#67: Italy, July – December 2009
Hornets, Hunters and Holidays

July

Last May, when I was rushing to get ready for our Stateside trip, I twice jammed my baby finger on the right hand and later pushed it up and over the back of the hand. Just soft tissue damage, I thought and went off to the States, blithely pulling luggage through airports, lifting heavy things and doing stupid stuff. When we got home in early June, the finger was still swollen and hurting, but I gave it another few weeks before taking up a doctor’s time with something that might not be serious. Well, it didn’t get better, and now we have come to the long-story-short part. After a trip to Rome to see a hand specialist and a trip to Terni for X-rays, we’ve learned no, it isn’t broken, but yes, it’s banged up pretty bad. The orthopedist gave me three injections directly into the joint (painful!) and prescribed a two-week regimen of daily capsules and bandaging with medicine-impregnated pads. In the meantime, I’m to use the finger as little a possible. Never knew how much I did use it until now.

Summertime, so lots of entertaining and being entertained, including lunch so an Italian grandson could practice his English,  a Fourth of July party rescheduled for the 19th after a horrific storm on The Day, an overnight visit with daughter and granddaughter of (step)sister Mary Anne and a wedding party hosted by helper Mario for his oldest son.

On the book front, British mentor, author Sally Spedding, put in a good word for me and sent my first three chapters and a synopsis to her agent, who’ll take a look and get in touch directly. (Please buy Sally’s books!)

August

Unusually hot and humid with rains the latest I can remember. Forest fires everywhere with firemen working miracles. Baby finger will never be normal, but it’s close enough.

The main news is The Great Hornet Wars. All summer long, we’ve been finding a hornet in the kitchen now and then. Hornets here are pretty serious. For example, neighbors’ son Jiosue (Jo-su-eh) ended up in the hospital for three days after a sting. Local people treat hornets with great respect. We assumed our intermittent hornets were coming down the chimney and just waited for them to light so we could smash them to hornet heaven. However, one day they came down in great numbers, one after the other, and we knew we had a Big Problem. First, we managed to kill all the ones in the kitchen. Then, thinking we must have a nest in the chimney, we lit a fire in the fireplace to smoke them out. We kept it going for the better part of an hour (in this heat!), but no hornets flew out of the roof’s chimney. So now what? After the fireplace and chimney cooled, the hornets kept flying down, but only one or two a day. Still, that was concerning.

Mario came the next day, and we talked the problem over with him. He had us light a fire again, but no hornets flew out of the chimney. So he carefully examined the eaves with our binoculars. Sure enough, high up and in a corner, masked by being nearly the same color as the wooden beams, he found a nest. So Mario and Russell went to the agricultural supply store and bought a spray that shoots over a distance of 5 meters, plus three syringes and three vials of cortisone in case they got stung during the fight. Tall Russell climbed halfway out of the nearest window while small Mario held onto his leg. Then R let fly with a blast of hornet-killer, and they sure got mad. Russell jumped back inside, and the two men closed the window just in time. I was standing on the driveway and could easily see those hornets swarming around, looking for somebody to hurt. Before long, they felt the hurt themselves and began falling from the sky. The next day, as expected, those hornets which hadn’t been in the nest had returned, so R gave ’em another shot. The day after that, no hornets in evidence, so Russell knocked down the nest and destroyed it. It was full of eggs, so who knows how much in danger we might have been if Mario hadn’t found the nest and advised us what to do.

Photo: Wikipedia

On a happier note, we went to Rome for a marvelous exhibition called “La Mente di Leonardo” (The Mind of Leonardo), making manifest Da Vinci’s incredible mentality. This man was interested in virtually everything — mechanics, architecture, optics, mathematics, metallurgy, flight, military engineering, theater set design, sculpture, painting and on and on. The exhibitors used the drawings and secret mirror-writing from Leonardo’s notebooks to create models and computer videos, bringing his inspirations to life. We’d expected to spend maybe an hour or so but ended up being there nearly three. Even then, we had to tear ourselves away.

Dear Old Zack has managed to hang on through summer, with good days and bad. The other morning, he couldn’t get up without help. Then he went outside, immediately fell down and just lay there. I had to wonder if we were near the end, but he’s bounced back, still decrepit in body but strong in spirit.

Hunting season is again upon us. During the last two weeks of August, the hunters “prove” their dogs. They’re allowed to take them out into the fields, without guns, to exercise them in following scents, obeying commands, etc. I don’t mind this period and find it rather interesting when I can watch them. However, a few mornings ago, we experienced a new low when it comes to local hunters. We got up, as usual, at 6:30. Russell happened to look out the window and saw something dark down in our olive grove. He got the binoculars and thought he could discern a wheel masked by cascading olive branches. I took a look and saw the same thing, so we put on our long pants and high socks, tied up Zack and headed down there. Sure enough, some hunter had driven his 4×4 into our field and tried to hide it among the olive trees. This is illegal. They’re supposed to stay on the roads, one of which goes right down to the valley’s river bottom. We discovered that the vehicle door wasn’t locked, so I started honking the horn. Russell spied the hunter’s dog way down the hill, running excitedly back and forth. I kept sounding the horn every few minutes. Finally, the hunter came up the hill, full of apologies and drove off. His actions showed he clearly knew he’d done wrong, and he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that he had to drive though the ready-to-harvest sunflowers in the next field, knocking down two rows as he zipped away. He’s lucky we didn’t call the cops, but we wanted to make the first contact polite yet firm. There are too many stories of hunters turning nasty when caught breaking the law by civilians.

[For unknown reasons, there seems to be no September letter in the file, so let’s go on to the next month.]

October

On Monday the 12th at 4 p.m., a severe storm swept down Italy from the North. One moment the weather was calm, and the next, it was literally as if the house had been hit by a bomb, so brutal were the wind and rain. When the storm struck, I was watching an action film on TV, and for a nanosecond, I thought what I’d heard was a special effect. Then I realized we were being battered by the most severe storm of my life, except for the time I was in Manila when a typhoon hit. Rain was coming in around our window frames, and the wind was so strong that we couldn’t go out to unleash Zack and bring him in. The poor dog stood inside the first bay of the outbuilding and endured the thrashing rain and wind for some 10 minutes. Finally, the storm calmed enough for me to put on my long slicker, sou’wester hat and rubber boots, run out, set him free and scoot together into the house. Outdoor furniture was blown all over the place, many of our plants sustained damage, and lots of tree branches came down. But we were lucky. Four people were killed, and there was lots of serious property damage all over central Italy.

The tree that sustained the most damage at our place was already in trouble, and we’d previously made an appointment with a specialist team to cut it down. They came near the end of the month, and it was very sad to see the felling of that enormous, old cypress, some six stories high. It felt like losing an old grandfather who’d survived many years of adventures with wonderful tales to tell. 

We also hired painters to do some touching up in the living room and to re-varnish the shutters. Then we got a locksmith to work on a few interior locks that weren’t operating properly, as well as changing an exterior lock for which we couldn’t find a key. All in all, we now feel like we’re ready for potential buyers, who’ll likely start showing up in the spring, we’re told.

All our animals continue to be strong in heart of not in body. This month, it was Baby Cat’s turn to suffer the effects of aging. She started losing weight at an alarming degree, accompanied by vomiting and diarrhea. After several visits to the vet and various tests, the diagnosis was hyper-thyroid. She’s now being fed three times a day, with medication twice a day. Our baby girl is already putting on weight. A happy ending to a worrying tale.

November 

On October 27, Signora C disappeared. A resident of  Montecampano (the hamlet above our property), a woman we knew from shopping at her little store, vanished. She came home in the afternoon with her husband, who then left to run an errand. An hour later, her sister brought Signora C’s teenage children from school. The door was unlocked, Signora C’s purse was on the table, but Signora C was nowhere to be found.

Questions and rumors immediately began to circulate. Had she gone for a walk and fallen into an old well? Had she been kidnapped? Should we all lock our doors and be on the lookout for strangers? Had she run off, finally overwhelmed by being married to a man who reputedly abused her? But why leave her purse behind, with the documents necessary for Italians to function on a daily basis? Come to that, would any woman leave her purse behind? Was there another man? Had she walked cross-country to meet him in Montoro? Why, in a small village, with all the little old ladies and little old men constantly watching the comings and goings of everyone, had no one seen what happened?

Within the week, the carabinieri, augmented by soldiers, began to search the surrounding countryside using sniffer-dogs. Twice. To no avail. Two postcards arrived from Florence for her children with the message not to worry, she was all right. They were signed with her name, but they were not in her handwriting, as confirmed by a police expert. Her sister went on TV and begged anyone who knew her whereabouts to contact the family. Her parents, who own the nearby agri-service business, stayed home, too devastated to continue their normal lives. Her younger sister ran the agri-service, and her 17 year-old son kept her shop open. All of them looked like the end of the world had come and gone, leaving them bereft.

The Internet began to buzz, and then some photos appeared on a website which seemed to hint at an explanation. They showed her making love with a Moroccan man who runs a local tobacco shop. His older Italian wife is said to have hired a detective to investigate what her handsome husband was up to. When she got the photos, she sent them to Signora C’s husband and posted them on the Web. The police were already suspecting the husband and brought him in for additional questioning. But they let him go for lack of evidence. To this day, no one knows what happened. No clues, only whispers: “He did it for honor. He’s Calabrese, you know.” (Here in central Italy, all Southern men are believed to be violently jealous of their honor.)

We also had our own family drama. On the morning of the 17th, I received a terse email from X, the man who has Aunt Ethel’s powers of attorney. He informed me that he was moving her to a life-care facility in Fredericksburg, some 40 miles south of Woodbine, the facility where she’s been staying since she was released from hospital after her fall this past August. As soon as the time difference allowed, I phoned her at Woodbine and caught her just before she was to leave. She indicated she was reluctant to move, but X had said it would be cheaper in F-burg, so she guessed she’d better go. I asked her if she knew where she was going, and she said, “Golden something.” After the call, I googled “Golden…life-care…Fredericksburg” and found a listing which I called the next day. They confirmed that she’d been admitted and even brought her to the nursing station so we could talk. She seemed lost and lonely but hopeful to make the best of it. X later installed a direct line in her room, and Ethel and I have been able to talk once a week, for which she seems inordinately grateful. During these conversations, it gradually came out that 36 year-old X is enrolling in a Fredericksburg college to get a teaching credential, starting in January. That seemed to be the main reason for the move, since it now appeared that the facility costs were going to be the same. I asked her why X moved her in November if he wasn’t going to be in Fredericksburg until January. She replied that she wasn’t happy about that, but there was nothing she could do. And there’s nothing I can do. As long as she’s given such far-reaching powers to X and is not ruled totally senile, I can’t help her, even if she’s unhappy.

Better news: We went down to Rome for flu shots and took in an exhibition of “Rome, The Painting of an Empire.” Although the frescoes and landscapes were interesting, what I found most affecting were the funerary portraits preserved by the dry climate in the Egyptian oasis of Fayyum. It felt as if I were looking across the centuries into living eyes. 

We then went to a small grocery store catering to foreigners, where we stocked up on canned pumpkin and cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving. Good thing we laid in supplies, because we ended up hosting seven for Thanksgiving, including best friend Bettina, visiting from LA. I decided not to roast a whole turkey and served turkey breast stuffed with ham and herbs, accompanied by various appetizers and then Waldorf salad, green beans with almonds, rice and cranberry sauce. Pumpkin pie for dessert, followed by fresh fruit and chocolates. We had a mini-UN of guests: 1 Turk, 1 Dutchman, 1 Scot, 1 Italian, plus 3 Americans. A jolly table-full who lingered til midnight.

December

As the year ends, I realize I like growing older. LOTS less to worry about, most of which was pretty silly anyway. More serene, more accepting. I hear people say they’d like to be young again, but thanks to the examples of Dad, his sister Anne and others, I’m looking forward to finding out what else life will bring.

The big news this month is that, due to a substantial tax refund, we’re going on a couple holidays. We’d thought that money was gone, so we decided to use the windfall in a memorable way. The icing on the cake was when Russell discovered he’d amassed thousands of points on his AmEx card. Use ’em or lose ’em. So we organized a trip to Morocco in January and a Christmas holiday in Venice.

Photo: wanderingitaly.com

The latter was a farewell tour of our favorite Italian city and one of our world-favorites as well. We prefer to stay in local hotels, but we made an exception this time because the AmEx points could be transferred to our Hilton Honors card. So we checked into the 5-star Hilton on Giudecca Island. Kudos to Hilton for rescuing a Venice landmark, a 19th century flour mill with a pointy tower, fancy brickwork and great views. But bleh to them for creating cavernous spaces and labyrinthine passages with no soul, despite the wonderful architecture they had to work with. Still, it was a great location, and the hotel provided a shuttle boat to St. Mark’s Square, as well as to the neighborhood of Dorsoduro. From these two landings, we could walk to almost every place we wanted to visit.

The landing at Dorsoduro led to a small inn and restaurant, which served us such a good lunch that we returned for another the next day. Gnocchi with guinea fowl and wild mushroom sauce — doesn’t that sound like a great winter dish? And how about rabbit with shaved carrots braised in balsamic vinegar? Thought I’d died and gone to culinary heaven. 

Still on the topic of food, one of the reasons we’d chosen the Hilton was so we could have a traditional American Christmas dinner. Wrong! We got some very nice fish instead. Delicious and typical of Venetian cuisine, but not exactly Christmasy from our point-of-view.

We must be slipping down the slope of Olde Fogeydom, because we were surprised to see that the other diners had on ripped jeans, track suits and T-shirts. With the exception of a Scandinavian couple, Russell was the only man in a coat-and-tie, and I was the only woman to be festively dressed (well, not too festive: black slacks and sweater with knee-length red sweater-jac and nifty, ethnic, red-and-green necklace given by one RBS). If what we saw is what folks wear to Christmas dinner in a 5-star hotel, what do they wear at home???

Most of our time in Venice, we spent walking along beloved streets, looking in shop windows and visiting churches. Lord knows the Italians have lots of goodies to tempt you — clothes and shoes and home decor and whatever else money can buy. Fortunately, we’ve reached the time of life when we don’t need to own. Eye-savor is enough.