Like out of the blue!
Tending to the many Tasks-at-hand, and here’s an Updated List:
Dog Fence is in. And it has successfully prohibited any canine escape to sniff & plunder the precincts near about to Il Poggiolo. Nina-beena can no longer trot off to a plot of grass at the end of a neighbor’s courtyard above us and conveniently accessed through a two-way iron gate once a short flight of slate steps have been navigated. Nina-beena is becoming old & infirm. And, in particular, having bowed and unsteady hind parts makes stairs a daunting gymnastic. These denizens of the Borgo Castello toss their pranzo & cena left-overs for the cats. One fears that a chicken bone or two might be included in what was chucked. Meanwhile, The Croesus-person is denied his high-tails in a lateral direction to sniff the lower sectors near another neighbor’s house, tragically painted in a near day-glo ochre color, which will NEVER fade over Time, and where the cats seem to take what was gotten from above to dine upon hidden in Quite & Peace.
Called in our intrepid electrician… 10 years in our employ and n’er the word, No, from his lips… and indeed is a congenial Italian elf-of-a-man given to expressing opinions on pretty much everything, including topics outside his professional competence. Good that his suppositions are often of a sound & practical value… to revamp some light connections, mount a new one, where Darkness & Gloom reigned thick, and add exterior & interior light switches with heavy-duty outlets too. He is still searching for a replacement plastic door to our main electrical box. I had to assault it to Total Destruction with an IKEA screw-driver, when the key snapped off in the door’s lock. All in a nervous attempt to restore ASAP our electricity after it had mysteriously gone off. I am more than content on the improvements.
No word from our Cowboy Builder about coming to construct and install the two fireboxes for the LR & DR of La Casa Grande. The dude is currently working on a house project in some remote place not covered by any telephone network. Only if I am so lucky to remember to try him during the Pausa Pranzo, when he descends into a more accessible area of civilisation or, before he switches off his late 1990’s mobile as he strides into the OK-Corral, where he bunks with his latest girlfriend.
And, I am experiencing the latest chapter… Chapter 29… in a continuing saga to have repaired and/or restored many of Il Poggiolo’s wood painted windows & doors, so sadly ruined by rain, wind, heat and cold in our part of the Lunigiana. I had an appointment scheduled just this morning at 8:30AM. CANCELLED at 8:11AM. No replies to any of my whatsapps expressing availability until 2PM this afternoon. As Scarlet once remarked… Tomorrow is another day!
But onwards with the story…
…You mentioned… No! Wrong verb… INSISTED!!!… on the telephone a few days ago an ardent wish of His that someone come and re-do-nearly-everything about the Grassy Terrace right above the Apt. Azzurro. It’s the one with Mr. Hercules at the far end. News to me. Before I could ask even A Questions like… Are you ready to have a bull-dozer enter the garden and wrought its havoc upon our terrain?… I was compelled to listen to what sounded like one of You’s pre-meditated and extensive programs of rendering our humble home more gentile rather than leave it a farm-house, as it has been for the last 800 less 10 years of its Life. Again, I thought… Are you ready to have a bull-dozer enter the garden and wrought its havoc upon our terrain? Adding… just so you can adjust a slope?
The provocation brought back memories. We had to ask Our Builder… a trans-located Sardinian, who, though bravo in resolving issues of construction, was also a genius for creating new & nerve racking ones of his own making and to our suffering… because the garden actually had become an inclined garbage dump. Builders and staff are ALWAYS & NOTORIOUSLY a messy folk. The Builder’s nephew, a fierce-some kid of 20 decorated with piercings every-which-way and capped by a bush-whacked punk hair-cut, arrived with a mini-bull-dozer capable of swivelling 360 degrees…. in either sense. He joyously careened from one trash-strewn mound to another, leveling, grading, excavating, moving Ol’ Mother Earth in all her Local Majesty to give us terraces for which we might possibly plant grass. The machine, in his adroit hands, was like a joy-stick of movement & glee. In two days, the kid had altered a dump into a gentile cascade of dirt terraces, ready for semmination. Done, he drove off into the sunset with his mini-bull-dozer only to be met occasionally again in nearby pizzerias.
Enough of my reverie… You was avid to arrest what to Him appeared to be an unmistakable slant to the slope off the row of fruit trees and assorted clumps of lavender down to the boxwood hedges below. Fine, I said, it goes at the bottom of The List. What? Well, of course, without a doubt, most assuredly but, I don’t want you to forget about it! I had to reply… Bull-dozer, You, repeat after me, bull-dozer. It would be an aid to Our Mutual Progress & Tranquility of us participants, if You would communicate these Desires with a more casual air. I get a Panzer Division. Rest assured, the Grassy Terrace Repair is now on The List, once I had figured out what The Real Truth was: the slight slope of the Grassy Terrace disturbed the distant point of focus of Mr. Hercules, bought at auction at catawiki.it. (Delivery cost more than the statue.) Makes sense, I can see that, quite right, You. If he had only said so at the beginning, I might have saved on tranquilizers. Italians! So untransparent and hyper-.