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<title>Serenutu RSS Feed</title><link>http://www.serenutu.com/index.html</link><description>Stories from Italy</description><dc:language>en</dc:language><dc:creator>stories@serenutu.com</dc:creator><dc:rights>Copyright 2006 Serenutu</dc:rights><dc:date>2012-05-14T19:23:45+02:00</dc:date><admin:generatorAgent rdf:resource="http://www.realmacsoftware.com/" />
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<lastBuildDate>Tue, 15 May 2012 16:16:13 +0200</lastBuildDate><item><title>The Happiest Thing</title><dc:creator>stories@serenutu.com</dc:creator><category>None</category><dc:date>2012-05-14T19:23:45+02:00</dc:date><link>http://www.serenutu.com/index.html#unique-entry-id-73</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.serenutu.com/index.html#unique-entry-id-73</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[&ldquo;This is the happiest thing I have ever seen. 

...I held up the macaroon in the palm of my hand.   The handmade almond confection was wrapped in a gaily decorated paper, the edges tasseled like a party favor.   I felt as if I blew on one end, it would unfurl with a snap and toot.   This box of soft macaroons was a gift from my friend Carlo who, with his wife, had visited the town in Liguria where they have been made, one at a time since 1955.


...With all the solemnity of transferring a jewel, I handed one to Luciano, who tore into the wrapping and swallowed it whole.   It took all of two seconds.   I didn&rsquo;t even have time to reclose the box.   But then, he is not a sipper. 


&ldquo;It&rsquo;s good.&rdquo;   He said, &ldquo;Small, but good.&rdquo;


Making a mental note on how fast that thing had disappeared, I hid the box.   Luciano would never eat something of mine without asking, but why tempt the man?   And I want to keep at least one of these happy things around for a while.   I then went back to scrubbing the grill from last night&rsquo;s dinner which, a moment ago had been a bit of drudgery, but now just wasn&rsquo;t so bad.


How many moments of pure happiness are there in a day?   As Topo, my little blue car, and I motor around the Veneto with my classroom in the trunk I see many things; snapshots of life, a simple moment of bliss.   I started collecting them in a file called snapshots but have not been able to link them until I held that frivolous, excessively wrapped sweet in my hand.


A circus from Eastern Europe passes through nearby Susegana every year, setting up a battered tent and staking the camels out in the scruffy cornfield near the industrial park.   Jaded elephants, the heavy leg chains having become indistinguishable from their thick skin, sway in the shade of the big top while nearby shoppers flow into the local big box store looking for flat screen TV&rsquo;s or cook pots.   It is such an incongruous sight that I always slow down as I pass&hellip;and it was there that I saw a moment of happiness.   Between the shabby circus trailers set up on the edges of the encampment, I saw a man sitting in a red chair in the rough grass.   His ruddy face was turned to some friends sitting at a nearby picnic table.  ...  Standing behind the smiling roustabout was another man, with muscular arms raised, studiously cutting his friend&rsquo;s thick black hair.


Not ten minutes later I passed a white house that gleamed in a sudden show of early spring sunshine.   In the garden in front of the house a small girl was pushing a wooden swing with all her might.   Leaning back on the swing, a woman in a blue apron had her hands on the chains and her feet in the air.   Her head was back and her eyes were closed with her face in the sun, taking a break from morning chores to travel through space and time to the moment she was a child pushing the swing with all her might.


A whitewashed 50 gallon drum sits against an ancient house built on a once narrow dirt lane; the only thing separating the front door from speeding cars is a painted stripe on the pavement.   Someone has planted a wisteria tree in that banged-up drum and now it blooms, blissfully beautiful against the worn stucco.


A nonna walks down our street in her housewife dress and apron.   She seems to have just stepped out of the kitchen for a moment for in her hand is a cook pot.   As I pass she stoops to gather the tender wild greens that grow everywhere in this season and throws the handful into the pot. 

...The gas station on the road to Treviso has a handwritten sign out front. 

...A vigorous orange gerbera daisy grows in a chipped coffee cup set on a stump. 


And last Saturday afternoon I heard bells outside the window&hellip; I know that sound anywhere: ice cream truck.

In my mind I am suddenly a child, running wild with my brothers and sisters in the back yard with summer hardened bare feet, stained purple with fallen mulberries.   The bells ring at mid-morning and all play stops as we run screaming to the street, &ldquo;Good Humor Man!   Good Humor Man!&rdquo;   We balance on tiptoe on the hot asphalt street, choosing a popsicle from the gay illustrations on the side of the truck and then pay with the wadded up bill that my mother had stuck into someone&rsquo;s pocket, just in case.   As the driver shifts into drive, turns on his bells and motors on, we stand in a circle on the grass and eat; the younger ones, not always able to keep up with the heat, lose some of the ice cream in melted streaks down their bare brown tummies, but it doesn&rsquo;t matter. 

...In Mareno di Piave I leaned out the window and saw the ice cream man dishing up a scoop for our neighbor.   No prepackaged ice cream here. 


Now as I tell Luciano about my memory, the name &ldquo;good humor man&rdquo; just rolls off my tongue and he laughs at me.


&ldquo;Why, was he always in a good mood?&rdquo;


...I never thought of it, really.&rdquo;


In fact, I realize that for us it was a state of mind, not a brand name.   How could it not be?    Here in our quiet hot afternoon and in an official white coat, the vendor bent over the buckets of homemade, produzione propria, ice cream.   Then he shifted his truck into drive, turned on his bells and motored on&hellip; the happiest noise ever.
]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Easter Lunch</title><dc:creator>stories@serenutu.com</dc:creator><category>None</category><dc:date>2012-04-13T22:22:22+02:00</dc:date><link>http://www.serenutu.com/index.html#unique-entry-id-72</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.serenutu.com/index.html#unique-entry-id-72</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[&ldquo;I can get a better phone any time I want&hellip;I could get one tomorrow.   Well, I could on Tuesday, the stores are closed tomorrow, but I could do it!&rdquo;   With that Anna Maria stormed out of the room, or at least stormed as much as I have ever seen.


...I could tell she was agitated since she had switched to dialect, something she does unconsciously when excited.   After all, Italian is as much a second language for her as it is for me and so she needs to concentrate to speak it.   And while I can get the gist of the conversation in dialect, the details escape me.


...He&rsquo;d had the honor of pushing his sister just a bit too far, suggesting that her mobile phone was outdated.   After all, it had no loudspeaker function and certainly could not take photos.   He whipped out his fancy sliding phone, 3 megapixels, and took a few calls&hellip;I think to show off.   But in fact, being Easter Sunday, Luciano&rsquo;s Uncle Dan was in high demand.   He had just finished leading the mass over in San Polo, but the much-loved priest in town for the weekend is constantly fielding invitations.   I think we were pretty lucky to score his presence for Easter lunch.   It did not stop Anna Maria, however from being peeved at his comments on her technological limitations.


These criticisms were pretty strong coming from a man who did not own a cell phone until two or three years ago.   People used to track him down by calling house phones from San Polo to Mareno&hellip;sometimes even during lunch, the epitome of poor education.


...Luciano chimed in, &ldquo;I am lucky if mine lasts 11 hours&hellip;&rdquo;


...Anna Maria had rejoined us, sitting at the table glaring at her brother as Giancarlo made the coffee. 


&ldquo;I talk on the phone when I need to. 

...&ldquo;How many megapixels do you have on your camera, Anna Maria?&rdquo; 

...Indeed she had been the family photographer last summer when I left my old camera with her to record the progress on the house next door; a job she took very seriously.   Now of course, Anna Maria was incapable of operating her hand-me-down camera without my going through the steps every time she wants to take a picture.   And I am convinced she does not know what a megapixel is, but that did not matter, nor was I going to mention that fact.   For the moment she has won the technology spitting match between siblings whose childhood had been spent in a house with a cow in the front yard and no electricity. 


Appeased, Anna Maria turned and pulled a piece of paper out of her drawer.   This usually means that she has written down some English word that she heard or read and wanted to try her pronunciation out on me&hellip;to see if I can figure out what she is saying.   I have heard leepstic, (lipstick) ies ui chen (Yes, we can) and hot pants (that one I got).   I usually can guess, but sometimes she catches me off guard.


...&ldquo;Do you know what that is?&rdquo;


&ldquo;Yes, it is when you simulate drowning by holding someone&rsquo;s head under water.&rdquo;


...Anna Maria shot him a look and again switched to dialect.   I missed the details, but it was my impression that she clarified this particular method of torture, her expertise on the topic in fact, alarming. ...  Giancarlo poured the coffee and Zio Danilo stirred in his three spoons of sugar.


...&ldquo;Oh I know that, it is a system of book exchange!&rdquo;   Of course Luciano, sworn lover of books, knew this word. 


&ldquo;Serena does not know it because books are being replaced by digital versions,&rdquo; Zio Danilo had succeeded in getting the conversation back to technology.   &ldquo;In fact, they are talking about replacing all the books in the library with a digital format of some kind.


Anna Maria said nothing&hellip;probably digesting this alarming step into the latest brave new world that she had no hope of pretending to understand.


...&ldquo;My first book in English was about a dog in Alaska, I think, that went back into the wild&hellip;what was the name of that book?&rdquo;


...The Italian school system for some reason has not gotten beyond 19th century literature and most people I have met have read Oscar Wilde, Emily Bronte and Jack London, but know nothing of John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner; T.S. 

...&ldquo;Have you read Call of the Wild, Anna Maria?&rdquo; 

...&ldquo;No, but I think I can find it at the Mareno library.&rdquo;


&ldquo;Do you think they have it?&rdquo;


...Now that we were back on books, real books, both Anna Maria and Giancarlo could relax.   Voracious readers since their retirement, they sit side by side at the kitchen table, reading every afternoon. .  She will finish any book she starts, even if she hates it. ...  Anna Maria and I read To Kill a Mockingbird together, I in English and she, of course, in Italian. ...  And yes, she has read every book Danielle Steel has ever written and finally tackled Promessi Sposi, the Italian classic novel, so that she could be in the know for television game show questions


Her brother knows this and, being the peaceable, albeit mischievous, priest, he sat back and smiled across the table.   The rain came down in sheets outside and the blossom laden trees across the street danced in the blustery wind&hellip;strange weather for Easter.   But harmony reigned once again at the kitchen table, whose smooth surface shone with years of elbows, book covers and warm banter&hellip;in any language.
]]></content:encoded></item><item><title>Home</title><dc:creator>stories@serenutu.com</dc:creator><category>None</category><dc:date>2012-01-29T15:54:17+01:00</dc:date><link>http://www.serenutu.com/index.html#unique-entry-id-71</link><guid isPermaLink="true">http://www.serenutu.com/index.html#unique-entry-id-71</guid><content:encoded><![CDATA[I leaned in and peered more closely at the lone photo on the rough wall, hastily mounted in a cheap plastic frame.   The grainy black and white photo was of two women in front of a stone house.   Before them, posing stiffly were three children, two with bows in their hair.   One of the women was smiling with her hands on her hips&hellip;ready to go back to work or was she laughing at the photographer? ...  I did not think it was Augusta&rsquo;s house, but was one of the children Augusta? ...  Given the fact that, to me, many houses and people look the same in the 1960&rsquo;s as they did at the turn of the century in Italy, I am often deceived by the age of photos.  

Luciano and Giancarlo had already followed the contractor up the crooked front stairs of Augusta&rsquo;s house to the rooms upstairs.   I stood alone in what used to be the living room, before it being turned into her bedroom in her later years, and before her daughter took her away last summer. 

...&ldquo;Luciano, there are many possibilities for that house, the main one being that in this way, our family will own the entire building.   We could fix it up and rent it&hellip;we could fix it up and live in it and rent our hous&hellip;&rdquo;

...Giving a final glance at the faux tortoiseshell bed frame filling the small room, I followed the sounds of the men quietly talking.   Negotiating the narrow crooked stairs, I slid my hand along the thick plaster wall for support.   Anna Maria&rsquo;s kitchen was on the other side of that wall.   There didn&rsquo;t seem to be a single right angle in the entire building.   I was feeling slightly queasy as I joined G and L who were scrutinizing the fissures in the walls and the sagging ceilings.   The contractor jumped up and down to demonstrate the floor was sound, but that seemed to be about the end of the good news.   In fact Augusta&rsquo;s husband Gino had been quite the pragmatist and, faced with a growing family, just kept slapping more rooms onto what had once been a single floor two-room house with an attached stable and a detached outhouse.   With a little creative carpentry he had expanded it to include a bathroom and three bedrooms, none up to code I imagine. 

...&ldquo;Luciano, I think we should offer half of what they are asking.&rdquo;

...Do you think they will go for that?   And do you really want to take on that headache?&rdquo;

...I suppose that was to be expected and I was prepared to wait them out.   But one year later quite suddenly, while we were in California, a young family bought the house.   It took a few weeks for this news to settle in.   I had to turn the new reality over in my head for, as often happens, I had already visualized my garden with roses brimming over the fence and the beautiful garage for Topo (my car) constructed in the footprint of Augusta&rsquo;s house.   The small, but lovely apartment above the garage was already rented to a very quiet and wealthy lady who had no interest in gardening, but loved dogs and while she did not really want one of her own, was happy to take care of ours when we were away&hellip;Yeah, I had gone into some detail&hellip;in my head.

...He is very focused on his house and arrived with his head down, prepared for work.   In short time he had removed an interior wall, pulled up a tree, torn down a shed in the back yard and dug a deep sharply cut trench to finally bring gas into the house.   Gino had refused such a service, preferring to periodically fill a huge tank buried in the garden.   For months our new neighbor labored, toiling with his large hands and broad shoulders as his young daughter played in the garden and his wife planted raspberry bushes where the chickens used to scratch in the dust, keeping Augusta company.   After six months of sweat, he came to a realization: It could not be done. 

...Within weeks there was scaffolding wrapped around the house and workmen with chisels began the delicate work of disentangling the two houses that had been joined from birth, like surgeons separating Siamese twins. ...  Anna Maria and Giancarlo, determined to remain unflustered, sat in their kitchen reading and sewing as if there were not a riotous pounding inches from their heads.   The house next door was being removed and they did not flinch.   Until of course, a hammer came through their kitchen wall, presumably with the workman still attached to it, and then things got really raucous.   I went next door to see and found Anna Maria still sewing, albeit a little jumpy, but Giancarlo sat; arms crossed, closely watching a nervous worker in their kitchen, patching the wall.   At this point Anna Maria and Giancarlo elected to leave every day for a road trip, preferring to be away in case the roof came down. 

Two days later, with daylight showing between the houses and a hastily installed fence, a large tractor with shovel arm lumbered down our little street and took position in the front garden.   That huge mechanical arm reached up against the grey sky and then, with delicate but powerful nudges, flicked at the stone walls of the now thoroughly blank, soulless building.   I truly had thought I would feel a tug of sadness; those rooms had once been filled with life, children, and memories.   But as the plaster and stucco of the upper floors turned into dust that filled the air, I felt only awe at the power of that arm and the expertise of the driver.   With a deafening roar the roof came down, collapsing into the most resistant part of the house, the original stone house and stable.   This too gave up, violently torn open to the sky for the first time in over a hundred years. ...  He must certainly be sad&hellip;he grew up with that house too, but his face was inscrutable as usual&hellip;I would check in later.

A light rain had started to fall making the scene all too depressing, so I went inside our house as the other went through its final throes. ...  The silver coffee pot, a wedding gift from my mother, gleamed softly in the cupboard, the flowers on the table trembled slightly from the nearby destruction and I could hear the clock ticking.   In the quiet I could feel our fully-alive house breathe, hum and draw me in protectively. 

...While there are several words to express different kinds of love, the word &ldquo;house&rdquo; or casa is used for everything.   In English a &ldquo;home&rdquo; is not a building; it is an emotion. ...  And our new neighbor, standing in the middle of his suddenly blank slate with those big hands on his hips, could now plow forward, head down, prepared for work, building his home.]]></content:encoded></item></channel>
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