9/02/11 No Smoking. No Electrocution or Bombing of Fish

In case you weren’t aware, every city in Italy has a street called “via Roma”.  It’s the Italian version of Main Street.  Well, just off via Roma in Codroipo my father pointed to two buildings.  He couldn’t remember which one it was that he took his first English lessons in shortly before coming to Canada.  I imagine the lessons were largely useless, providing translations for “Hello, I’d like to buy some cheese and butter.”  Or “Excuse me.  Which way to the nearest igloo?”  The idea that Canada is permanently encased in ice persists.

After class, before riding their bicycles home, my father and his classmates would gather in the town square to talk.  Some of the young men were smokers and offered cigarettes to the non-smokers.  My father admits to having joined them on occasion, but he never picked up the habit.  He didn’t get any joy from it, and ever the practical one, he viewed it as setting hard earned money on fire.

One particular night dad and another young man rode home together; they were in their late teens.  The other guy lived in a town further down the road and they said goodbye in Gorizzo where the road splits in front of Villa Mainardi.  It may have been the last time the other young man was seen alive.

Shortly after dad awoke the next morning he heard the telltale ringing of the church’s bells off schedule.  Someone had died.

To the best of dad’s knowledge, the story was that the young man had gone home to sleep but had awoken early in the morning to go fishing.  Later on that morning he was found by the water…dead.  “What happened?” I asked.  Dad explained that the young man had been using a “new” way of fishing using electricity drawn from the power lines above the road.  By ignorance or by error, he had made a fatal mistake and electrocuted himself.  My father admits to the events having affected him profoundly, especially since he may have been one of the last to see him alive.  For a while, even the act of switching on a light bulb was enough to give dad pause.  Electricity: mysterious, invisible and with the power to kill.

As the sign I read in Taiwan last year said: “No electrocuting, poisoning or bombing of fish”.  Dad says it’s for your own good.

9/02/11 Shopping Lessons

Not yet here a week and there’s already been a casualty of sorts.  My electric shaver; seems it’s been blowed up…real good!  I suppose I should have checked the voltage requirements before I left the house.  In any case, I made my way to “il centro di Codroipo” (downtown Codroipo) to find a replacement.  After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, I was directed to a small appliance and housewares store.  Employing my usual Canadian shopping technique, I avoided the staff and looked around, but the proprietor would have none of it.  Although she was a “sturdy”: woman in her sixties, she could bob and weave with the best of them.  Hell, I’ll admit it, I couldn’t shake her!

Finally I asked her about electric shavers which prompted her to begin a long lecture on why I shouldn’t just walk in a store and look around.  I should ask for help.  After all, they have four floors here.  How would I know what’s available by only looking at one?  It will come as a surprise to everyone who knows me, but I kept my mouth shut and left with a brand new shaver.

9/02/11 Dyson: Destroyer of Childhoods

While the fan hummed in the corner of my bedroom I thought back to my childhood and the fun my brother and I used to have with the fan in our house.  A General Electric with transparent blue fan blades.  We loved to remove the screens and speak into the blades, the sound of our voices making us burst out in laughter.  If by chance we tired of this we could always turn the speed up and try to stop the blade with our fingers, or our tongues if we were feeling especially brave.

But now Dyson, the innovative company that brought us the bag less vacuum cleaner and the public bathroom hand dryer that looks cool but doesn’t work, has started selling its bladeless fan.  In the process they’ve begun to destroy and eliminate the simple pleasure for both young and old of changing their voice by way of fan blade.

Dyson’s next invention… fun removal machine.  Nobody is safe.  Nobody!

9/02/11 Wind Power: Problem Solved

Originally this entry was to be called “Wind Power: a Solution”.  But lately I’ve come to despise the word “solution” on account of its over usage.  If I recall correctly, solutions used to be confined to math and science problems.  What is the limit of x as y approaches zero?  What is the missing element in the following chemical compound?  Technical kinds of problems that required actual thought.  Somehow the definition of “solution” morphed into the answer for any problem no matter how trivial.  For me, it reached the height of stupidity a short time ago when I saw a commercial that touted the product as a “meal solution”.  For fuck’s sake!  How hopeless, inept and utterly incompetent does one have to be at feeding themselves or their family that they would require a “meal solution”?  The very idea should be insulting and is grounds to have people’s children put up for adoption with a family that will love them.

As usual, I’ve gotten off track.  What I was trying to get at was my problem with mosquitoes.  During the day, it’s just a matter of using repellent, but I hate to sleep with that stuff on.  The answer: a fan spinning at low speed.  The mosquitoes here are smaller (yet more ferocious) than the ones at home and a gentle breeze seems to be all that’s required to throw them off course.

But why are they inside in the first place?  Apparently, my aunt doesn’t like screens on the windows…they bother her for reasons undisclosed.  One must presume then that what bothers her about window screens or “zanzarini” as they are known, is worse, much worse than either itchy bites or even malaria.  My zia Rosa has screens, but not because of the insect bites; she has them to avoid the buzzing sound.  Years ago, a mosquito flew into her ear and buzzed around for long enough that that she now suffers from some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder…buzzing induced.

Zia Maria has her own traumatic memories.  Almost fifty years ago she went into a store, a butcher shop, to buy something.  The store was so dirty that she became nauseated and had to leave.  So strong was the impression of filth that now all these years later she still can’t enter that store even though it has gone through a number of proprietors.  It’s kind of like a reverse obsessive compulsive disorder…wanting others to clean constantly.

9/01/11 Random Photos and Videos #5

Fiat in need of a slight restoration

Villa Manin Pillars

 

Villa Manin



Corn left to dry

Dad spots something suspicious

Now I know where I get my scowl from

The Italian Jack Palance: Back from the dead

Club contempt.  Grab a smoke and a glass... let the hating begin.

Johnny of the Corn

Clockwise from top: Dad, Gabriella, me, Greta, Michela, zia Maria, zia Rosa,
Fabio, Luciano, zia Luciana, mom, Elena

9/01/11 Le Lucciole

Not what you think

What would you say to me if I showed you a picture of a plastic patio chair beside a highway?  What would be the first thing that came to your mind?  Garbage, or perhaps something that fell off the back of a pickup truck perhaps.  Fruits or vegetables for sale?  Maybe on a rural road, but not on a busy two-lane highway with a limit of 100 km/h.

Let’s go in a different direction… how about “prostitute”?  That’s right, prostitute.  Say it slowly with me and give it some romance because tucked away in the tall swaying cornfields of Northern Italy a chair on the side of the road is the calling card of prostitutes practicing their profession, or “mestiere” as my zia says.  Sometimes the chair is occupied to show off what’s on offer, sometimes its empty; the rules aren’t clear.

In recent years there’s been fewer and fewer prostitutes on the sides of the highways; misdirected moral outrage it seems is not exclusive to puritanical North America.  Sometimes the women have a van, sometimes it’s a camper; the price fluctuates based on the accommodations as well as the services (“servizi”) requested.  Regardless, the truckers in Italy seem like a happy bunch.

9/01/11 A Fortunate Upbringing

This morning I finished reading “A Wolf at the Table” by Augusten Burroughs, his recollection of growing up with an emotionally distant and psychotic father and a suicidal mother.  Shit!  Some people are really dealt a terrible hand in life.  Although I have come to learn that there’s no such thing as “normal” when it comes to family, just different degrees of abnormal, Burroughs’ upbringing was decidedly fucked up.  Imagine for a moment as a young boy having your father tell you he was going to kill you.  "Fucked up" may be a mild way of describing his childhood.  While his disturbed childhood may have given him the material on which his successful writing career is based, he makes it clear that he still longs for one that was happier, even just a little bit.  All the riches in the world can’t ever make up for what was lost.

I’m sure he’d give anything to trade with me, but I wouldn’t be willing to give it up.  Not now…not ever.

8/31/11 Random Photos and Videos #4

Dad and Egidio's old schoolhouse; now converted to a municipal building



The municipal building: dedicated to blood donors





Typical wall construction in Friuli (Northern Italy)



Gorizzo - Goriz in the Furlan dialect



Dad visits Villa Mainardi; clearly not what it used to be



Long forgotten farm equipment





Dad and Egidio

Look up!  Well to do...and suspicious

Villa Mainardi

Newer example of Friulano wall construction

Egidio's cantina (video)

8/31/11 Shrinking Time…Shrinking Distance

We had been invited for dinner at the house of Egidio and Donata and were joined by their son Stefano, their daughter Lara and her husband, also Stefano.  While it always helps to have people with the same name around the table (less chance of forgetting) it has always struck me as peculiar when someone begins a relationship with a person sharing the name of an immediate family member.  I could meet the most beautiful, intelligent, amazing and passionate woman in the world, a veritable woman of one’s dreams; but if her name was Graziella or any variation thereof, she’d be dismissed without hesitation.  Small towns and common names like Stefano only compound this problem.

Before dinner Egidio took my father and me on a walking tour of Camino (Cjamin in the Furlan dialect), the second small town that my father had lived in.  The school house they both attended as children has since received an addition and been converted into a municipal building.  The river running through the town has been rehabilitated and runs clear.  There has been a focus on cleanliness and esthetics.  Even if this isn’t a touristy town bringing in tourist dollars the residents are proud of it.

Walking with Egidio (video)

Since my dad left Italy over fifty years ago he’s only seen and spoken with Egidio a dozen or so times.  Never being one to talk on the phone and not much of an outward sentimentalist their encounters occur when dad returns to the home country, or when a few years back, Egidio and Donata came to Canada for a few weeks.  But to see them together walking down the street smiling and laughing it was if dad had never left.  Only by really concentrating on the conversation could you detect the gap.  They spoke of how it was “then” and how it is “now” with no real concern or consideration for what came in between.  They would each mention names and places and the other’s eyes (though older and slightly cloudy) would light up as they retrieved their memories from storage deep within their brains.

Our walk brought us to the church’s bell tower which was in the midst of reconstruction/renovation.  “It’s about time” said dad before telling me how the tower used to noticeably sway  when he rang the bells as part of church services all those years ago.  At the time someone put a stick in the rather large crack about four feet up from the base.  As the bells swung and rang out, the tower flexed and the stick moved in the crack.  Bell ringing in a suspect tower: an early form of daredevil activity.

Near the end of the walk we stood between two grand buildings; each on the opposite ends in the spectrum of perfection.  One perfectly restored and the other perfectly neglected.  Each was owned by the same woman, the lone remaining descendant of a once powerful family.  It seemed a shame that such a beautiful structure would be left to fall into disrepair.  The woman obviously couldn’t occupy two residences, but she also refused to consider the many offers she had received to purchase the neglected property.  Her proud reasoning was that it was better for the property to remain in the family name even if it meant that it would eventually tumble to the ground.

Falling into decay

This same woman is known to ask the question “Do you know who I am?”  As if to suggest that past family success not of her own doing should somehow garner her automatic respect.  Perhaps she needs to brush up on her poetry; A Livella may be a good starting point.

Miraculously managing to stay on topic, dad told the story of my zio John who many years ago met an influential woman on the street.  He paid his respect in the typical fashion by saying hello and tipping his hat.  But the proud woman took offence and said that my zio should have removed his hat to pay proper respect.  My uncle responded “Madam, I’ll remove my hat when I enter the church, but I won’t remove it for you”.

By traveling to Italy and shrinking the distance between he and Egidio, my father had travelled through time.  Old memories became fresh; yesterday was today.

(clockwise) Me, Stefano, Dad, Egidio, Donata, zia Maria, Mom

8/31/11 Family History: Church Injuries

I know that the church kills, but I never thought that my father would have been a target.  While standing outside the church in Gorizzo, my father recounted the story of the day when he could have been killed on holy ground.

It was August of 1954 and dad was fourteen years old.  The town had just finished its celebrations for the feast of the Virgin Mary and my father was asked to take down the flags that were connected to the crosses mounted atop the walls of the entrance gate.  Dad climbed the walls and hung on with one hand while he tried to loosen the flags with the other hand.  When the knots proved to be too tight to undo he tried to break the string by force.  Dad, having the family trait of being much stronger than he looks (and he still looks pretty strong) pulled sharply, snapped the string and tore off the cross and the plaster from the top of the wall as well.  In fact, he pulled so sharply that the momentum caused him to fall back, the spikes on the gate catching the front of his shorts and holding him there above the ground as the cross came down piercing his arm and going clean through to the other side of his forearm.  Now that’s what I call being touched by the Holy Spirit!  The scars on his arm and stomach remain to this day.

Despite the fact that tragedy was averted by mere inches, my mom and I couldn’t help but smile at the recollection.  For my mom it was yet another reminder of how tough her man has always been.  It was different for me; having been the recipient of much “discipline” at the hands (huge leathery hands) of my father, I’ve never had cause to doubt his strength.  My laughter came from the thought of such injuries taking place on sacred soil while trying to help with a religious festival.  Not quite irony, but surely a perverse set of circumstances.

Dad tells the whole story...mom sympathizes...sort of

8/31/11 Family History: Dad as Matchmaker

I wasn’t familiar with the story, but some comments I had heard led me to believe that there was an interesting backdrop to the meeting of my zio John and zia Catina, and my father had something to do with it.  Over lunch dad recounted the story in Italian since all of our conversations now seem to take place in the mother tongue.

My zio John had left Italy for Canada after completing his mandatory military service.  Opportunities were next to non-existent in post war Italy.  While in Canada my zio met a woman named Maria (Aldo's high school sweetheart) who had moved there from Piano D’Arta.  Maria spoke of a sister she had back in Italy and in the strange way that life sometimes works my zio was soon exchanging letters with Caterina.

In letters to my father, zio mentioned Caterina in great detail, which my father interpreted (wrongly) as an invitation to find out more about her.  So my father boarded a bus, first to Udine, and then to Piano D’Arta to get the scoop (so to speak) on Catina as she was and is still known.  First stop: the town’s church.  After all, the priest knew everything about everyone.  The priest had many nice things to say about Catina and before my dad knew it, the priest had summoned her to the church via another young man.  However, the priest misunderstood and assumed that my father was the suitor which provided quite a shock to Catina when she arrived at the church.

The confusion was quickly cleared up, my dad reported his “findings” to my uncle (who claimed he never asked for such an investigation) and the following year zio John and zia Catina were married in Piano D’Arta.

My dad: involuntary private investigator and accidental matchmaker.

8/31/11 Family History: A Livella

The church of Gorizzo and its adjoining cemetery were our next stop.  The church is absolutely tiny and the cemetery counts my grandfather and great-grandmother among its residents.  Having reached capacity years ago, my grandmother rests elsewhere in the town of Trechesimo where she spent the last few years of her life.



My grandfather's tomb...the photos don't fade.

 

The tiniest of churches





My great grandmother's tomb.





The town of Gorizzo was essentially owned by a wealthy family headed by “The Count” (Ah! Ah! Ah! I love to count!...sorry, I couldn’t resist) who’s family went by the name of Mainardi.  Owing to their stature, the Mainardi family has its own private mausoleum in the church’s tiny cemetery.   My mother took offence to this indulgence which reminded her of a Napolitano poem entitled “A Livella”.  The poem recounts the story of a commoner and a member of the aristocracy who met in the afterlife.

“How is it possible that you are here with me?” asked the aristocrat.

To which the commoner replied “Death is a level, it makes all equal”.

And so this came to pass in Gorizzo as well.  What remains of the Mainardi family?  According to my father, not much.  The riches disappeared; the family estate fell into ruins and has been largely taken over by the state, the majority of its occupants now pigeons and rats.  Sadly, many in the Mainardi family fell victim to mental illness.

Death and time; both are certain and both can act as a level.

  

The remains of the House of Mainardi

(Video) Dad remembers working at Villa Mainardi

8/31/11 Family History: Dad’s Youth

After a simple breakfast of coffee and figs (at least fifteen of them) my parents and I ventured down the road to the town of Gorizzo.  The actual distance between Iutizzo and Gorizzo can’t be more than a few kilometres, but in a country like Italy, that’s enough to make them very distinct… to the locals at least.  In Gorizzo, we stopped in front of the house where my father was born.  At first, it strikes you as a huge house for people who were so poor.  But then, presented with the fact that there were four families living there you quickly realize that the accommodations were anything but luxurious.

Dad's childhood home - I regret not knocking on the door

There’s permanence about things in Europe, a respect for history and of place that’s largely non-existent in the new world (maybe we just need another couple of hundred years).  My father’s childhood home is a perfect example.  It stood long before he was born, probably since the 1800s (even he’s not sure) and it will likely be there long after you and I have dropped off this mortal coil.  My first childhood home on the other hand, a rickety clapboard structure at Major Mackenzie Dr. and Weston Rd. in Vaughan is long gone, lost to the ravages of time and neglect.  Thirty Five years ago it was literally on the outskirts of everywhere.   In its place stands nothing.  Gone too is the neighbour’s house which belonged to an elderly couple who smoked incessantly and drank nearly as much.  I remember Margaret as being a kindly old woman who never failed to offer me a shortbread cookie sprinkled with sugar form the dark blue tins she had in her kitchen.  I can still see her tobacco stained fingers prying the tin open to reveal the kind of cookies my mother would have never bought.

Mom’s recollection is slightly less rosy.  She remembers something simmering under the surface, a tension.  George and Margaret were well into retirement at that point and the property was becoming too much to maintain.  They listed their house for sale and my parents expressed an interest in buying it; they could join the two parcels of land and build a new house so we could escape the aging one we were in.  Mom was tired of the flooding basement, the erratic plumbing, the drafts and the constant creaking that left her children in fear of the ghosts.  Dad, typically aloof, loved his garden and his riding mower.  Despite a generous offer, George and Margaret refused to sell to my parents for reasons undisclosed.  We moved shortly thereafter, and so did George and Margaret.  Oddly enough, they ended up selling to a numbered company that simply bulldozed the land; it sits empty as it has for the last thirty years.  With George and Margaret both dead, there are two fewer people who remember it the way it was.  It was all for the best though.  Today the opposite corner of Major Mackenzie Dr. and Weston Rd. is a busy plaza replete with a supermarket, drug store, drive-through bank…and a Starbucks!

As usual, I’ve digressed.  Next to dad’s childhood home was the barn that he and Gino burned to the ground.  It was a lot bigger than I would have thought.  The barn was rebuilt after the fire, but has fallen into disrepair in the ensuing sixty-five or so years.  The roof has been dismantled for safety’s sake, so all that remains is a shell.  Dad was only four or five years old when he made the jump to arsonist.  He explained that the men of the house used to smoke at the corner of the veranda and that is likely where he and Gino found the matches that were used to light the cornstalks which lit the hay, which lit the wood into a blaze of glory.  There were no fire trucks, only the well which was fed by a spring.  All they could do was stand by and watch it burn.

Looking up at the house, dad pointed out that the gables still bore the charred scars of their past.

 

Straight ahead - where the blaze started

It is now as it was then...not much left