I did not know that one twelve by six foot wall could produce such a massive pile of rubble and began shoveling it into buckets for Luigi to carry out. A right brainier from day one, a more logical method of removal did not occur to me. Luigi took command and within the hour the whole lot had gone straight out the window. As I worried about Marietta or Lena being buried in rubble, he assured me he had roped off the footpath with warnings of danger.
The dust was incredible. It coated every surface in the house; the walls, the windows, the toilet seat, the bathtub, the bed covers, the onions and garlic. It had puffed its way into drawers and cupboards, into cups and pots and even down the spout of the teapot. I now saw how pathetic my attempts at dust proofing had been. I did, however, have the foresight to wear a mask and felt somewhat vindicated as Luigi sneezed and coughed his way through the mess that was left from his demolition of the wall between the kitchen and dining room. The only problem was that now no available wall space remained for Nona’s huge sideboard. Sorry Nona, but it was the most hideous piece of furniture I had ever laid eyes on. It did not take “Leonardo” long to invent a better way to utilize this monster. Chopped, sawed, and nailed, two separate units were born out of this great behemoth. The rest went out the window! Now functional and later beautified with a few coats of paint, we were able to place them in vacant and newly created corners.
We had managed with the three-burner gas stove stuck beside the bathroom door for four years. To create working surfaces of which there were none except for the fold down top cover of the gas stove, an executive decision was made to line up the washing machine, the gas stove and the wood stove along the wall beside the midget sink. A great idea sir, but as always one thing leads to another.
“As we are moving everything around, why don’t we just slide the wood stove a bit to the right and we can fit in a new sink?” said he.
“Have you measured?” said I.
“Of course,” said he, showing me his three-finger, four-finger infallible measuring method.
During dinner we decided that tomorrow we would drive the hour to Casa Mercato, the only department store in the vicinity where we could buy anything from a safety pin to a kitchen sink. Perfect!
We did not rush off too early as we had things to do in town. Arriving at Casa Mercato to closed doors was to be expected. Once again we had failed miserably in the “think ahead” department, it was siesta time and everything had come to a standstill. A bit peeved, but prepared to wait, we drove off to explore.
Everything happens for a reason. The delay resulted in us making a wonderful discovery. Just past Alseno, a little town on the Piacenza plains, and out along a country road, we found a 12th century monastery. The red brick construction was quite different from our area, and I was, as usual eager to sketch. There wasn’t a soul around and I felt a little guilty peeking through cracks in the church doors, and trying to see through the grills. Luigi forged ahead, found an open door and was welcomed by one of the Brothers of the “Frati Di Chiesa San Bernardo Il Fondatorre”, arms tucked in sleeves, his robe tied loosely at the waist with a cord. He floated quietly ahead leading us round the arcaded courtyard and through the cloisters. He pointed the way through an archway where we entered the church and walked silently round this cool dark place marveling at the construction, the pillars, the worn stone floors, stepping over old Latin inscribed marble slabs protecting the bones of long ago men of faith. I resolved, as I do every year, to get a book of Latin translation. I could now decipher dates but the inscriptions were always a frustrating muddle.
We were most intrigued to discover an open area in the floor at the base of a column. Looking down and inside the excavation was amazing. Touching a rock floor at least two feet lower and feeling around the hidden base of the pillar below the current floor of brickwork, it was evident that the building existing here now had been constructed on the site of a church built much earlier than this one. Restoration was taking place in other parts of the monastery and in talking to a worker, Luigi discovered that this man’s life was his bricks. He was a mine of historical information. I was surprised to hear how brick construction had been a sign of great wealth and status, whereas the poorer members of society used rock to construct their homes.
I wondered if the remains of the church beneath this one had been a reflection of the true poverty and self-denial of its residents and the surrounding community. Did this 12th century brick architectural beauty tell us something different about those who went before?
We came crashing back into the present as the bells clanged above indicating three o’clock. Heading back into the 20th century we ventured off to find our sink.
I prefer and need to keep my stress level almost at flat-line. And so, having walked round and round the most square feet of any store on the planet, watching Luigi do his four-finger thing on every sink in the place and listening to him discuss the merits of this double-sinked stainless steel one, that single-sinked porcelain one, draining board this side, that side, guarantees, prices, my assertion tremored and bubbled and rose to the surface like Vesuvius. Within five minutes I had measured, selected and announced that we would take this one and I added two new cabinets to hang on the kitchen wall. Nasty, nasty, but necessary! We soothed each other’s troubled hearts by treating ourselves to a quasi Persian tapeti, a nine by twelve rug for the draughty old wooden floor in our new open dining-cum-sitting room.
Arriving at the pick-up area, we opened the hatchback. Out of the warehouse came three huge boxes, one containing the sink/draining board unit, the others the cupboard units, followed by the biggest nine by twelve rolled carpet I had ever seen. The following circus of events reminded me of record breaking attempts at how many people can fit into a volkswagon. Puffing, panting, sweating, putting in this way, that way, taking out, rearranging, stuffing in again. It was very amusing, at least from my perspective, seated in the shade on a typical humid, hot Parma day. Told by anyone, even an expert, that something is impossible gives Luigi all the more reason to prove them wrong.
That tiny, trusty all-purpose Fiat did not let him down. With string and rope and red plastic waving, the hatchback forced down upon the sticking-out boxes, hinges straining, and with the massive rolled carpet jammed in between our heads like a cannon ready to fire straight through the windscreen, we departed amid cheers and roars of laughter, arms raised to the sky, and one man making the sign of the cross, knowing that once again we had left behind an impression of complete insanity, “Mama mia, quell Canadese matte!” Obviously the same employees from the previous year when we completed the same operation with a fridge, and the year before that when we must have set a Guinness world record fitting two huge armchairs into a two-door hatchback. Those men knew we were crazy Canucks and accepted our stuffing techniques without question.
I am sure we broke every known transportation law as we snuck home via country roads hoping not to encounter any over zealous polizia. After two hours trapped inside the car, knees jammed up against the dash board, and Luigi with elbows squeezed to his sides, wrestling with the pedals and gear shift, we arrived safely home. Unfolding our bodies from the tiny tin box, we dismantled the Chinese puzzle, hauling and dragging it all along the lane, down the cobbled uneven path to the house, up the steps and into the kitchen. An exercise in sheer determination, in sweat, and much giggling on my part which produced flame from Luigi’s nostrils.
Chucking our fanny packs, leftover rolls and cheese, and bottles of water on the table, we sank with sighs into our beautiful Ferrari red easy chairs (from another stuffing expedition), threw our legs on the footstools and tossed down the required amounts of Lambrusco and Merlot. We talked about the day’s events and tomorrow’s plan of action. I finally got the old man laughing and off we went to Eliza’s for pizza, to sit in her beautiful restaurant surrounded by flowers and to look out over the stupendous view to the northwest, the sky ablaze with a gorgeous suns
et scalding the rooftops and hillsides.
The next morning, I could not wait to roll out my carpet. Having felt very guilty about the sink episode, I had let Luigi choose the color and design. Big mistake! Rolling it out, I was pleased with his choice of colors, a mixture of reds, blues, yellows and greens on a wine red background. Perfect! It picked up some of “my yellow phase” and other colors in cushions and paintings. It would hide the dirt so no need to buy a vacuum cleaner, I could continue to swish my way around the house with my birch twig bezum. Nice pile too, I thought and looked down at my toes nestling nicely into its coziness. And then I noticed the design. What had been a mish mash of pretty colors glared up at me in all its awful-ness! Medieval hunters on rearing steeds, spearing and stabbing beautiful deer, dogs ripping out their throats, falcons with talons outstretched, descending on poor innocent little birds. This massacre was contrary to my beliefs. Unable to squash an ant, a spider, unable to eat anything which has a brain, a heart, blood, feelings, vehemently opposed to hunting and the killing of animals for food, I stared aghast at the slaughter beneath my feet. However, counting to ten and doing my Zen, I decided this would be one time I would keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself.
Back in Canada we had talked as usual, about how we could improve Nona’s house, but I was adamant that we should not undertake any hard, backbreaking work. For the last couple of years I was only the cleaner-upper, watching Luigi filling the gaping chasm of the old derelict house, and raking and shoveling and leveling for grass, many times over moving rocks and paving stones from here to there, building the arbor, performing never-ending, toiling, sweating jobs. I did not want us to wear ourselves out again. Pushing the broom and mopping the floor was the limit of my duration.
How soon we forget, inserting enticing little suggestions in his dinnertime conversation, “Wouldn’t it be nice if…,” or, “I love those re-pointed walls at Paulino’s place.” “Why don’t we…?” and so on.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I agreed, but Oh God—the work involved. “We should ask your nephew Roberto to do it,” I say.
“No, I want to do it myself.”
“Well, how about asking the “Tractor Boy” to help you.”
“I want to do it myself,” he repeated firmly.
I admitted defeat only a week after we arrived. Having jet lagged like crazy, I could not even mop the floor but now sweeping up Luigi’s mess does not seem so tiring.
I have learned over the years that my husband is a “one-thing-leads-to-another” worker. I cannot count the number of times he has intended to fix something, a dripping tap, the dryer, a leaky dishwasher, always starting out with the best will in the world. Four and five hours later, he is cursing and moaning as he disappears into the nether regions of the basement to mop up the pond that has gathered from the pipes that come down from the kitchen that join to the U bend that goes up through the counter to the tap where the washer was being replaced! “Oh it will only take me half an hour,” he says. “Oh yes, I have heard that before,” I say, at which time he stomps off all defensive. I cannot stifle my wicked English sense of humor.
And so this little innocent Italian house presents the same challenges. Today we will remove the ancient glass fronted windows and shelves from Nona’s old china cabinet set into the rock wall. Easy peasy, a hammer, a screwdriver, a chisel, and some muscle. Not so, the hinges of the windows are attached with rusty nails as long as screwdrivers. The nails are sunk deep into a solid, old chestnut framework. Oh well, the whole lot is coming out anyway so we will just use the sledgehammer and a crowbar and be done with it. I saw the potential for these lovely old windows and did not help the situation by insisting that they be removed without damage. That finally achieved, the beautiful hinges mangled and bent beyond repair, we carry them safely outside.
The two-inch thick chestnut shelves are firmly embedded between the rocks. The sledgehammer begins to fly and I know now that it is time for me to leave, as pieces of rock and splinters of wood begin to fly through the air. Clean up will be fun!
Three hours later a triumphant man appears, covered in dust and sweat. “Come and see, I have a great idea,” he says. The now naked hole in the wall measures about three feet by six feet and is about two feet deep. The “great idea” is to fill in from the floor up to about three feet with rocks, and insert flat rocks here and there above that up to the beam, like small shelves and put wine bottles on them. The idea did not seem great to me. We had originally discussed a completely different plan. To repair the inner rock area to give it a uniform look (crooked and un-level things have no place in my life) and after filling the bottom half of the opening with rock work to resemble the current wall, top it off with a nice long flat rock to make one decent inset shelf. I had intended to place the bottom half of the old credenza in front and thus create a nice area behind it to put the baskets of onions and garlic and also the wine bottles. We never agree on anything anyway so this was no different. I cleaned up all the mess and then off I went outside trying to pretend to myself that Luigi’s idea would work out well and look nice. My hammock rocked me into a more understanding mode. “Let him do what he wants,” I said to myself, after all did it really matter?
Much hauling of rock and mixing of cement took place, buckets of water, and hose pipes through the window, crashing and banging and some sort of Italian laced with Canadian expletives.
Called in once again, another three hours later, I vowed to say it looked great. It did not. It looked awful. This was not a grotto in Amalfi, this was supposed to be my nice Italian hilltop house rock kitchen. I did, however, say that it was very nice, but made the fateful mistake of saying that the long flat rock along the bottom was crooked. I escaped quickly to the serenity of my cover under the walnut trees and swung again in my hammock, starving, but daring not to enter what now sounded like World War III. I went down to Meri’s kitchen and stole a piece of hazelnut pie from the table.
What began at eight in the morning as a “simple job” ended at seven o’clock. A gargantuan effort of strength, toil, and sweat presented itself to me. The opening was now completely filled from top to bottom. I had my flat rock kitchen wall alright, but no shelf, nowhere to put wine bottles, onions or garlic baskets. The new rockwork was still a bit crooked but
I certainly was not prepared to put my life on the line by being critical. We each then reversed our position. I saying that his original design looked lovely, he saying it had looked awful and finishing the wall properly looked much nicer. A truce of sorts!
Luigi disappeared into the shower and I began again the massive cleanup of centuries old dust, plaster, clay, rock and gobs of 20th century cement. Eliza’s pizza sounded good. Arriving at nine o’clock, we collapsed into two hours of heaven, of pizza, wine and cappuccino, and even a few tired laughs.
Hanging the kitchen cupboards was the plan for the next day and we rose early ready to tackle the job. Trying to drill holes in solid rock is not easy, especially with Meri hovering with her comments about more paperwork and her paranoia about “important people” at its peak! The screws for the brackets had to be cemented into the wall for stability. Spirit levels, like tape measures have no place in Luigi’s life. He eyeballed the brackets and was not happy after hanging the cupboards, to see that one was crooked and one was lower than the other. By guess and by golly does not always work but far be it from me to introduce any helpful ideas into the situation. The knowledge gained during my eighteen year “apprenticeship” with my father as plumber’s helper, carpenter’s aid, electrician’s assistant, among other things, was best not mentioned at this particular time. Much ranting and raving was occurring and stirring the raging waters would be unwise. I dutifully carried tools, held up corners of cupboards and swept and stood to attention. The usual “two hour” job had become a marathon.
At two o’clock I downed brooms and, negotiating my way across a floor littered with an arr
ay of tools, the ages of which spanned a least a hundred years, I gathered together nutrients for the starving worker. Forcibly removing the wrench from Luigi’s hand while on his knees under the old sink, I pushed him out of the kitchen door to the picnic table. Once seated and with food in his stomach he conceded he was tired and that it might be best to quit for today. “We can always straighten the cupboard tomorrow,” I said, which was daring of me, but necessary. And perhaps cruel, as I could see he was so tired, if the cupboards had fallen off the walls at this point they would have stayed where they lay. Thank goodness tomorrow was Wednesday, the cupboards would have to wait. My first appointment at the hospital loomed. At least we would have a day off from the coal mines.
* * *
We left at nine o’clock, equipped with everything I could possibly require, syringes, porta-cath needles, intravenous lines, connections, saline, drugs on ice, all carried from Canada. I have never been in doubt about my condition or my health care. I have those strong Anglo-Saxon shoulders that can hold up the world. This day, however, the nearer we got to Parma, the more apprehensive I became. As we found our way to the hospital, the street names in the vicinity amused me, via E-Coli, via Sanguinetti (thin blood), and via Cadavero (which I thought was “cadaver”). We could not help but chuckle and my spirits began to rise.
In Love With Emilia Page 14