While I was away...

May 12, 2023 by Forrest Spears in Gardens, Gardening

I went to Rome. Five days. Two and a half with You, and another two and a half with an old American friend. A recent widow. Plays bridge. Played a lot on the cruise ship she left to meet up with us in the Eternal City. If you are a fan of History, you probably know that Rome has been invaded, sacked, and despoiled a number of times. Visigoths to Charles VII of France to those creeps from the last World War. A long & wide arch. The latest is Mass Tourism. A voracious river of folk. You can’t or, wouldn’t want to image what Rome is like today. Happily, the city still stands… eternal. Meanwhile, back at our Genoese ranch, the Dogs were left with a substitute filling-in for our usual dog-sitters. The two brothers went to Spain for a cousin’s wedding.

Two unexpected things occurred at il Poggiolo during my absence: it got hot and it rained. I had mowed the lawns and weed-whacked where the mower cannot go at some point prior to my departure on a Freccia Bianca train… the Italian TGV… and in preparation of our gardener re-seeding the terraces he had re-built last year. Winter, its dead leaves, lack of water and the drying winds from Siberia… Thank You, Mr Putin?… had ravaged our grassy landscape. Mowed and whacked, everything looked clipped and orderly. Hopeful.

However, I have came back to this…

aia or, courtyard

ramp up

ramp down

at the gate

eating grass

a long view

Forgot to mention the 10-Day Weather Forecast: rain, thunderstorms and, occasionally, heavy stuff until the middle of the last week of May. It’s the Moon’s fault, if you follow the Phases of the Moon.

Bumper crop of grass, I’d say. Weeds, pretty little wild flowers hovering over leafy and equally wild stalks and massive clumps of an insidious cow grass, intermittently graced by what we really want in the category of Grass: Zoysia. We may never get it. A combo or climate change, my occasional bouts of laziness and let me throw in Madam Moon too.

I was amazed. So green, so tall, so abundant. Wish my bank account were so. Power of Mother Nature, when heat & rain are mixed. In our case, suddenly. The welcoming scene alarms my sense of that phrase, clipped and orderly. However, deep down inside me, there is a rebel and having grass shoot up nearly 15 cm in the space of a long weekend has brought it out. I’ll have enough time to enjoy, perhaps even contemplate the transformation for the next 10 days. I have forewarned You. Due in at any moment. Oh! And it’s raining now. Pazienza.

A gardener's hands...

April 11, 2023 by Forrest Spears in Gardening

My hands are ruined. A yearly event. The culprit? Spring yard work at il Poggiolo. And, my consistent refusal to wear gloves. What can I say? I like the feel of Mother Earth and its fauna. However, the consequences are lacerations from shards of glass from a long chucked beer bottle back when il Poggiolo…. abandoned for years… was a stealth receptacle for the Citizens of Codiponte to vent their anger against the former owner, a woman from the town above Codiponte, who had inherited il Poggiolo AND HAD NEVER SET FOOT IN THE PLACE!!!, sharp edged rocks because they have nothing else better to do, iron wires left to rot just under the surface… What? left to enrich the soil?… shavings from terracotta roof tiles, which are more deadly than the glass, and other fun stuff: syringes, metal bands, wood stakes. Oh! And let me also direct blame towards the local water… what little we have going since, there has not been any Spring Rains of note. Water in the Italy, in general, and locally, in the Lunigiana, is quite hard. I have delicate Anglo-Saxon skin. A fluke of My Birth. The liquid is full of chalk. Acid chalk. Coupled with the hard water are the super, extra-concentrated and nearly gel-like detersives in the giant family-sized plastic containers. Chemical Warfare. My skin is raped of its natural oils and moisture. A Modern Day concept of cleanliness? My hand’s skin is dried to the point that bits of skin try to flee the scene of the bio-crime. Naturally, I cannot resist the temptation to chew at a finger or thumb too of some itzy-bitzy piece of skin or, two, unhinged by the above circumstances which, only makes matters worse. Would you like photo-documentation? Take a gander at the above photo.

None of the above explains in visual terms the cramps and soreness of holding pruning shears during warm afternoons of what I most enjoy to do in the realm of yard work: pruning. Raking does come in as a close Second. Both rival each other in the Satisfaction Dept. Quickly identifiable results. And too, I find the twangy noise of a rake gathering dead leaves and twigs and my Kleenex’s fallen out of my trouser pocket into transportable piles extremely meditative. Or, the start of a Country & Western tune, if I were so musically clever to dream one up. Pruning has more abrupt sensations. A brief cracking. Ecco! As the recalcitrant limb falls to Earth.

You is horrified by this off-with-their-limbs tendency of mine. I think he actually enjoys berating… criticising… condemning!!! me right after one of his Giardino Tours of Inspection. I dislike this sense of superiority…. or, do I mean his Democracy in possibly defending the Innocent?… towards what I am forced to do with il Poggiolo’s Plant Life. It’s not him at 5’ 4” whose head gets severely gouged by a low hanging olive branch. So much for Peace. And is there not A Gardening Rule on the books, which states trees and bushes and things actually appreciated having their Dead Stuff hacked off? Though, as for the live manifestations of Mother Nature, it might be prudent to leave well enough alone. Let things grow. Go sip a cappuccino or, enjoy a chilly white wine. Our Future is so uncertain now. But what happens when letting things grows means loosing a precious view or, provoking too much shade for the other members of the near-by Plant Life, ie our grassy terraces… to flourish too? Once, however, You did not maintain his Cool, while I whacked off the tops of a high… a very high… hedge planted to protect the interior of il Poggiolo exposed to the harsh Garfagnana Winter Winds on the Eastern side of the house. It was killing the grass below. On another point, that hedge… or, any hedge, for that matter…might reach such a height that any thought of lowering it would be eliminated just by the obvious logistical concerns, ie climbing a wobbly ladder too low to reach its tips. You screamed and he hollered, and then, he promptly left in a clipped huff and went back to Genoa. I continued until completion of my task at hand assisted by our ever true Weimaraner, Croesus. I trimmed and he watched and sunbathes. Took 36 hours before You called me. C’est la vie. Shave and a hair-cut, two bits! But my hands! After a day’s efforts in Pruning… or, Other, I could barely hold a fork to eat the post yard work and one of my Most Favourite Feel Good Meals of bastoncini di pesce e patate al forno. Buon Appetito!

The Stigmata of gardening...

July 02, 2020 by Forrest Spears in Weekends

I had thought to belly-ache about something which has been on my mind of late but, in the meantime, this happened…

The Stigmata of gardening. Three views. A big annoyance. Hurtful too at the beginning. And, on my right hand. Have you ever tried to use a fly-swatter to KILL! KILL!! KILL!!! a fly with such a wound on your swatting hand? Awkward, to be polite. Rough business gardening is, and especially when under the gun, so to speak. I do not feel like either St. Francis or, Padre Pio. I suppose since they were in religious ecstasy, while I was labouring in a Summer’s heat

I got a call from You informing me…. yes, that is how it works in our family… that our five nieces had held a Whatsapp conclave and had mutually decided on the brilliant idea to hold a post-Lockdown reunion at il Poggiolo. Arrival was tentatively scheduled for the Friday before last weekend. Three of the nieces would be towing their fidanzati... or, boy-friends. The focal point of the get-together would be a Pizza Party on the Saturday nite. Ahhh, the convenience of having a Medieval wood-burning oven was too much to resist. One of the boy-friends enthusiastically volunteered to tackle the job of pizzaiolo. A nice boy. Think… a tallish Harry Potter with contacts and in great need of a haircut. He is a prideful maniac of culinary procedure and equipment. I would let him have at it. Always glad to let others do Kitchen Duty, wherever or, however possible.

I did a quick computation: 5 nieces + 3 boy-friends + us 2 uncles = we have enough beds. The Dog sleeps with me. Relieved to know this, I began making lists of what all needed to be organised for the weekend invasion:

call in our wonderful Cleaner to scourer the three separate parts of il Poggiolo… La Casetta, La Casa Grande and the L’Appartamento Azzurro… make the beds, set out towels, deodorise against any trace of Weimaraner…

grocery shop for lifetime supplies of breakfast goodies… Italians mistakenly think a robust breakfast is a bit of caffe’ drowning in latte parzialmente scremato or, skim milk, and an ample quantity of biscotti or, cookies. Preferably with cioccolato on or, inside somewhere. White sugar stars are enjoyed no end too. I guess we must forgive them this need of sugar in the morning. We, Americans, cannot open our mouths on this subject, unless ready to be soundly condemned for our Kellogg’s Coco-Puffs or Frosted Flakes habitually eaten at 7:30 in the morning before catching the bus fro school. At least, we do not drink caffe as children in the USofA!!!… Coca-Cola & Fanta, potato-chips, white wine & beer though most just drink water. Blehhh. There is always hope someone in You’s family will nourish a taste for the products of the vines… and, Oh! Lord! The garden must be brought to perfection.

I have diligently been employed since before Italy’s COVID-19 Lockdown in the first days of March in carrying il Poggiolo’s garden to the glorious splendour it deserves and more so now that the premise is home to a new array of stately terracotta urns and one Baroque vase…. with much thanks to You for his generous donation of said artefacts. Aesthetic competition for the grass to grow like it should and after I have spent back-breaking hours raking, seeding & watering the grass, and yet, with few sprouts to show for my efforts. Birds and ants are the likely culprits. There have been many, many items on the Garden Task List. I won’t bore you with them right now. One items was to direct my Anglo-Saxon-in-Italy energies in building stone steps at the top of the grassy ramp leading from il Poggiolo’s aia or, courtyard, up to L’Appartamento Azzurro and the top most grassy terraces decorated with occasional bald spots of the grassy lawns… damn-it all to Hell.

They look a mess. I’m so embarrassed. More so from small small stains of my blood. Must be my moment for such emotions these days. I won’t belabour you with its list. Disconcerting.

I do not like to wear gloves. They suffocate my hands. I want to feel the materials, Terra Madre… glass & metal shards, in a few instances. These later examples are the vestiges of the previous tenant’s AND neighbour’s respect for The Land or, their rank lack of such an ecological regard to the Mother of all Mothers. The absence of direct contact with whatever I am working with spoils the phun. However, and I keep forgetting this keen fact… denying would be a word closer to the Truth… gloves are an effective prevention against the blisters. Took just three jabs with a trowel and Ecco!!! An accurately placed blister… ON… MY… RAW… HUMAN… FLESH!!!… and in the middle of my writing hand. A personal aside… do forgive me

I was born knock-kneed & pigeon-towed. Like the Tom Hanks character in the movie with the same first name… a fine & historic Southern first name… I had to wear metal splints on my legs for over eighteen months when I was four years old. NO WONDER I AM A PERENNIAL BASKET CASE!!! To add further injury to my already heavy physical woes, I was also born left handed. The last vestige after an enforced and rigorously administered re-training is: I still hold a baseball bat like a left-hander. HA!!!

But, alas, I troweled away with my right hand. The wound or, Stigmata Giardiniere… as opposed to a Stigmata Religiosa… is happily on its way to a complete though somewhat scared recovery. Undeniable proof of my suffering, eh?

Briefly, about the post'-Lockdown Reunion Weekend…

a fine & dandy time was had by one and all. The pizzas got better as the boy-friend gained experience… the Mother Lode of any Education. Everyone slept like babies… because our mattresses are exceptional… and I was not eaten or drunk out of house or, home. They will all be invited back.

An additional aside…

and one I sorely wish I did not have to relate but, nevertheless, I am not responsible for the grotesque gaffes of another person, and in this case, Mr Prince You. If anyone has noticed a white haired person resembling an American game show host wandering about in the above offered video… well… that is Mr Prince You’s ex-boy-friend. Our little pensione in the hills of the Lunigiana was al completo… bed-wise. What a Joy.

Ten days of heat has browned out my grass.