While I was away...

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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…

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.

I've stopped counting...

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…the days of Lockdown. I’ve got more important things to occupy myself with than Math.

Nor do I care what others are doing in any ol’ COVID-19 Phase, I am still maintaining Phase 1 Coronavirus Lockdown. It is Life as it was, still is and will be. I don’t mess with always.

I do not naturally follow Rules. I come from Colorado. Wild open West. Mountains, plains, wilderness, don’t fence me in, OK? What are Rules? However, in the case of this Coronavirus pandemic, I AM FOLLOWING THE LOCKDOWN RULES!!! del mio Dottore: avoid folk, eschew places folk congregated, consistently elect to… stay… at… home. Ample time to walk the Dog, work on photography, do yard work…

…by the way, I don’t think I have ever KILLED!!! a hydrangea in my life. Other plants, yes, mai una hortensia. Poor thing. Its flowers were so splendid cascading out of its 1930’s terracotta vase for a couple of years, keeping Dr. Bacchus company in his lonesome statuary vigil tucked off, as he is, to a corner of our Scenic Overlook. Dr Bacch- overlooks some peonies, a smattering of oak leaf hydrangeas and the sad one. This past February, while Coronavirus was gathering steam in Italy, I tried to move the plant in its large terracotta vase to a better location. The rim snapped off in my hand. I tried lifting the vase up from the bottom but, it would not budge… much. Found the plant’s roots had sought more fertile contact with Mother Earth through the drainage hole. A major exodus. Stopped-up the exit completely. Surveying the entire hydrangea-vase situation, I was alarmed to see the plant was drowning. Oh, dear…. Oh, my… drowned! I busted the pot. Water gushed out soaking my Adidas trainers…

They don’t lace. Hidden cords. Push a button on the side and twist it to tighten the shoe to the foot. They make my feet stink. Chinese synthetics. But, very cool looking footwear, I don’t mind saying. Black and Jamaican yellow and green. A modern day Rastafarian?

I went and got a shovel to dig a large hole and promptly re-planted the drowned hydrangea directly in the waiting guts of Madame Earth. I fear it was too late. No signs of life after two weeks, ie leaves, perhaps?

What I would so dearly love to KILL! KILL!! KILL!!!, however, would be the roving vines. Probably, yes, I could concede the flora-type I am annually afflicted with might be a nice contribution to un ambiente piu’ naturale, just not at il Poggiolo, thank you very much. Long, elegant and purple tendrils with delicately articulated light-green leaves easily distributed along the vines’ length, a lighter version of an ivy, are taking over every single plant, bush, tree in the garden. They go everywhere, respect nothing, and are totally indifferent to what they are strangling in this or in any other year. One can no longer enjoy the greenery You and I sweated to plant for the last 10 years. A menace.

A couple of weeks ago, I stopped by to see My English Friends in Codiponte to say Ciao! and find out how they were bearing the pandemic. All was OK so, I then steered the conversation to my unsuccessful war on roving vines. I received a prompt suggestion for the trouble of my visit with a guaranteed knock ‘em DEAD method…

gather up the vines, curl them into a ball, stuff them into a plastic garbage bag, spray poison inside… ABUNDANTLY!!!… tie the thing up and let the chemicals do their prescribed work. Though optimistic in winning this Chemical War, the tactic does decorate our Lunigiana premises with a disconcerting variety of blue, light-grey and light-green plastic garbage bags. There is nothing less decorative than plastic. Like, suddenly, the place has begun to return to its recent History… lo’ these 10 years ago… of being a community trash dump. Ahime’.

On an up-note… modern Italian technology has saved me from carrying around a very bad attitude regarding the weed-whacker. Previously thought to be the most odious machine ever thrown onto our modern gardening society. Mostly for equipping the plastic cord… we just can’t get away from plastic, can we?… in yet another plastic housing. The installation ruins the flow of the initiative to bush-whack grass & weeds into oblivion. The housing gave up the ghost this afternoon, while I swayed the machine back ‘n forth across il Poggiolo’s ramp’s tall, rain-nourished grass & weeds. Meant a drive to Gragnola… mask & gloves on… to the local hardware store. A fantastic establishment. All guys and they are extremely courteous & helpful for my city mouse dealing with a country mouse’s chores & tribulations. The Head Guy replaced the housing with a new one where you just insert the plastic cord… there we go again… into a hole, run it through and out another hole, turn the top dial and the plastic thing sucks the plastic cord into the plastic housing. Glorious. Totally. In ancient times, I would have had to disassemble the housing, separated the three pieces, wrap a long plastic cord… we we go again… around another plastic piece… gads… struggling to encourage said plastic cord to go around in circles against its plastic will… of course… slip each end through their respective holes… against their plastic will… the material is a plague… then quickly pop back on the rest of the housing before the plastic cord decides to spring out and land several feet away… to start the struggle all over again. I came home with the new housing and made clean work of the tall grass & weeds on the ramp. Done with great satisfaction and pride.

And now, for a bit of Spring color…

Il Poggiolo’s garden is inundated with flowers. A bumper crop. And how, with so little H2O? A trick of Mother Nature, perhaps? Here is a photo-medley…

If you will excuse me, I must return to the Chemical Battle.

Day 25 Lockdown Codiponte...

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I am not at the end of my rope… yet. Many are though, but not me. I’m made of sterner stuff.

As is the Tradition, let me say, and before I dive into a lecture on Freedom, the lack thereof or, what we all are doing in the meantime, it’s absolutely gorgeous here in Codiponte: bright, sunny, cloudless days from Day 19 through to Day 25 of Lockdown Codiponte. By the way…

I must interject: my term of captivity is actually longer than the Official Lockdown. You…. Dr. You, that is, knowing full well my career as an ardent smoker long before I ever laid drunken eyes on him, and thus, understands my vulnerability to the threats of bronchitis, pneumonia, and not must unwillingly add the menace of Coronavirus to the list, suggested, highly suggested, I remove myself from circulation and remain within the confines of il Poggiolo. Whew! What a sentence. My confinement, in fact, is from the middle of February. As the count stands, I am, personally, in Day 49, from the 15th of February. I am not alone in this. My 90 year old mother, my English friends here in Codiponte, and others around I am sure.

To finish with the current weather report…

however, possibly for contrast or, for plain mean spirited-ness, it is also unseasonably beeg freezing cold too. During the night and, is especially felt in the morning. 37F degrees this morning. That’s cold for these parts and in April. The Croesus-person would not budge from off my bed until 10AM. Thermometer showed only 40F degrees at that hour. The Dog has an uncanny nose for only two… nope, sorry, three things: food, a savoury stick… you may substitute icky for savoury… and the cold. And this morning, with a light wind from Frawnce, the Chill Factor knocked the temp down to a feels-like 32F degrees. I can attest: there’s nothing colder in this World than standing in one’s skivvies risking disease… though holding a warm glass with a freshly made espresso… observing a crazed Weimaraner run up to his anointed spot to unleash his pent-up bio-donations. I refuse to do this daily ceremony with said Dog on a leash though I am under orders to do so. Enough of our Freedoms have already been taken away…

not that I am complaining.

Freedom? A New Freedom. I don’t want to get deep here but, I looked up the old meaning on Wikipedia. Merriam-Webster took too long to load. It states Freedom as: generally, having the ability to act or change without constraint. Easy. I am constrained. We all our constrained. Some of us more than others. I won’t name the name of the countries who seem reluctant to constrain their Peoples to stem the spread of Coronavirus. We’re all in this together. Get with it.

Nor do I want to be overly reflective yet, I find myself in a quandary with regards to this Coronavirus constraint: An adverse reaction. I have tons, literally tons, of stuff to do, to knock off the Task List, take these unexpected circumstances to achieve, accomplish, master, since I am prohibited BY DECREE!!! to hop in my SUV and go anywhere fun… like visit friends, go out to dinner, hang out at Luca’s Bar at Happy Hour. Nope. Instead, what I really want to do is NOT TO DO any of them. There, the New Freedom. However, when I try to goof off, I can’t…

relax, lull on a chaise and read a book in the sun though bundled-up in a sweater, throw blanket and scarf… GOT NO BOOKS, thanks to the spectacularly prompt delivery service at amazon.com. Odd because the only airplanes flying overhead are for cargo.

watch something on Netflix only to discover there is nothing palatable to watch. Sorry… I DO NOT WATCH MOVIES with a 23% Approval Rating from Rotten Tomatoes. I have Standards.

learn a language. How about Russian? I booked Pimsleur. Great outfit. Putting the written language aside, the Russian words and their pronunciation are…? Are…? ARE TONGUE TWISTERS. An example: Wouldn’t you like something to drink? comes to be and written phonetically as: Nee katill-beh bweh vweh stoney-bootz vweebitz? After that, I need some more white wine becomes… Mehnee new-zhnoh yesh-sh-ey nimnogoh belogo vinah. I have to go downstairs to pour me some to unravel my tongue and lips.

take on the challenge of learning how to use a digital mirror-less camera to shoot my new found passion for chestnut trees left to rot & decay on the hills around Codiponte. The Croesus-person is of no help as an assistant. Nevertheless, he does have the concession for collecting firewood down pat. Bravo cagnolino!

So, I struggle with all of the above. What I have managed to do and at my complete Freedom, is YARD WORK in il Poggiolo’s maturing-nicely-thank-you garden. Let me provide a List AND a photo-medley:

  1. Pruned every fruit and non-fruit tree on our property

  2. Clipped about 350 feet of assorted hedges and won the battle after much gymnastics

  3. Cleaned the entire 25,000 ft. terraced garden of leaves, twigs, trash and an occasional stealth bio-donation

  4. Planted 15+ plants in various empty spots needing greenery or flowers

  5. Fertilised every fruit and non fruit tree, bush and plant with roots in Mother Earth and those flora managing to survive in pots

  6. Put in order our courtyard, carrying away leaves, twigs and trash and pulled weeds out of every potted plant on the premises

  7. Mowed the lawn twice

  8. Weed-whacked twice

  9. Burned three times the mighty efforts of my pruning & cleaning. Yes, we can burn

  10. Cut wood to burn since I went through the entire consignment of this Winter’s firewood

  11. And, finally, stopped to admire and sniff the flowers!




May to June flowers...

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Archive post June 5, 2019…

Happens every year. Not especially like clock-work but, generally, yes. The garden of il Poggiolo becomes an ongoing explosion of flowers, colors, and different floral forms from late April through May and into June. Exhausted by that effort, the roses, lilacs, peonies, wisteria, broom et al lay low during heat of Summer’s heat, giving another good show in early September. Just in time for Codiponte’s Sagra dei Pomi.

You & I can’t figure it. How come this amazing flower feast? Rains have come but, have been sparse and sparing. Humidity has been far more present. Can plants suck water out of air to produce such a lively spectacle? Little to get from the cement-like ground. We have let the question be. Instead, I am proud… not sure about You and his constant criticisms over my style of giardinaggio… of how the garden is maturing. Bring on the flowers…


Let the projects begin...

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Archive post January 17, 2019…

I am decided: let’s get going with bringing il Poggiolo up to snuff for 2019. Got a list:

#1 re-build the two Big Pergolas and another smaller schiocchezza… or, a smaller foolishness, destroyed by the Hurricane of last October.

I have the necessary essential material: bamboo. Lucky to have passed by while a local Codiponte resident was clearing and burning the infestation of bamboo next to his piece of Italian territory. Seems a tradition of January, as others in the Lunigiana were doing the same. What can one do in January but clear and burn? The man’s property along the road to the natural spring of Acqua Paradiso is graced by one of the trashiest barns around… a agglomerated dump, literally… a few puny grape vines and a bevy of scruffy cats & dogs to watch the premises. The view to the Apuane Peaks, however, is inspiring. That’s Italy for you. The man kindly allowed me to pilfer with the help of my two canine assistants and the Galloper SUV enough bamboo poles to adequately take care of Project #1 and then some.

#2 put in a stone path up the middle of the ramp from the Dog-gate up to L’Appartamento Azzurro and re-seed the grass. The Truth of this task is actually to fare sparire…. or, to disappear, the stones dumped on the back-side of the Esseccatoio… or, smoke house, after the work on La Casa Grande’s addition of two mini-windows in the Salotto way back in 2014. What is underneath by a meter would make a cute little terrazza… or, terrace, for an aperitivo or, sunbathe on terracotta pavers. Please note: Nina-beena and The Croesus-person are My Project Inspectors. They are enthusiastic participants with anything I elect to do.

#3 put in stone before the terracotta terrace at the entrance to L’Appartamento Azzurro. This may be expanded to include the triangular split at the Legnaia… or, wood-shed, and the ramp. Planting grass was a disappointing failure.

One happy Weimaraner puppy carrying his latest stick.

One happy Weimaraner puppy carrying his latest stick.

#4 paint the front door to La Casetta and the two wood gates, one at the lower end of the Sottopassaggio… or, our Tunnel, and the other at the Keep-the-Dogs-on-the-Aia next to the Esseccatoio in Our Signature Grey. There is can with some residual paint. But where?

#5 and finally, get the Cowboy Builder to come build and install the two glass-fronted fireboxes for La Casa Grande’s Salotto… or, Living Room… and Sala da pranzo… or, the Dining Room. If only the dude would check his answering machine and call me back!

I may need tranquilizers for this last item. All others will require a strong back and drink after 5PM.

I am going to hold off on the French doors in the Sala da Pranzo. I brought in our Esteemed Geometra to take a look and he immediately embarked upon a discussion of what a pity it would be to remove the original beam so much in the way of this initiative. Let there by sunlight. Probably just as well. I don’t think You has actually absorbed this plan of mine. Better to wait and judge the proper moment before dropping the double-door bomb again.

I have January and February to knock these off. My attention must turn to the garden in March for il Grande Assalto. Needed: a strong body and even stronger drink. Wish me luck?