Nonna's Mulberry Tree

Midgeeee,  Midgeee, Zia Vittorias voice echoed up the stairs to my second floor office. I raced to the top of the stairs and yelled, “Sono a secondo piano.”  I kept running and found her in my kitchen fiercely holding a mop handle raised in the air. The stick she was going to use to scare off the crooks who were in my house. I started to cry. My Aunt Catherine’s thinly little face puckered in her fierce warrior woman look flashed before me. She too, at eighty something came racing to protect me. How do you thank women like this?  You channel their strength and let it seep into your being. Strength you can use to protect the youngest in your clan. 

Oops, sorry, I bet  you want to know what the hell happened. Homes in our little village have been broken into. I blame jobless kids with nothing to do but spy on people , learn schedules and pop in when no one is home. Last summer it was wretched to hear that one house even got broken into – well the door was open – while the folks were upstairs.  Today, we parked the car on the side of the house in the shade. Jack drifted off somewhere outside and I went upstairs to my office. My clunky feet make a lot of noise going up the stairs. Zia Vittoria heard my noises but didn’t see our car. First she went outside and yelled for Jack. No answer. Nicola wasn’t home to fight off the bad people so she took her mop and came into our side of the duplex to investigate. Our front door was unlocked. There was no car. Jack did not respond. She made enough noises for an army of Italian nonne and kept calling for me. That is when I entered the scene. Her mission – scare off the crooks!! God bless her moxie. 

The day after my mother’s funeral her long time creepy boyfriend- the evil, obnoxious, heinous Doug-  went to XXXXXX’s Auction, got a truck and was preparing to empty my mothers house. (Fearing litigation, Jack made me take the name of the local company out.) I was the executor for the estate and hadn’t even gone to probate with my moms will or inventoried her assets. He had really jumped  the greedy blood sucking gun.  I had spent the night next door to my mom’s house at Aunt Catherine’s.  Being back on the family compound just felt right.  I was outside hanging clothes on the line when I noticed a large white panel truck – the auction house truck.  Without thinking I bellowed at Aunt Cat and raced up the path through the field.  The house was locked – the smarmy creep may have been inside.  I banged and bellowed.  Then I called XXXXXX’s Auction and explained that any items brought to the auction were stolen from my mom’s estate and I intended to press charges.  While the owner was sputtering I hear the buzz of my Aunt Cat’s electric scooter jostling up the path. With her bastione held high in her good arm and her phone clutched in her bad hand steering the scooter she was determined to protect me, the memory of my mother and help me fend off any bad guys.  I hung up on XXXXX and raced to hug her.  Then we both went back down the path cursing evil men in general and Ugly Dougly in particular.   

In both cases, not for one moment, did the elders in my life consider themselves. With the inner strength of women the world over and Italian women in particular, they felt action had to be taken and they were prepared to take it.  A lesson we all could learn from.

Ci Vediamo.

We first saw an installation by Christo and Jeanne-Claude in New York City’s Central Park.  Walking through the orange gates floating from the sky was mesmerizing.  Being a part of the art was an inspiring experience.  When we discovered that the latest Christo installation was going to be in Italy we promptly made arrangements to wend our way there.  We drove to Milano and stayed at our Milanese home away from home Hotel Il Girasole.  Wednesday morning we took the metropolitana to Milano Centrale and hopped a train to Brescia.  Disembarking we noticed signs, like the yellow brick road of Oz, leading us towards our goal.  Following the Floating Pier signs we found ourselves on a rather long line of jovial people standing on a yellowish carpet.  

Oz!  The excitement was building.  People were chatting and swapping tales of their journeys to the piers.  We met an Australian couple that told us they were staying in Brescia and had tried to get to the Floating Piers that morning.  So many people had come that they cancelled all the outgoing trains to Salzano – the starting point of the pier.  It was 11:00 ish and they were trying again.   Shit, I remembered Woodstock.  A group of pals and I bought tickets for the final day of the concert to end all concerts.  We were so excited.  We were so screwed.  They closed all the roads before the end of day one.  No one else would be allowed in.  Shit, this would be another Woodstock.  “Don’t think like that,” my optimistic spouse whispered.  How did he know what I was thinking.  OH, I told the story to the folks in the line!  EEGGGG.

We all waited for about an hour and then boarded an extremely modern air conditioned train for the half hour ride to Iseo!  It felt like a bar crawl bus. Everyone was in high spirits!  Hmmm.  The train isn’t moving???  Maybe  a half hour later the train started moving.  We had seats and the conversations flowed. Oh, it is a local with stops at every station between Brescia and Iseo. 45 minutes later we got there.   In Iseo we boarded and sat on the train in the station.  Perhaps 45 minutes later they told us to change to yet another train. People  raced pushing and shoving onto the second train. This was a very crowded, standing room only train to Sulzano.   Yeah!  This will be the train to our art experience.   We waited.  It started up!  The art party disembarked from the train and was herded onto the magical yellowish carpet.  We are one with the art!  Then the slow forced march began.  The cue to reach the beginning of the pier took almost an hour – but we were still on yellowish carpet.  I could smell the water.  Oz was close.  

Look, I screamed at Jack as we slowly walked down the hill – I can see the lake.  I can see the pier!  TAKE a picture!  Ouch, a backpack smacked into my side and another hit my stomach as those odious people who insist on taking their life long possessions on a day trip also tried to squeeze a picture through the crowd.  

 Slowly we advanced on the lake.  A radio squeaked at a guard point – yes there were guards along the way.  The piers are over crowded.  Stop the Crowd. We stopped.  Jack and I were at the very front of a line that wended its way all the way back up the hill to the train station.  I thanked the guard.  She looked at me like I was crazy.  Why? she asked.  Because you are standing out here in 100 degree weather keeping us safe.  She yelled over to the other guard – This is the first time in two weeks that someone thanked me!  Some one finally realizes what we do!  Of course I do, I’ve organized huge events and I’ve got to say that they tried here but didn’t anticipate the number of people who would come to a little out of the way island that is accessed via limited public transportation.  This isn’t New York City.

IT was fun learning about the project from our friendly guard. After waiting for about 45 minutes, we were allowed to follow the yellowish road down to the water.  All thousands of us.  You could actually feel the ebb and flow of the water beneath your feet. The mountains surrounding the lake were –  ouch another fucking back pack smacked me as some cretin turned to look at the view.   No stopping, we are reminded by the crowds behind us surging forward.  The forced march continued across the water. Jack tells me I am too critical and must be more open to the experience.  I am open – opened to a concept that from the helicopter tours in the sky it was breathtaking.  From a boat, we discovered later, it was incredible.   Walking on it surrounded by others walking was simply boring.  To become part of the art, I needed a minute to stop, stand and stare.  I wanted to twirl and prance on the water.  Take out my notebook and write a sonnet.  I wanted to live the art.  A forced march across the lake – well it brought to mind things that were not so pleasant.  When we reached Monte Isola, the little island upon which the yellowish road continues to the next Floating Pier, it was so crowded that there was no way to even grab a bottle of water or a snack.  Every little bar was packed.  The roads were packed.  Someday, we will come back to this lovely little island.  It must be scrumptious in March. – devoid of tourists.  We saw a sign for a ferry back to Sulzano and had a pleasant ride over the lake, past the piers.  They looked fabulous from the water.  I’m so glad we got to see them.

Ci Vediamo!

Jack and I will soon be back in our mountain home engaged in interesting, albeit, frustrating dialogue about all things Italian.  I wanted to title this “You Can’t Argue With Jack,” but that might have sounded smarmy. Get my implication???

A little back story – My grandmother and Aunt Cat were the queen and princess of subsistence farmers.  They used the skills they brought with them from Pontelandolfo and our small Flagtown, NJ farm was chock full of good eating.  No one used pesticides – who could afford them and if they killed bugs they would probably kill you.  Fertilizer? Mary the horse gave you that.  No disgusting crap was sprayed on the lawns to kill the dandelions.  We learned to pick the young dandelions and thank mother nature for the free salad. They were not evil weeds. Today, my nonna would think people spending money to make their lawns fake green and without weeds – free salad – pazzo.  My families connection to the earth is a part of me.  No I’m not a funky granola aging hippie but I am a “if it ain’t natural I won’t eat it” fanatic.

One day while driving to Milano I saw something that made me think of my grandmother. Along the autostrada in the region of Emiglia Romagna  there were acres and acres of herbs growing and drying. It was quite beautiful until I remembered that people ingested them.  Poured the herbs into their stew.  Mixed the herbs with hot water and drank them.  Eucccch!! Acres of herbs and other crops get a 24 hour dosing of global warming causing carbon monoxide emissions. Double euuccccchhh!

I tell Jack how disgusting that is and mention I need to really read where dried spices and herbal teas come from. If they are made in Emilia Romagna, I will refuse to buy them. Why, he said, they’re fine.

Determined to let him know that the spices were not “fine,” I googled the effect of carbon monoxide on plants and found lots of great stuff written by super smart folks – here is one study from the National Institute of Health –

Carbon monoxide (CO), a by-product released during the degradation of heme by heme oxygenases (HOS EC 1.14.99.3) in animals, plays a major role as neurotransmitter, regulator of sinusoidal tone, inhibitor of platelet aggregation and suppressor of acute hypertensive response, and most of above effects are similar to or mediated by nitric oxide (NO), another signal molecule in both the animal and plant kingdoms. Previous result demonstrated that NO could act as a promoter of plant cell elongation, acting similarly to IAA, inducing morphogenetic responses leading to expansion in plant tissues. Recent observations revealed that CO is an inducer of cell expansion in wheat root segments, acting similarly to IAA and NO. Evidence also indicated that IAA could result in either the potent induction of HO-1 transcript or endogenous CO releasing in wheat root segments. Additionally, our results suggested that above CO signaling might be related to NO/cGMP, Ca²⁺ and even ROS-dependent pathways. In this addendum, combined with other previous results, we further proposed a possible hypothesis for CO signaling role in regulation of plant root development induced by auxin.

What the @#%#?  Who writes this stuff and since it was from a USA government website, who was supposed to read it?  Not me – since I haven’t a clue what any of the above means.  Coming back into the room and the discussion, I remind Jack that Zia Vittoria would not let me pick the wild fennel along the sides of he roads – because of the cars. My grandmother wouldn’t let us pick wild asparagus or strawberries close to the road either. Those farmers and inherently natural foodies knew the yuck from passing cars was poison. POISON!!!!  Who wants to eat food covered in exhaust stuff.

Jack shook his head and reminded me, those are the same women who said you can’t go outside – even in the summer- with wet hair.

Errrrrrrrgggggg.  I have nothing left to say.

See logic wins!