Thanksgiving 2021

I had had no plans but woke up early thinking, actually, I could throw together a reasonable facsimile of a turkey dinner. First stop my moment of cappuccino and brioche zen and then off to the store where I found almost all ingredients of what my one guest called tacchino decomposto, deconstructed turkey. A thigh, a breast, and apple/onion/sage/sausage garnish in lieu of stuffing, baby green beans and mashed potatoes. I even found cranberry sauce at the shop that has British imports. 

When I got home the jar of cranberry sauce went crashing to the floor and shattered. It could have been worse, I thought afterwards. That was not my first thought however, which was F**k! as I slammed the package of green beans on the floor too in a fit of pique and infantile rage. It really could have been worse, it could have been the Prosecco. 

I managed to compose myself, clean it up and get to work, all the while wondering when a major delivery to a friend’s house I needed to supervise, scheduled this morning, was going to happen, hoping it wouldn’t be in the middle of some cooking operation, or worse in the middle of sitting down to eat. Alas, I pulled it all off and the delivery never materialized so all was well. We had a lovely meal and I chased the mid-pandemic-far-from-home-Thanksgiving-day blues away on this cold foggy rainy day in late November.

I am thankful to all and for all.

A Walk

 

She was walking 

Along a narrow winding road 

In the mountains

 

A bird called 

And she looked up 

A falcon? A buzzard?  A hawk?

The car came careening 

Around the curve 

She landed on the windshield 

Spread eagle

Overcoming The Black Death, regarding Black history, fire and a tale of two villages. Five days in history.

 

The days from August 10th until the 15th are very significant in Italian history in general and Barga history in particular. 

In the previous post we explored Barga’s connections to the Festival of San Lorenzo, the martyred saint burned on a gridiron on August 10, 258, which is commemorated in part with a grand event honoring Giovanni Pascoli, the revered national Poet whose father was assassinated on August 10, 1867, and the Night of the Shooting Stars, the Perseids meteor shower first apparent around August 10 every year.

August 12 has been a day of remembrance since tragedy befell the village of Sant’Anna di Stazzema , when on August 12, 1944 about 530 civilians were killed along with their livestock, and their village burned, in one of the most tragic battles of World War II. Its connection with Barga is purely fictional and a concept that needs to be corrected. 

In more than one work of purportedly historical fiction, what is known as the Massacre at Sant’Anna, a true story, has been conflated with Barga’s own historical Battle of Garfagnana, at Sommocolonia, on December 26th, 1944. There is no real connection. Sant’Anna is a village in the Apuan Alps, Sommocolonia is a hilltop village in the Apennines, but in the most famous erroneous connection, the Spike Lee Film entitled Miracle at Sant’Anna, based on the novel by James McBride of the same title, Sant’Anna di Stazzema is mentioned as a nearby village and the stories of the battles are intertwined in causality.

The battle at Sommocolonia, above Barga, was a turning point in the war when the Lieutenant called friendly fire on his position as he knew they were lost in any case. The soldiers involved were African Americans of the 366th infantry regiment, part of the Buffalo division of the 92nd Infantry Division. Known as the Buffalo Soldiers they were Black GIs who sacrificed their lives and were only recognized decades later. Their story and the history of the battle have been thoroughly researched and eloquently recounted in the book entitled Braided in Fire, by the writer and long time Sommocolonia, Barga homeowner Solace Wales. 

Which brings us to The Black Death. The close of these five important days is August 15th, the Festival of San Rocco. The Festival itself is a three day vast market fair and in less pandemic fraught times included dining, music and dancing. 

San Rocco, to whom the 17th C. Chiesa Di San Rocco in Barga Giardino is dedicated, as are many throughout Europe, to this itinerant healer, Rocco, who traveled around 1350 to care for and heal plague ridden villagers until he himself caught the plague but miraculously survived. The definitive narrative as it relates to Barga, has been summed up expertly by Frank Viviano, in the article San Rocco, the Black Death and Barga, which can be found on barganews.com 

Having spent these last 5 days commemorating martyrs, saints, poets, wars, plagues, trials by fire, and having endured weeks of infernal heat finally in abatement, we can breathe a sigh of relief and hope our luck holds out. 

The Night of the Shooting Stars

We have spent a good part of the last year and a half in various degrees of lockdown and/or restricted movement within and beyond our communities, often indoors looking from the inside onto a quiet, sometimes silent and desolate outside, wishing this thing, albeit invisible, would go away, disappear. 

Days and weeks of calm quiet, and nights of eery silence. The usual bustle of the town, the genial greetings and conversations, muffled by masks and cautious inhibitions.  Often the only things to be seen and heard were the birds. Watching the swallows provided hours of delight. 

With compassionate, conscientious compliance Barga remained relatively untouched. We passed a first socially distanced but eventful summer almost virus free, but by the winter and spring the virus resurged and there was another lockdown, this time not as severe but disconcerting nonetheless. 

Vaccinations provided hope and the country mobilized in a relatively efficient roll-out. There was a little more hopeful optimism but always that wish that this would just go away. Variants and various factors have necessitated continued vigilance. Through spring there was still the element of inhibition, and being on the inside looking out. 

About a year and a half on, the late summer of 2021 finds us once again, relatively unrestricted, enjoying socially distanced events, but still cautious. 

Each year on August 10th, Barga celebrates the great poet Giovanni Pascoli, who adopted Barga as his home, and honored it in much of his poetry, with a grand event with the reading of his poetry, and music. 

The significance of the date is three fold. Pascoli’s father was assassinated in his carriage on August 10, 1867, an event which influenced much of his poetry. In 1896 he published the poem entitled 

‘X agosto’ to commemorate the date and emphasize his three principle themes, the nest/hearth, suffering and injustice. 

The second element of the date of August 10th is the commemorative date of the death of San Lorenzo, a venerated martyr, deemed saint who was purportedly burned on a specially cast gridiron on August 10, 258 during a purge by Roman authorities under edict by Emperor Valerian. He was known for his generosity and compassion for the poor, indigent, and physically suffering.

The feast day of San Lorenzo, August 10 is also known as the Night of the Shooting Stars.  The Perseids meteor shower is most visible from about the 9th to the 13th of August each year. Pascoli’s poem references it as the tears of San Lorenzo, weeping for a swallow who is killed in mid-flight to her nest, leaving her brood parent-less, just as he and his family were left in abject despair after his father’s assassination. 

Shooting stars have also often been associated with wish making. If you wish upon a star, as the song goes, has inspired hope in many a dreamer. 

Since the early 1990’s the Perseid meteor shower has been most visible from the 11th until the 13th of August, particularly in the just pre-dawn hours. So, yes, wish upon the shooting stars on the 10th, the official Night of the Shooting Stars, and as we transition from looking from the inside out we can still appreciate watching the fascinating swallows and the shooting stars, and have time until the 13th to make that wish. 

 

Overcast

the bells were ringin

the swallows were goin nuts

out of the tub gone 

Lockdown Observations

 

I have lived in Italy for 20 years. I am conversant but not fluent. To be fluent one must be able to pick up on the subtleties, the contextual complexities of a language, the deep linguistic associations which have much more to do with cultural assimilation than just grammatical correctness. 

I teach English to Italian corporate professionals. It has been one of the most delightful experiences of my life. When I arrived in Europe 27 years ago, though it was an option, I did not want to teach English, since English meant British English, and that was not an option for me, an American. As the years progressed there has developed more need for American english, as we all communicate cyber-globally. And, as I sometimes tease my British friends, there is more diversity in the English language amongst those in the British Isles, than there is between an American and a Brit. The current pandemic reality has rapidly changed the way we work and communicate on a daily basis and normalized online opportunities heretofore unnecessary.  

My Italian english students, as the general populace here, are astute listeners, and very articulate, which may be the result of their educational system which requires oral exams in every subject up to and including advanced mathematics. Imagine having to explain your trigonometric process in front of a panel of exigent professors, and you’ll know how they have had to develop communications skills. Articulate, astute listeners with compassionate sensibilities. In any conversation they respond with appropriate observations, sympathetic and compassionate pleasantries. 

Despite having studied French and German, I still have problems recognizing certain syntactical elements on the spot. My students often clarify grammatical issues with their knowledge of Latin. Oh, it’s totally clear now! One must be an astute listener, and observer, to pick up on the subtleties. 

It’s all in the syntax. There is a certain syntax, it all comes down to that. It is complex. In italian the pronoun is inherent in the verb. You don’t need the I, you, he/she/it, we, etc.,  it is included, which is exquisitely efficient and totally confusing. The subject-object-indirect object relationship is a complex puzzle. In the simplest example, the object precedes the subject, ti vedo: I see you. It’s what I call the subject-object conundrum, in other words, who’s doing what to whom. It could be a metaphor.

 

 

Lockdown Redux: Next Year in Jerusalem

On this splendid Easter Sunday in Northern Tuscany I will spend the day in quiet contemplation as I look out on the Apuan Alps and down onto a small magnolia in full bloom in the stone piazza below. Due to pandemic restrictions my son is unable to travel home from University and like others I will pass Easter alone, or some, in only immediate family groups. 

I was raised on the east coast of the U.S., primarily in the northeast but also throughout the southeast. That we are a nation of immigrants is undeniable. The regions of the northeast and southeast of the first settlers, (Jamestown, VA. 1607, Plymouth, MA. 1620) are thriving areas of diversity. 

In the mid 20th century northeast my childhood friends and neighbors were a predominantly western/southern and central european multiethnic group and I often joke that the reason I ended up in Italy is that most of my grade school friends were Italian, citing names of Belletti, Porcari, Campion, Bazzano, John Joseph Raymond, (anglicized from Giovane Giusseppe Raimondo) and Palazzolo, the spelling of which, I was told and will remain forever in my mind, is: 2 of everything except the P. 

A citizen of relative long term heritage of18th century Scottish/German and early 20th century Irish descent I was always welcomed into their homes, and became familiar with their history and cultural traditions. 

My fondest memories include after school lunch of tempestine in brodo, dot pasta in homemade broth, served by my friend’s Grandmother, as her parents both worked, in their small immaculate suburban home filled with all their treasured and comforting religious icons.  

We have now spent over a year in various degrees of lockdown isolation in an effort to keep this pandemic virus at bay and in addition to the tragic illness and loss of lives, the most difficult part is not being able to see family and friends which is most evident in holiday periods. The impact, and toll this has taken, on our emotional state is immeasurable. 

As a young adult, back at University in the northeast, from several years in the deep south, my close friends were Jewish. I was invited to their homes at the Jersey Shore over long weekends, as a break from campus life, which brings to mind sensory memories of their wonderful food and once again, traditions. 

The final  words of the traditional passover Seder during this spring period,  are “next year in Jerusalem” a message of comfort, solidarity and hope for the future. A universal sentiment we can all benefit from in these difficult times, the hope that we will be together in the future, wherever we are.

 

Love Making He Called It

 

As he seduced 

A series 

Of unsuspecting lovers

Playing his part perfectly

Laying it on thick

The charm

The courting

The flattery

The romanticism

The enigma

He bedded each

In their turn

Finally

She realized

He knew

It is just an act