Conversing In Italian, “Ciao, Bella Gina”
Marianne and I did something quite uncommon for us—we signed up of a night class: Beginning Italian. It was uncommon because we are usually either doing theatre at night or singing or directing choir for me. It has been taught for years at UCC (Umpqua Community College) our local JC by Jean Melo.
Now, Jean Melo and I go back a long ways. She was my teaching partner at Winchester Elementary School in Roseburg, Oregon in the 1990’s. I had her kids in school when they first settled here from a cross-country move from Connecticut. Jean is a force of nature, an incredibly versatile pianist, outstanding musician (including accordion), and speaks Italian like she was born there. She has also been very persuasive. Extremely so. She was after me for years to take her beginners class. In late September we succumbed to her constant invitations and signed up for the class.
Jean and Wes, her husband lived near Pisa while he did his service. “Close” to the Field of Miracles really turned out to be four miles, or so, but since I live in Oregon, USA; I thought four was close and convenient. She relished her time in Tuscany, and made many friends. Many she goes back to see every year. The couple they usually end up staying with live on Elba—Napoleon’s exile isle. “Sort of looks like a sardine, doesn’t it?” She quibbled as we started to look at the map of Italia. She is thorough. Not only were we getting Italian to use, but we were getting a geography lesson, culture lesson, and history thrown it for good measure. I relished it.
Gina loves to give her insights into the Italian culture and La bella figura. I hang on her every word. I fall off the cliff when she “rapid-fires” Italian questions and answers like notes from a Mozart opera overture—too many!?! One night in class she started talking about driving in Italy and how vastly different it is to drive with Italians since the carbonating have begin to ‘crack-down’ on native-born drivers—levying heavy traffic fines on them for driving infractions.
“Before,” she said, “You took your life in your hands, and certainly got out of their way if you ever saw one coming. They were terrible.”
“Like, yellow means go faster, and red just a suggestion?” offered Marianne.
“Si! Now, they are courteous and almost respectful because they understand the ‘consequences’ better.”
Later that evening at home I asked Marianne if Jean’s comments encouraged her at all about trying to drive in Tuscany. She took the crossword she was working on and raised it up over her face so I could not see a reaction. Well I guess a got my answer on that topic. I would try to keep building my case later.
Those Happy Feudal Days
Gina was running through words and phrases in class and came across la conto, the bill.
“First,” she says, “you must always ask for the bill at a ristorante. They will never bring it to you. Never. You have to ask for it.”
“Or mime writing on the palm of your hand,” added Marianne.
“Did you know that the ‘Count’ comes from conto, to count, keep track of. In the feudal times the Count was charged by the Duke to go out and count all the peasants things. The grain sacks, livestock, wine barrels, everything, and then the Duke would get 95% of it all. That’s why the rich were very rich and the poor, well, the poor got babies. Even today, the aristocracy won huge amounts of land. The nobles always got the best jobs, all that sort of thing. Although it’s not so bad, my husband, Wes, got to go on a hunt with a rich count-type and ended up shooting a wild boar (cinghale). He even got knighted, a cross of boars’ blood on the forehead. But that’s another story…”
Thanksgiving, Italian-Style
“Felice Ringraziegiorno!” One week before Thanksgiving, Gina related her experience with having some loving Italian ‘la nonna’ make Thanksgiving dinner for them.
“She wanted to do it so badly. She was ‘molto dolce’. First, for the turkey--it was stuffed with a basic hamburger--meatloaf mixture. She refused to us a bread stuffing; it was revolting to her Italian senses. Weird, yes, but it was so tasty, “coma gustoso”.”
Gina shows the hand ‘language’ that goes with it—a pointer finger (thumb out fingers curled over) against the cheek. It looked just like our “I’m so cute and adorable” sign.
“The hamburger ‘infused’ into the poultry and made it so moist and flavorful. Mmmm, delizioso! The pumpkin pie, however, was a totally foreign idea. Mamma sliced up the pumpkin, laid the pieces into a pie shell, and the result was, non delizioso. No, no, no. It was pretty much a disaster.”
Hot Tub Up-Date
The gravel came in two loads, and even though my left knee complained about it, I hauled it all to the back yard and tamped it down. Over the next week I got the form in place and waited for the ‘flying hot tub”. I had to tear out the free-stand trellises and rip the healthy vines (wisteria and clematis) off of them in order for the tub to get to the patio. After two or three mis-starts, on a sunny Thursday in mid-October, Leonard got the hot tub into the back yard. Marianne was at home and said she was too afraid to go out and look at the process. If I had been off work that day, I would have loved to watch the whole production. She said she saw a shadow cross the skylight on the south side of the house, and did see the tub gracefully descend and land on the small patio on back. Wonderful! So we now had a 7’ x 7’ tub on a 9’x 9’ patio. We could almost get out the back door and get around it. Fine. Now all that was left was getting the 10” by 10” slab poured.
The following week, I had a non-contract Friday (the first of four furlough days and the beginning of the decrease in my 23-year salary), so I was bound and determined to get the whole thing done, poured, etc. and the weather looked like it was going to cooperate. I called a few young, strong guys, because I knew I couldn’t really do the physical labor. Curiously, I woke that Friday morning, after a four week aggravation of gout (yes gout!) in my left big toe, with a ‘discomfort’ in my right heel. It hoped it had been bed sheets too tightly tucked into the mattress. No such luck. By the afternoon, I knew I had a ‘re-visitation’ of an old Achilles tendon/bone spurs on my heel problem. I struggled through two visits to that hell-(p)-ful place, Lowes, to get things for the concrete form and the tub, and then had to return them because I ‘blithely’ believed what the clerk had told me, when it wasn’t what I needed. Ahh, box-stores—don’t get me started.
Saturday, I had to go to “Wally-World” for more things, and had to walk the half mile to the front of the store to get a cart. Then, because they ‘improved’ the store since I was there last, I had to walk around the whole mile and a half to find the few things I needed. By then I couldn’t believe the pain my heel was in. I was so out of it as I passed through the food section; I grabbed a bag of toll house cookie dough, something I never do, thinking ‘I have to get a treat for this torture’. Needless to say, after cleaning the tub, and digging out the gravel to support the concrete form, I canceled the work party and opened a bottle of Gabbiano Classico and had my own party.
I couldn’t believe the pain I had Sunday morning, having to go to church, direct choir and sing. I had to use a cane and stand on the ball of my right foot. God got my through that one. It went home and actually rested. Unfortunately, I knew that night I could not teach the next day, so I had to drive across town at 6 A.M. to school to call for a sub and make lesson plans. Luckily, Cain, the Site Operator was there and had the gate to campus already open. I still had to get out of the car, open it and drive around to the music room. I never realized how big my small music room was until I had to hobble around it to get things ready. I got the business done and out of the room before the other teachers started to show up and 7:30.
I went home and crashed for an hour. With Marianne’s help, I then I spend the next four and a half hours (that is not an exaggeration) getting into to see a doctor at the ‘Urgent-Care’ center, because my doctor was—out of town, again. I found out I have probably broken my heel (as well as the bone spurs) and was referred to a Podiatrist. The P.A. prescribed prednisone and walking-cast bootie.
When you get one of these things, at first, you can’t walk in it. Later when you get the ’rhythm’ of the thing going it does a curious thing. It either blows-out your knee or hip because of the contorted, unnatural way it makes you walk. It chose my right hip. There was absolutely no position, standing, sitting, or reclining that offered pain relief. So, one week to the day after I woke up with a heel problem I now had a hip problem--an excruciatingly painful hip problem that kept me from sleeping for at least five nights. Ain’t modern medicine a miracle? Needless to say, it put the concrete project back two weeks, and the electric was now backed up into November.
