I was driving in my car at high speed on SS 148 to Latina. Almost two years before, I was driving down the same road, on the opposite direction fantasising about a boy to adopt, of whom I could not even picture the face and at that point I realised that my dream had come true.
Even Max, my doggie, was eager to get home, restless as he recognised the familiar environment. In fact as soon as he got out of the car he rocketed to mark the trees which delimited his territory. When we opened the door we had a pleasant surprise.
I was not aware but my wife called her cousin who decorated the house with coloured balloons. Marco was overjoyed and he went straight to the Christmas tree. He was very interested in chocolates nougats and sweets, rather than the Christmas decorations. Marco, we can make an exception and eat one. Come on I’ll show you your room.
With gestures and speaking Romanian he asked me if the bedroom was just for him, being used to share a dorm with twenty kids, he could not believe he had a bedroom all for him.
Dear cousin, you are great! We could not think of a better welcome!.
“Well it was the least I could do!”
That evening we had dinner together joking about puns and blunders and misunderstandings about talking two different languages and we started to teach him Italian.
The next day we were busy preparing the documentation for his admission at school. Together with the social worker we decided to send him to the first grade even if he was two years older than his class mates, also because the school year began in September.
We were told that he attended the second grade at primary school, however, we soon realised that was not true because he did not even know the alphabet. He was a smart kid though and we were confident that he could make up for it.
It was almost Christmas and the right occasion to introduce Marco to my family.
In addition to that I could have taught him how to ski and I could have skied as well.
I hardly ski due to my work and other various commitments. My wife is very reluctant to go with me as she cannot stand cold weather.
Even if I have turned into a fisherman, I am still strongly drawn to the mountains. Until I was 19 years old I basically lived up on the snowy mountains. I was also rather good at skiing, I practised three ski disciplines: cross-country, alpine ski and ski jumping. The village Ski Club supplied skis and – given those years – I consider myself lucky. At home I had cross-country, alpine skis, and ski for ski jumping. In exchanged I competed in three national FISI finals category ‘squirrels’ and ‘deer’, it was the first ski cup.
When we got to Campo di Giove, the view was as fascinating as usual: Christmas-lit streets and soft noises. I was a bit tense, because at home everyone was waiting for us, including my sister and my nephews. At home I was considered the good guy who joined the Air Force Academy, independent at 20 years old. On the other hand I was far from the standards and traditions expected in a little mountain village. In fact I only had a civil wedding with my partner who already had a previous relationship that did not have a happy ending. We had two old fellows and colleagues as best man and bridesmaid. We considered the ceremony such a mere formality in fact that important morning we were woken up by the florist. We rushed towards the Town Hall where the best man and the bridesmaid and a nice alderman with the Italian flag sash on his shoulders were waiting for us. The alderman - who was in a bit of a hurry - read aloud the various Civil Code articles.
After the ceremony we had a drink and made a toast in a very nice bar and from there I phoned the restaurant to reserve a table for the wedding lunch. A very polite man replied, he had a moment hesitation when I told him we were just four people. I only informed my parents two days later, justifying myself saying that it would have been too complicated to organise a complete ceremony. The truth was that I did not want to embarrass them as I only had a civil wedding, without a church ceremony, which is a bit unusual around here.
Personally I felt that I did not need the priest approval. My parents did not object, but they simply put it “if is all right for you, it is all right for us too”. I only regret it for my mother, she surely imagined a grand and impressive ceremony for me, with all our relatives, and perhaps she pictured me in my Air Force pilot uniform. My father did not say much, actually I think he would have done the same thing. In addition to that I was going there with an adopted child, and I realise now that I have asked for too much and I am very grateful to them. Anyway the meeting went very well and it even turned out funny when Marco called my father ‘uncle’. He was a bit puzzled but after he showed the best of himself.
The first years at primary school were fine after all, even if we had problems at the very beginning. For me it was really nice, it wasn’t entirely positive for my wife, because more than me she had to deal with negative aspects of the situation.
As only children can do, Marco enjoyed laughing, I had never seen someone laughing with such delight. With witty eyes he watched a Bud Spencer’s movie, he laughed until he had tears in his eyes, giving vent to his feelings in a blatant and striking way. I had the feeling that one could not be happier. His genuine ability to enjoy himself with trivial things reminded me of the joy I felt one morning a long time ago.
I was about eight years old and in my village it was the feast of the patron, I was peacefully sleeping, when the band playing in the streets woke me up. I thought of what expected me: the parade, fireworks, merry-go-rounds and then I knew my grandpa would give me twenty Lire to buy a couple of ice creams at a cart that came from Sulmona in that occasion. I never felt that perfect bliss again, and since then I have been very fond of bands.
At my age when I see a band I almost cry, everything becomes simple and natural. In little villages bands are not perfect, sometimes they play out of tune, but the idea that their music is addressed to simple people makes it heavenly music to my ears.
Thinking of the past it is very common to apply that saying “it was better when it was worse” that means that in the past when we did not have all the comforts we have now, things were better.
What seems to be rather detrimental nowadays it to loose connections and a sense of proportion.
Once upon a time the world was too real, today in my opinion it is too virtual. There is a widening gap between what is natural and what is an emergency, to the point that a normal snowfall in the month of January is considered a natural disaster. The media are also to blame, because they cannot or they do not want to talk about real and urgent problems. They consider a standard snowfall in Milan as breaking news. If I am not mistaken it normally snows in winter, it’s been like that for millions of years!
At Campo di Giove I spent winters with 3.5 m. of snow. It wasn’t a disaster, actually we, kids, were very happy, the school was closed for over twenty days, both the railway and the road were blocked. Most of the families were self sufficient and the people were farmers or shepherds. Each family had at least a pig which supplied food for the winter. In that period the slaughter ritual began. In the village there were four or five experts called for that occasion. They did not receive any compensation, they were simply gratified by the fact that they were respected for their skills and grade of expertise. They had proper tools, a range of knives, each for a specific purpose. There were knives to skin, other to work the meat, then there was a long and narrow slaughter room and a hook to hold the pig’s head. While women heated big pots of water the ‘seat’ was prepared.
The pig was almost pampered and drawn towards a corn bowl, near the ‘seat’. With enviable speed and synchronism the master hooked the pig under the snout and four men overturned it on the ‘seat’, holding it still for a few seconds, while stabbing it straight into the heart and uttering ‘cheers’! The whole thing took less than a minute.
As kids we were very interested and our task was to hold the tail. We felt important and almost essential for the success of the operation. The adults played along and often they said: “if Eustachio hadn’t held the tail, the pig would have run away!” I just realise now that I gained more self esteem in that occasion rather than in the years that followed. There was a party atmosphere, we did not feel it was a violent act but only the law of Nature, even Death was considered something friendly, useful and necessary.
The master, after cleaning the pig, estimated its weight with masterly attitude, and then he said to his son: “Eustachio… the number seven!" He was referring to the beech wood plank that was suitable for that pig to be carried and hooked up into a room inside the house
Phase one of the process began: bowels were removed, the thick layer of fat was deeply cut to make ham, chuck and some back fat was used for cooking and flavouring, and it was the stock to last the whole winter.
The following day – with an organization and task assignment - that could compete with the most modern factories, the pig magically turned into: hams, salami, sausages, pork cheek (guanciale), bacon and cured back fat (lardo). Nothing was discarded, only the pig’s hairs were left. At night the party was shared with relatives and some neighbours. The dinner menu generally was: large white bean soup with tomato sauce and polenta which occupied the whole table, with pork chops and sausages on top.
Only now I realise that for several years I only had home made food and it was healthy and organic. I perfectly knew where my grandma’s home made pasta came from. I am afraid that if you ask a kid where pork chops come from, he may reply that they grow at the supermarket, just like a 100% town colleague of mine who thought that potatoes grow on trees.