Rhythms & Rituals...
What were the rhythms & rituals of il Poggiolo back before You & I hit? I may know something from ours…
An evening during our recent post-Christmas visit to il Poggiolo…
Penso di andare al letto… I think I’ll head off to bed, says You around 8:30 at night.
Nearly an outright lie. I know for a fact he will spend a good 2 to 2 + 1/2 hours under his mountainous bed-covers being Mr. Instagram. AKA, The Prince, HATES cold and can only properly function in an ambiance with not less less than 85 evenly distributed degrees Fahrenheit for various physiological and psycho reasons… all of them unhealthy AND very Italian. I won’t explain further. Comforters or radiators, You could care less. It’s the air-temp. His furnished excuse… though he knows I am onto him for said practice is… Aye muhst reeespownd too ahwll miye followerzz.
E d’abbondarmi cosi presto?… I gently retaliate with, And abandon me so early? Typical and a constant.
You silently bundles-up for the cold return up the ramp which connects La Casetta to the rest of il Poggiolo and his cozy terracotta-painted bedroom, thus ending our serata. I am left to share the long black sofa with two snoring Weimaraners and, Blessedly, a warm, blazing fire in La Casetta’s only fireplace though the firewood is still quite green.
The very next morning… and with no preamble, You kicks off with
Mi sono svegliato alle 4 stamattina… I woke up at 4AM, recounts You and in a tone of voice of wonderment mixed with a large dose of irritation. I cannot blame him.
Io ero sveglio alle 3:30AM e non potevo riaddormentarmi… comes my similar circumstances.
This is an uncontrolled bad habit with us guys. Happens every night. Shouldn’t happen on a vacation. The Dogs at least wait until the 7 o’clock is rung-out over at the church’s Medieval campanile. Must be impervious to nocturnal disturbances. You think?
Then, comes a domestic matter…
Non c’e’ latte nel frigo… said like I am totally out of whack with My Natural and habitually God-ordained Duties of Chief Cook & Bottle Washer. The task of Cook automatically implies doing the grocery shopping in a timely & efficient manner. You’s declaration meant I had to bundle up and go check the larders of the other 2 houses for a small carton of infamous long-life milk. Never found. I am heartened that I take my espresso nero. Others should learn this trick too.
Sipping my brew that same morning and nestled in La Casetta’s warmth, I began to ponder the why’s and the wherefores of our rudely early risings, when it dawned on me… ha-ha-ha… that farmer people wake up even before the cock crows. For what? Beat the cock to the crow? Cows need squeezing? Pigs have rolled over and cannot get up? Untangled the chickens from themselves before the sun peaks over yonder mountain? Admittedly, not a hugely in-depth or interesting topic. Yet, living in a farm-house after generations and generations and generations of risings & beddings, of comings & goings and of laboring 365 days of the year cracking chestnuts into flour or stuffing pork into casings for salamis, and other break-your-back farm tasks, the thought occurred that all that might leave traces of energy. Every square foot of house must’ve absorbed these ‘till the place could pop. And, Il Poggiolo just can’t shake them. Nor can we at 3:30 in the morning!