The burned fir tree stood on the piece of land on the south east side of the house, overlooking the valley. With a crafty look, Luigi asked me if I would like to own that tree. I was surprised to say the least. Apparently Pepino next door had mentioned to him that he wanted to buy the piece of land, and had spoken to Eliza. The land was kitty-corner to his house, and was directly adjacent to our house so it made more sense that it belonged with No. 17 and not Pepino’s house. The next day, Luigi negotiated a deal for us to buy the lot. Eliza had not been happy with Pepino’s forceful approach, and asked Luigi not to tell anyone; she did not want to become involved in all the petty wrangling in Rovinaglia. Eliza was very accommodating and we made some satisfactory arrangements regarding payment. Funnily enough, the legal fees for transfer were more than the land was worth.
Trial by fire was certainly the order of the day as that evening, Luigi spotted a forest fire on the Tuscan ridge. None of the villagers would phone the Forestry Department but Luigi finally persuaded the “Dog Man” to phone. The crews were already, fortunately, on it, although it took ten hours to extinguish. Now we have two landslides, a rock pit, and acres of scorched hillside to enhance our glorious view!
Our experiences with fire were still not at an end. A strange happening was to occur which was as good as any of the stories told by the old people who gathered in the warm evenings to gossip. A couple of days before this particular fire, Luigi had been telling me how, during the war, he and his friend, their dads and two uncles were walking through the woods when they heard a group of German soldiers approaching. Being ardent Partisans, the men sought cover inside an old, huge Chestnut tree and sent the dog and the kids home. The men were, however, discovered and duly marched to the village and questioned. Harboring no secrets they were eventually released to their thankful families. This time good fortune was shining on them. I had never heard this story before, and so it was quite remarkable and eerily coincidental that two days later the tree still standing with its hollowed out trunk had burned to a charred shell. No other trees had burned. The field butting up to the tree line had five or six scorched spots joined by a long burned area about three feet wide, but nothing else was burned. The heroic old tree close to the edge of Genovese and which must have been eight feet in diameter was still smoking when I went to see it. I noticed that there were saplings growing from one smaller stump of the tree that had been sawed off sometime ago and one of the branches had survived, growing out of the only uncharred mossy green area on the trunk. So there is life in the old tree yet. The mystery is, how did it catch fire? We had had no recent lightening storms and none of the villagers would deliberately set a fire. Even the “bad kids” from the city would hardly be bothered to hike a mile across the fields to pick on one tree. So the mystery remains in the minds of the villagers. To be talked about, discussed, digested; to have as many different reasons for burning, as there were people discussing the event. I think it was an errant cigarette stub or perhaps a lightening strike that had smoldered for awhile before developing into a real fire. It was still puzzling in the fact that it did not spread!
After the “trials by fire” there was still much to do in preparation for the arrival of our son Carlo and his friend, who would be spending two weeks with us. The present plan of the house did not allow for much privacy, not that any of us cared, though their imminent arrival brought to the forefront a need for a door between the small bedroom for guests, and our bedroom. We remembered that Anna, Gloria’s mother, had offered us the old shutters from Luigi’s father, Lorenzo’s house, which she had kept in the loft all these years. We thought of having the carpenter add a bottom to them, as we had done to Nona’s old credenza windows, and with the lou-vered tops they would make very nice doors. Off we rushed to the carpenter and he said it would be a week. Perfect, we would have time to prepare the present opening to receive its lovely new doors. It was difficult trying to reason with
Luigi that we should not prepare the frame in the opening until we had the doors. Previous experience with the cre-denza doors, which still do not fit properly, remained fresh in my mind. I did not have enough fingers to count how many times the doors had been removed, the frame adjusted, and then replaced, however, this time I was successful.
The week before the doors were ready provided Luigi with ample time to invent the faux window. Never happy with the results of the rock wall in the kitchen, on which he had worked so hard to remove the old glass doors and good china cabinet, he decided despite his whining, negative, wife, to remove some rocks from the space that he had previously filled. He retrieved the louvered bottoms of the old shutters, which the carpenter was to replace with solid panels to form doors, and mounted them in the space. Wanting to make the least of what I considered to be a big mistake, I painted them white. I have to admit that his idea was a stroke of genius. Our faux window looks wonderful. I look forward to the day that Pierina pops in and opens up the faux windows to a beautiful view of the rock wall behind; it will afford us all a good giggle.
We picked up the doors for the small room two days before our visitors arrived. Woodworking is so easy in Canada, two by fours, nails, screws, plywood, all in quick supply. Saw, saw, bang, bang, and it is all done. Here we are dealing with ancient rock walls, so it is much more the work of drilling and cementing and things falling from between the beams every time a hammer is wielded. The whole mouse’s nest, nicely lined with bits of my sheets, dropped out of the ceiling once again, as we slaved for hours to finish the doors. I was painting like mad while Luigi drove to Bologna to pick up Carlo. They arrived back late in the evening, and sank blissfully into a ten hour sleep, behind the lovely new doors.
Luigi and I wanted so much for them to see Pisa and Florence, to visit nearby castles and markets, but two weekswas not enough to see everything. Wanting to do their own thing they went away on the train to Milan and Florence to discover as much as they could in four days. Florence cast her wonderful spirit of enchantment and Milan helped to add to their stock of leather jackets and shoes. The marble mountains overlooking Carrara, the beach; and then Bardi castle and other local historical sites did the usual job of capturing hearts. As soon as they had arrived, it seemed it was time to leave, and off they flew to Canada loaded with the latest fashions in clothing and three kilos of parmesan.
* * *
Ever since her first visit, my sister-in-law Annette, had begged my brother Christopher to come with her to visit No. 17. She knew he would just love the peace and solitude, thus our second group of visitors arrived the day after Carlo left. We took them to a couple of local historical sites but mostly they just wanted to sit in the sun and laze, overdosing on parmesan and cappuccino and wine! They tried several wines and one evening we chatted about our grandfather’s ability to make fruit wines, and so the Elderberry wine was born. Christopher said, “Do you remember the elderberry wine that our grandfather used to make?”
“Of course I do,” I said, “I remember our purple fingers after berry gathering expeditions.” Every Monday morning after one of these expeditions, my teacher berated me for having stained fingers. Her shrill tight voice would shriek across the classroom, “This is not acceptable young lady.” I would shrink in embarrassment as all eyes turned on me.
Christopher went to gather the elderberries, which grow profusely in this area, while I begged and borrowed some yeast and sugar and Annette and I cleaned and sterilized some old green bottles that Guilio gave me. Christopher returned with armloads of elderberries. Seen by Meri, she immediately came rushing round to Luigi screaming that some of them were poisonous. Some had red stalks, some black—but which was which? In the noise and mayhem and input from several other old folk it was impossible to determine. Now a bit red around the gills and still alive, my brother simply said “Oh, stuff it,” and put the whole lot in the boiling water and stewed up a magnificent smelling brew. He and Annette then strained it through his new Italian socks, which
he had to buy along with other basics as his travel bag had gone off to Timbucktoo instead of Parma. Duly bottled and cooled we discussed who might be the first guinea pig. I offered figuring it could only kill or cure me but was voted down. Luigi and Annette would not dare so it was left to my brother. He woofed up half a glass, said it was great and having not dropped dead in thirty seconds, had another glass. As he remained standing, I also had a glass. It was very good. We stored a few bottles in the cantina and have not heard yet that a purple bomb has gone off at No. 17.
Staying only a week their holiday came to a quick end. Popping them on the train for Parma, we returned to the house to shut it down for another year as we were leaving the following day. A magic moment occurred when Mussi arrived at the door with the land titles finalized. Signed, sealed and delivered; never was an aphorism truer. Now we had our beautiful pieces of land, our own mushrooms, chestnuts, woodcutting places, and the adjacent piece of land from Eliza. We would not have to tear down the arbor as the “Land Baron” had predicted. We would not have our view destroyed by Pepino building on that lot, another idea created, fed and watered by the “Land Baron”. This little unassuming house now proudly sat on the hillside, our very own piece of Emilia. She had floated in limbo for so long but now was anchored forever.
A little bit of icing on the cake was Christopher’s phone call with news that our special rock might indeed be Roman. He had taken a photograph of the rock and shown it to an archeologist in London. We hoped this might be true, but even if not we still had a wonderful historical monument set in the wall of the house.
All the usual chores performed—mothballing, winterizing pipes, turning off electricity, were a mixture of sadness but at the same time great joy. I watched Luigi taking care of some last minute deeds, and left a note taped to the kitchen door asking that those who might enter should ensure the cats did not get locked inside.
Leaving this year was a landmark occasion for us. Since 1996, we had struggled to obtain legal ownership of No. 17, and land in close proximity. At last, success! It was a good feeling, closing up our very own house and saying goodbye to our very own piece of Italy. A tiny, but precious piece of my beloved Emilia, forever in my heart, perpetuating my love affair with this beautiful part of Italy.
Oh Emilia, my heart aches as we drive away, but as I turn for one last look, my eye catches a glint of sun from the dear little mail box now mounted proudly on the wall of No. 17, announcing the names of the owners, Luigi Ferrari and Virginia Gabriella Colbourne!
In Love With Emilia Page 20