fireflies darted through the dark around and above us. The girls held a wide-mouthed glass milk bottle and filled it with the bugs snatched in mid-flight from the air. Lizzie kept count as Zoe gathered more; they both shared the deeper darkness under a blanket and watched as the bugs blinked, a pale yellow green lighting up their faces. Lizzie declared the were searching for “love in a bottle.”The night is filled with noises, like living in a jungle. Night birds sing, frogs croak, crickets creek and nameless other animals call out in the darkness. All of the noises seem to taunt the dog on the hill in Castello, he barks sharply, trying to scare of the noises in the night.
It is during the night that it becomes so evident that we are far away from everyone. The first cool night we were here we gathered together, warm, in one large bed, and listened as a windstorm raged outside. It rattled the windows and howled around the corners, it seemed cold and harsh, damp and isolated. Now these stone walls warm hot to the touch during the day, and the lizard scamper away, running in and out of the doorways as we walk outside. The same warm stones radiate their heat through the cool of the evening. The windows stay open through the night – no mosquitoes.
We said goodnight to the mill and to the fireflies. Zoe opened the top to the bottle, and a couple of blinking fireflies dart out into the night, the rest we tap out into our hand and blow away. We are all well aware that we only have a few days left here, none of us says it out loud. The crescent moon set behind the tower on the hill, and we disappeared into the welcoming warm glow of the lights in the mill and shut the doors on the night.
24/05: No Water
On his way between Milan and Ravenna Andy stopped to spend a couple days with us here at the mill. After a day of catching up and painting I awoke, and made my way down the little spiral staircase to turn on the water for coffee only to find a small dribble coming out of the kitchen faucet that ended in a couple drops and then… nothing.Andy joined me in the kitchen, I asked, “did you notice we have no water pressure this morning?”
“I didn’t want to say anything,” he replied kindly “but yes, I did.”
So I called Riccardo, who was cutting in and out on the cell phone – “the water is turned on up by the cemetery in Monteromano, go up and see if someone has turned it off.” Was all I caught before he cut out again. So I began the steep climb to Monteromano to find out what had happened to our water.
I made my way up the hill, and passed the little orchard and vineyard when I met an old man from the village slowly making his way to the fields. He looked at me, a little as if he had seen a ghost emerging from the wilderness, and then said (as best as I could make out). “You have no water, do you?” Yes, I said we are without water and explained that I was making my way to the cemetery to check to see if I could turn it on.
“No, No,” he said in an amused voice, “No water at the cemetery.”
He walked with me very slowly toward the town and explained that the stream that fed the town’s cistern had begun to dry up in this warmer, dryer, season and that they had switched on the pump that pulled water from the river below the town, but the pump was broken. So they had disconnected the water to all non-essentials – such as the town’s water troughs that are always flowing and the cemetery. “They forgot about the Americans,” he laughed, pointing at the capped end of the plastic pipe with his cane. He explained that the water had been turned off four days ago. We had been living off the water in the pipe between the cemetery and the house since then.
He invited me into his home in Monteramano, which was also the home of Theresa, his wife, who we had met many times before. She warned me to watch my head as I ducked inside the door, into her little kitchen, where I was offered a seat near the wood-burning kitchen stove, tomato sauce bubbling under a dented aluminum lid beside me. In the corner of the room a color-lithographed portrait of Christ smiled down, and a shelf was lined with photographs of the extended family.
She called the water company, Acqua Nuova, and explained to them the problem. I could not understand all of the conversation, but I did make out enough to understand that they asked her if turning it back on was something that needed to be done immediately. “Yes!” Theresa declared dramatically “they have two little girls and they have been without water for four days!!!!”
With some satisfaction, I thanked Theresa and Primo and made my way back down the hill to tell my news. In my experience the wheels of bureaucracy move slowly in Italy, so I did not hold up much hope for water any time soon. Back at the mill we gathered buckets of water from the stream below to flush the toilet - carefully supervised by the girls to assure we did not inadvertently scoop up any of the thousands of precious little tadpoles.
We needed to get Andy to the train station in Rimini – so, after espresso made from a lonely bottle of “acqua frizzante” in the refrigerator, we drove away from the Mulino hoping for the best. When we arrived home that evening we were happy too find torrents of water issuing from the faucet. Thanks to the help of Theresa and Primo, our temporary drought was only a memory, the only left over effect being a little water-skeeter swimming around and around in our toilet.
Today we returned back up the hill and presented Theresa with a little hanging moss rose. Lizzie approached her as she sat with her husband and a group of other locals in the afternoon shade in the little piazza in front of the church, and shyly placed the basket at her feet. A small offering in thanks for greasing the wheels of bureaucracy and starting the water to flow once again.
24/05: Sorbetolo
When we lived in Oklahoma, we spent many evening plein aire painting in the gently sloping hills of the western Oklahoma prairie with our good friends Andy, Bob, and Joe. We have had the good fortune of replicating those wonderful afternoons with Andy when he visited us this week. But, this time we took our paints up into the rolling hills of the Montefeltro, and we had two little girls to accompany us, painting and drawing in the late afternoon, golden, Italian sun.We chose a beautiful spot way up in the hills between Piandameleto and San Angelo in Vado. There is a church there, called Sorbetolo and the farmer who found us painting there told us its sad story;
With its declining population, isolated position and worsening structural safety the church had been closed. But the locals had decided to raise money to open it once again. Mimicking other efforts in the area that had succeeded they planned festivals, went door to door with hat in hand, and did everything possible to raise money for the restoration. Part of this plan included opening the doors of the church to people, to show what a beautiful spot and structure it is. This led to disaster. Someone came into the church in the night and stole the main painting over the alter and the tabernacle. “Now,” the farmer explained and Andy translated “it is an empty four walls. No one will give anything.”
The church now sits on the hill, empty, its big brass bells silent, and the locals looking for a buyer. There is a hastily scribbled note posted at the church declaring, “The festival is off.” It would take less than 100.000 euro to buy the place and a bit more to make it into a “jewel” according to the farmer. Or you could make your way up and spend beautiful afternoon painting its views as we did. Listening to the cowbells clank on the hillside below, and vying with the birds for the ripening cherries that surround the old church.
22/05: I have lost my text!!!
Getting access to the internet has been more difficult as of late - and it seems I neglected to bring my text for these images - check back later, I will post it as soon as I can.
22/05: The Ape
The Ape is a fixture on the Italian road. It is the workhorse, or perhaps work-donkey of small town Italy. For Italian men it is the first, and last vehicle they are likely ever to drive. They are a little three-wheeled truck, a small bed in back that I have seen piled twice as high as the vehicle itself with artichokes, switches and branches. There is a little cab, with enough room for you and your ladylove. I have never seen a woman driving an Ape, but I have seen women, old and young, squished in next to their beaus, sharing the same small space, breathing the same air. You need no license to drive an Ape, and, so can share the road with the rest of the traffic as early as 14 years. Old men also drive them for the same reason, as it is compulsory to take driving tests when you are older, and failing does not bar you from the pleasures of an Ape. Though the models are all the same there is a distinct visual difference between the Ape of the old and young. The youthful Ape are often bright colors, cherry red, buffed and polished, with stickers slapped of the sides and back, often of the Michelin man. They are decked out in all the accoutrements; visors, tinted windows and even foils. The Ape of the aged in contrast appear as they have been through the great war; dented, tilting slightly, faded blue often repainted with former colors showing through.I am told that every year there are races for tuned-up Apes in the village of Carpegna, not far from us, up the valley, where they race around a course at break-neck speed. As it is their top sustained speed appears to be about 50mph (going down hill with a swift tail wind). If you find yourself behind a long row of cars on the curving back roads of Italy, there is likely an Ape at the front, perhaps it is dusk, the single light shines as it buzzes on toward home. Yes, I am fond of the stereotypical Italian Vespa Scooter, but my heart secretly longs for an Ape, perhaps one might fit in the overhead compartment.
10/05: The Ballad of Fossil Rock
We parked our car outside the walls of the Medici fortress, and walked around its tall walls and past fountains and into the old city, Zoe skipping along, and Lizzie carrying her collection of little rags dolls in a patchwork bag that her Grandma had specially made for them. We descended past the Basilica of San Domenico and made our way down to the site of the her childhood home, now the site numerous colonnades, porticos and chapels dedicated to the 15th century Saint, and our resting spot for the night; the Santuario di Santa Caterina – Alma Domus. Tara and Elena had a balcony and an incredible view that they shared with girls of the striped Duomo that dominates the city skyline. It was only after walking through the Palazzo Pubblico, and touring the basilica and duomo that we sat down to dinner and Lizzie broke into tears. “I lost Fossil Rock. I remember a flash of color, but you were calling to us after we left the car.”
After the girls fell asleep, we left them in the good care of Aunt and Grandma and walked out into the moonlit Siena night to hunt for Fossil Rock. Tory and I first stopped at the cavernous Fonte Branda fountain, that echoed below our rooms. Here, in medieval times it was said that werewolves threw themselves into the waters at dawn to turn back into humans. After howling at the moon, and the girl’s window, we wound our way back up the hill and the narrow streets to the car. No Fossil Rock. And so, before giving up hope, we began to retrace our steps of that morning. Past the hedges, along the stone streets and there, at the fountain we found Fossil Rock, sodden and discarded on a heap of trash in garbage can. We washed her scraggly hair and button eyes in fountain, and as the bells boomed out of the Basilica tower above us at 7:00 am, Lizzie’s eyes popped open to find her little green-haired friend on her pillow.
10/05: The Beaten Path
In these last two weeks we have found ourselves on the roads more traveled, taking trips to the destination that have called to people for thousands of years. Now, as the weather turns a sunny warm, the streets of these cities; San Gimignano, Siena, Rome are full of travelers and we found ourselves brushing shoulders with others speaking many different languages and peering up and shuffling past sunny landmarks and darkened frescoes.There is so much to see, and we saw lot; the ancient marbles of the Capitaline Museum in Rome, the columns of the Sacred way frozen in a state of elegant decline, the shell-shaped Piazza in Siena, where the famous, violent horse race is held each year. In each location the girls had a completely different view, one without preconceptions. They appreciated what appealed to them, sometimes the same bright beautiful colors of Raphael or the enormous blocks of sculpted marble that drew our eyes. Just as often they were drawn to little empty niches in the walls where “church fairies” live and played tag among the broken bits of fluted columns and colonnades.
They are so very young, now just seven and five, I wonder what they will remember from this experience. Lizzie has adopted Italian words into her vocabulary, and Zoe sat yesterday on the sun of the late morning and painted a Madonna and child on a flat stone. Both are content to chew on great hunks of Parmesan.
