Giacomo da Lentini is a Sicilian who is generally considered the creator of the sonnet.
I’ve seen it rain on sunny days
And seen the darkness flash with light
And even lightning turn to haze,
Yes, frozen snow turn warm and bright
And sweet things taste of bitterness
And what is bitter taste most sweet
And enemies their love confess
And good, close friends no longer meet.
Yet stranger things I’ve seen of love
Who healed my wounds by wounding me.
The fire in me he quenched before;
The life he gave was the end thereof,
The fire that slew eluded me.
Once saved from love, love now burns more.
Translation by Leo Zoutewelle.
Leo Zoutewelle was born in 1935 in The Netherlands and was raised there until at age twenty he emigrated to the United States. He received his Bachelor of Science degree in Mathematics from Davidson College, in North Carolina, and a Masters in Business Administration from the Darden School in the University of Virginia. In 1977, he went into business for himself in the field of land surveying, which he maintained until 2012, when he retired. Since then, he has written an autobiography and two novels (unpublished).
In the original Sicilian:
The Sicilian School, a small community of poets gathered around Frederick II, most of whom belonged to his imperial court in Palermo was headed by Giacomo da Lentin. They produced more than 300 poems of courtly love between 1230 and 1266. The group continued their activities after Frederick’s death through the reign of his son, Manfred.
They drew inspiration from troubadour poetry of Occitania written in langue d’oc, which applied the feudal code of honor to the relationship between a man (acting as the vassal) and a woman (acting as king or superior). This represented a reversal of the traditional roles of women in Medieval Society, who had been considered dependent on men. It reflected a change in medieval society: the decline of feudalism and the rise of the middle class led to a shift in the reading public. The epic, traditionally focused on great military pursuits, gave way to the lyric, which generally centered on love. In the later Middle Ages, more and more women started reading books, and poetry tried to adapt to their point of view and their newly acquired role in society.
Palazzo dei Normanni Palermo seat of Fredrick II’s empire that included Sicily, much of Italy, and the Holy Roman Empire in what is now Germany.
This Occitan poetry became highly influential in Italy. However, the Sicilian School differed from the troubadours by introducing a kinder, gentler portrayal of women compared to their Occitan models, resembling Dante’s madonnas and Petrarch’s Laura. The Sicilian style and language established the first Italian literary standard by enriching the existing vernacular base with new Latin and Provençal styles and words.
The importance of the poetic forms passed down by the Sicilian School cannot be overstated. The canzone became a standard form for Italian poets for centuries, and the Sicilian-school sonnet, with variations, became the dominant poetic form not only in Renaissance Italy but also elsewhere in Europe, particularly in Elizabethan England, where it was modified to create the distinctive English, or Shakespearean, sonnet.
Frederick successfully established the first modern state in Europe, run by an efficient bureaucracy. Its members were neither appointed from the aristocracy nor the clergy, as the former were more interested in preserving their privileges than the welfare of the country and often plotted against him to regain power, while the latter remained loyal to the Pope, his biggest adversary.
In fact, Frederick dismantled the feudal system of government inherited from the Normans. His magna curia and minor dignitaries were typically chosen from lay orders, much like his poet-notaries. He also eliminated internal barriers, enabling free trade that brought prosperity to the South and made Bari one of the wealthiest cities in the Mediterranean, as witnessed by Cielo in his Contrasto. This modern state deprived his barons of the ability to collect taxes, their primary source of revenue. This centralization of power required Frederick to continually relocate his court within his domains to establish law and order.
Giacomo Da Lentini, also known as Jacopo Da Lentini, is traditionally credited with the invention of the sonnet, and his works in that form remain the earliest known. He adapted the themes, style, and language of Provençal poetry to Sicilian, infusing it with his aristocratic and exclusive tastes. All his extant poetry, including some 40 lyrics like sonnets, canzoni, tenzoni (poetic debates), and one discordo (poetic disagreement), revolves around the theme of love, which, in the courtly tradition, is viewed in feudal terms as the lover’s service to his lady. Unfortunately, little of his poetry survives in the original Sicilian dialect and has mostly been modified to conform to Tuscan.
(The above adapted from Wikipedia, Encyclopedia Brittanica and other sources)
he next morning after breakfast we set off for a winery that Antonio arranged for us to visit. Naida wasn’t feeling well and stayed behind. The winery, whose name I forgot, had been set up with all the modern equipment and tourist accessibility and pizzazz to rival those In Tuscany and Napa. We toured the winery, tasted the wines, listened to the sales pitch and left feeling good about the morning and optimistic about the rest of the day.
From upper left then clockwise: All of us at the table tasting the wines; Standing in the winery entrance hall; the exhibit of the winery’s products; Turing the winery; A sample of one of their white wines; The view from the window of the winery grounds, some of the vineyard and the Sicilian landscape in the distance.
We then drove back to Antonio’s, picked up Naida and set off for Porto Empedocle and Enzo’s Restaurant for lunch. In 2003, the town changed its official denomination to Porto Empedocle Vigata, after the name of the fictional town where the novels by Andrea Camilleri, Italian writer and native of the town, about detective Inspector Montalbano are placed. However, the decision was revoked in 2009. Enzo’ Restaurant also appears in almost every one of Camilleri’s novels as the place where Montalbano would retire to in order to quietly eat lunch (He refused to talk while enjoying the taste of the food) and contemplate life, love and his most recent mystery. It 2018 Mary, George and I visited the restaurant and met Enzo’s brother.
We were served a nine course meal of traditional Sicilian food of the area and plenty good local wines.
Following lunch we set off for the Scala dei Turchi. The Scala dei Turchi (Italian: “Stair of the Turks” or “Turkish Steps”) is a rocky cliff on the coast of Realmonte, near Porto Empedocle, southern Sicily, Italy. It has become a tourist attraction, partly due to its mention in Andrea Camilleri’s series of detective stories about Commissario Montalbano.
The Scala is formed by marl, a sedimentary rock with a characteristic white color, formed from the tests of planktonic foraminifera. They lie between two sandy beaches and are a limestone rock formation in the shape of a staircase.. The latter part of the name derives from the frequent piracy raids by the Saracens during the Middle Ages, and later Barbary pirates and, by Turks during the Early modern period; the Turkish pirates, in fact, found shelter in this area less beaten by the winds and represented a safer landing and boarding place. In August 2007 the municipality of Realmonte applied for the inclusion of the Scala dei Turchi (together with the nearby Roman Villa Aurea) in the UNESCO Heritage List. Recently following years of complaints about the poor environmental protection of the site from erosion and vandalism by tourists, Italian prosecutors seized control of the site. They ordered its temporary closure for monitoring and announced that they were investigating a man who claimed ownership of the site in a dispute with the Realmonte local authority.
We walked along the beach toward the Scala. Naida was not feeling well so she and I stopped a a beach front cafe while the others went on. We had some coffee and enjoyed the view. Later the others returned and we headed back to Antonio’s to prepare for dinner.
From upper left then clockwise: A view of the Scala dei Turchi from the beach; Naida dipping her feet in the water; Naida watching evening set in over the Mediterranean; Naida enjoying her coffee.From upper left then clockwise: The gang assembled; Naida and I; Another view of the Scala; Anthony and Aaron on the Scala.
We returned to Antonio’s to rest up before driving into the town for dinner with the relatives. Aaron played a while with Antonio’s dog that Antonio had named Boris Johnson or Boris for short. He explained that he was the dumbest dog in Europe just like the Prime Minister of England. We there set off for dinner.
From top left and then clockwise: Aaron and Boris; Antonio and Anthony; All of us at dinner having a great meal at a fine restaurant in Canicatti; Pookie and my cousin Giuseppina.
We had ruckus dinner at a fine restaurant in Canicatti with my cousin Giuseppina and her son Guglielmo and his family. After, dinner we returned to Giuseppina’s apartment, to talk, laugh, look at old photographs, and play the piano.
From upper left then clockwise: Everyone mugging for the camera; Cousin Guglielmo and Pookie looking at old photographs; Guglielmo playing the piano; Maryann and Guglielmo’s wife.
Some of the old photos from upper left then clockwise: Me, my brother, sister, father and mother – I am the tall fellow on the right in the back; My father and mother. The blond baby is me; My uncle Vincenzo in the middle with his sons Giuseppe on the right and Giovanni on the right. Giuseppina is Vincenzo’s daughter; I do not know the the people in the last photograph are — obviously relatives — but I liked the photograph.
“I treasure such fleeting moments as that, little beacons of pure joy and contentment that last for a few seconds before passing into memory. They’re always worth living and working for.”
Hearne, Kevin. Ink & Sigil (p. 305). Random House Publishing Group.
Fleeting moments—this morning, as I sat there, I scrolled through my computer, riffing through some old posts from about eleven or twelve years ago. I stumbled upon something I had forgotten, although it doesn’t matter now what it was. Nevertheless, it sparked some thoughts. This was an event from my past that had slipped my mind and was not a part of my life until this reminder brought it back. Now, it has become a part of me again. Who we are is not solely defined by our journey through time and its shaping influence, but also by the interconnectedness of our awareness and memory. James Lee Burke eloquently expresses this concept in his novel, The Glass Rainbow:
“I have come to learn that memory and presence are inextricably connected and should never be thought of as separate entities”
(Burke, James Lee. The Glass Rainbow: A Dave Robicheaux Novel, p. 216. Simon & Schuster).
Keeping a diary, journaling, or engaging in my writing endeavors affirms that we are more than mere physical beings, reacting to the sensory stimuli around us. Instead, our experiences are filtered through the lens of our memories, shaping who we become.
Over the past few days, the weather outside our window has mostly been sunny, with temperatures fluctuating around the high fifties. The camellias have bloomed unusually early this year, appearing a month ahead of schedule.
On Saturday we attended the Saturday Morning Coffee after which they held a training session on how to paint the doors into our houses. I don’t know why it was felt that we needed such training. It was interesting though. I never realized how complex painting a door could be. It was too complex for either of us so we left and returned home. As we stood before our faded doorway, we commiserated with each other that it would not receive the bright (in our case maroon) upgrade during our lifetime.,
On Sunday, while watching a movie about a young figure skating champion who had physical and personality issues, I was reminded of Johnny LaPadula. When I was a child, my parents enrolled me in an accordion school in Yonkers, NY, near Getty Square. This school was renowned for producing accordion champions. The son of the school’s director, a famous child prodigy, had even conducted the NY Philharmonic Orchestra when he was just six years old. After that, I never knew what happened to him. My parents had hoped I would become a great accordionist, as many Italian immigrants aspired for their children. However, I preferred the violin or tap dancing. I took lessons in both, but my parents had to pull me out of the programs due to financial constraints. Unfortunately, I couldn’t practice the violin because we couldn’t afford the instrument. However, I could dance, and whenever I was alone and unseen, I would dance.
Anyway, the star student of the accordion studio was Johnny LaPadula. He was a year or two older than me and received special treatment and praise as a prodigy. This disturbed me because I didn’t want to be like Johnny LaPadula. The only noteworthy moment in my musical career was in 1956 when I played the accordion while freezing on a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. In the same year, Johnny LaPadula represented the United States/AAA at the Coupe Mondiale World Accordion Championships. Shortly after that, I packed my accordion away and never looked at it again.
On Monday, I drove to the Golden Hills for lunch with Hayden, only to find out that he wouldn’t be out of school until after 2:30. So I ended up having lunch by myself at Bella Bru. I enjoyed a delicious Sicilian pizza and then drove back home to the Enchanted Forest. During the drive, my mind wandered to Quantum Theory, particularly Schrodinger’s cat. I pondered if an atom could exist anywhere in the universe until observed, wouldn’t the opposite also be true? Could it be that wherever we look, we find what we are searching for, and perhaps everything else in the universe as well? Lost in thought, I almost missed my exit, but luckily I glanced up and saw it in time. This made me wonder if the exit didn’t exist until I observed it. And after seeing it, did I also see every exit from every freeway on Earth? Could I have chosen any of the other exits instead of the one I took? Life always presents these kinds of quandaries.
When I finally arrived home, Johnny LaPadula crossed my mind once again. He was a part of my life, then disappeared for almost 70 years, and now he’s back in my thoughts. Is that a good thing? I never liked Johnny LaPadula before, and I certainly don’t like him any better now. If anything, I might even like him less now than I did back then. I really don’t need the memory of Johnny LaPadula in my life, neither now nor ever.
Tuesday was dentist day, and I also accompanied Naida to sort out the issues with her accounts that were disrupted due to her wallet being stolen a few weeks ago. As I sit here and write this, I realize I have nothing to write about, and I’m not even interested in writing. Perhaps I’m feeling depressed or simply exhausted. Whenever I reach this point, I usually look for something written by others that I can quote or borrow to mask the absence of thoughts in my mind. It’s one of the benefits of reading. Through reading, you can fill your own mind’s void with someone else’s thoughts. This also applies to TV and modern forms of communication, although the latter tends to replace the emptiness in your mind with a different kind of emptiness that sometimes sparkles. Anyway, here’s something I often like to read when I need to replace that emptiness:
“I’m wrong: perhaps we aren’t all alone in the end. I don’t have a great talent for friendship, and I can only try to combat death and oblivion with limited resources, but I realize I’m wrong when I look at my Auntie Poldi. Although it doesn’t always help me combat depression and loneliness or the fact that we’re our own worst enemies, it’s comforting. As long as we can join the family for Sunday lunch and argue about the best way to cook parmigiana di melanzane, and as long as we can sit silently in the piazza with a sad friend, and as long as someone invites us to a barbecue or says ‘Glad you’re back’—as long as we’re welcome somewhere, despite all our flaws and weaknesses—there’s still hope.”
Giordano, Mario. Auntie Poldi and the Lost Madonna: A Novel (An Auntie Poldi Adventure) (p. 325). HMH Books.
That passage always cheers me up.
On Wednesday, I had lunch with Hayden in the Golden Hills. We went to Nugget in Town Center and enjoyed pizza. During lunch, we discussed his future and shared stories from our past. Afterward, we went to his house, where I played with his cat and checked on the progress of the aquarium he’s building.
Thursday evening was dedicated to watching cooking and travel shows on TV. I also continued reading David Graeber’s book, Debt: The First 5000 Years. I came across an interesting passage:
“Most of our information on the Tiv comes from the mid-century when they were still under British colonial rule. At that time, everyone insisted that a proper marriage should involve an exchange of sisters. One man would give his sister in marriage to another, and in return, that man would marry the sister of his newfound brother-in-law. This was considered the ideal marriage.”
Graeber, David. Debt (p. 183). Melville House.
It reminded me of the time I visited Sicily in 1968. Many of the traditions there seemed medieval to me. My uncle was busy negotiating the dowry for his son’s marriage. Eventually, he succeeded in arranging the marriages of his son and daughter with the children of another family. It greatly benefited my uncle and his family. Neither child had met their future spouse before the dowry negotiations were concluded, but my cousin Giovanni already knew his future brother-in-law. The brother-in-law’s nickname was Fru Fru. In Sicily, everyone had a nickname. Some of my friends’ nicknames were Gigi, Piccolo Gartano, and Beefsteak.
At the time, Fru Fru was the Director of Agriculture in Sicily, even though he knew nothing about agriculture. One day, Fru Fru, Giovanni, and I drove to Lucky Luciano’s old villa. Surprisingly, there was a café on the villa’s veranda, despite the lack of customers. I couldn’t figure out how it stayed open. I decided it was just one of the many mysteries of Sicily. We ordered Sambucca con Mosca (Sambucca with flies), which is Sambucca with three coffee beans floating in it. We sat at a table under a tree, sipping our Sambucca, while observing the workers crushing the villa’s orchard grapes using wading boots. As part of the dowry negotiation, Giovanni received a position as a deputy director in the Sicilian Department of Agriculture, even though he knew nothing about agriculture either. But on that particular day, in the middle of the week, neither Giovanni nor Fru Fru were at work in the department’s headquarters in Palermo. I never saw either of them go to work.
Friday was the day of my dental appointment, and strangely enough, I was looking forward to it. Anything that breaks the monotony of my old age is something to anticipate. The dentist filled four teeth, and the process was remarkably painless thanks to modern technology. I’ve despised dentists ever since I experienced the horrors of visiting my childhood dentist, known as “Butcher Musante.” I always believed he enjoyed hearing his patients scream.
On Saturday, we attended the morning coffee gathering at the Nepenthe Clubhouse. There was nothing much to report, except for the upcoming meeting on Monday between the city staff, the community, and the developers of the terrible development proposed for the Enchanted Forest. However, we did receive a number of terrible jokes as usual, which we usually share during Coffee. Unfortunately, I couldn’t grasp the punchlines of most of them, except for one told by one of the Spies:
“What do you call an Iranian who works in a wool factory? A Persian sweater.”
For the rest of the day, I spent most of my time on the computer researching the Hellenistic era of Israeli-Palestine, biblical scholarship from that period, and the rise of the Maccabees. Later in the evening, I recited Molly Bloom’s soliloquy to Naida. After that, I walked the dog, returned home, and fed the dog.
During the walk, I had thought of something I wanted to write here, but unfortunately, I forgot what it was. Terry Pratchett had something to say about stories, which was undoubtedly more insightful and erudite than anything I could come up with. So, enjoy his words while I retire to bed:
“What sets humans apart from all other creatures on the planet is not language, mathematics, or science. It’s not religion, art, or politics either. All of those things are mere side effects of the invention of story.”
Pratchett, Terry. The Globe: The Science of Discworld II: A Novel. Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group.
On Monday evening, we attended a meeting with the city staff regarding the proposed development. The meeting was well-attended, with standing room only. Unfortunately, I couldn’t catch much of the discussion due to difficulties adjusting my hearing aids and the resulting random noise. Despite being a relatively small development of only 25 units, with localized impacts, it seemed to have more negative consequences than many larger projects I’ve seen. It appeared that the developer intentionally aimed to cause every conceivable negative impact, except perhaps a typhoid epidemic.
The proposed projects 25 million dollar homes (twice the value of the other homes in the area) removal of the classic building, complete leveling the site (the existing construction sits on a 10 foot berm similar to that on either side of the property, and removing all the trees.
Tuesday passed without comment of memory and then it was February. I hate February as much as I hate the holiday season. The sun was shining and the temperature in a spring like 60F. I drove into the Golden Hills and had lunch with HRM. It was great fun. Perhaps that is a good sign for this February.
We arrived at Antonio’s house in Canicatti a little before sunset. Strangely, we arrived just as my grandsons Anthony and Aaron drove up. They had driven directly from the airport in Catania. We all parked, unloaded our luggage, greeted Antonio, and settled into the various bedrooms. Antonio informed us that he would be giving a Sicilian cooking lesson before dinner. A man and a woman arrived for the lesson. We watched and participated in the lesson, especially Aaron, who is a chef himself. I don’t recall the exact dish they were preparing, but I believe it was some type of Sicilian pasta dish.
After the lesson, we all, to varying degrees (I was among the less enthusiastic), helped prepare dinner and indulged in local wines (the woman student and I were among the more enthusiastic drinkers). The dinner was marvelous and lively. At one point, while enjoying dessert, the tipsy woman student accused me of insulting her. I couldn’t remember doing so, but I acknowledged that it was a possibility. To avoid any unpleasantness, I excused myself and went to bed. The festivities continued for a couple of hours more.
The next morning, people gradually woke up and made their way down for breakfast, which took several hours due to the late risers stumbling to the table. Just as the last of us were finishing breakfast, my cousin Teresa and her family arrived to exchange hellos, buongiornos, cheek kisses, hugs, and gifts. We caught up on family updates, said our goodbyes, and watched as the relatives drove off. Afterward, we spent some time exploring Antonio’s gardens before getting into our cars and heading to Agrigento and the Valley of the Temples.
Clockwise from upper left: Pookie enjoying an iced dessert; The cooking class; dessert; The family gathered with some Sicilian relatives (Teresa and clan); Enjoying dinner before I was accused of insulting the woman on my left.
The Valley of the Temples (Valle dei Templi) in Agrigento is an outstanding example of ancient Greek art and architecture and is one of Sicily’s main attractions. Although it is called a “valley,” the site is actually located on a ridge outside the modern town of Agrigento. The Valley has been designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It contains the remains of seven temples, all built in the Doric style. However, the names of the temples, except for the Temple of Concordia, are based on a tradition established during the Renaissance and may not be accurate.
The Temple of Concordia, named after a Latin inscription found nearby, was constructed in the 5th century BC. It was later converted into a church in the 6th century AD and is now one of the best-preserved temples in the Valley. The Temple of Juno, also built in the 5th century BC, was destroyed by fire in 406 BC during the Carthaginian invasion. The Temple of Heracles, dedicated to one of the most revered deities in ancient Akragas, is the oldest temple in the Valley. It was destroyed by an earthquake and today only consists of eight columns.
The Temple of Olympian Zeus, built in 480 BC to celebrate the city-state’s victory over Carthage, features impressive atlases on a large scale. The Temple of Castor and Pollux, despite having only four remaining columns, has become the symbol of modern Agrigento. The Temple of Hephaestus (Vulcan), also from the 5th century BC, was once considered a grand construction in the valley but has suffered significant erosion over time. The Temple of Asclepius, located outside the ancient town walls, was a destination for pilgrims seeking healing from illness.
The Valley also houses the Tomb of Theron, a large pyramidal tuff monument. Scholars believe it was built to honor the Romans who died in the Second Punic War.
In addition to the temples within the Archaeological Park, there are Greek and Roman necropolises, residential areas, and an ancient olive grove. The olive grove includes a recreation area dating back to the 5th century BC, where city residents would relax and enjoy themselves along the river that runs alongside the site.
I have visited this place numerous times and make sure to visit every time I travel to Sicily. Similar to Pompeii, the Valley of the Temples experiences an unusual temperature anomaly. It always feels much hotter here than in nearby places. Like Pompeii, the heat quickly drains one’s energy and makes one feel exhausted. That was the case during my visit.
We started by navigating through the tourist souvenir shops, which offered a vast collection of ricordi, also known as chincaglieria or gottsadella, as my mother used to say (Knick-knacks or Tchotchke in English). After passing through the ticket booth, we climbed the path to begin our journey along the extensive ruins. Initially, everyone was excited, laughing, and exploring the various remnants. I would provide my customary explanations of what we were seeing—the walls, Pirandello’s villa in the distance, and the location of the Greek and Roman city, among other things. However, as time passed, we became more fatigued due to the heat, and our breaks became longer and longer. Naida’s shoulder pain worsened. When we finally reached the end of the temple ruins and the edge of the olive grove, we gave up and rested in the shade until we felt refreshed enough to decide it was time to return. However, no one felt up to walking all the way back. So, we walked a short distance to the tram stop, provided for tired tourists like us, and rode it back to the parking lot before driving back to Antonio’s house.
From top left and clockwise: The gang at the Valley of the Temples; Naida walking on the bluff above the path; Anthony, Aaron and Maryann resting above the bluff with the Mediterranean Sea and the Agrigento countryside behind them; Pookie leaning on the fence by the Temple of Concordia; The gang posing before the Temple of Concordia with a modern statute made to look like an ancient one so that tourists can take photographs with it; Anthony and Aaron in the ancient olive grove posing by a 2000+ year old olive tree,
On the drive back, Aaron and Anthony decided that we should visit Naro, a village situated on a mountaintop known for being a fief of the Chiaramonte family. The Chiaramonte family rose to become the most powerful and wealthy family in Sicily. In the 13th century, the marriage of Manfredi Chiaramonte to Isabella Mosca united the two Sicilian counties of Modica and Ragusa. The family’s influence in Sicily persisted until 1392 when Andrea Chiaramonte, the 8th Count of Modica and the last defender of Palermo for King Frederick IV of Sicily against the illegitimate pretender Martin I of Aragon, was executed.
Naro, the imposing city, has an ancient history dating back to the Sicani, the island’s oldest inhabitants, and has been influenced by the Normans, Swabians, Spaniards, and Arabs. Traces of their presence can be found throughout the city, such as the ancient city gate, the only remaining gate from that era, and the beautiful mosque converted by Conte Ruggero into the old Chiesa Madre (Cathedral). Another testament to these historical influences is the ancient Jewish quarter, along with the Castello Medievale Chiaramonte, a medieval castle that overlooks the city and showcases an exhibition of magnificent nineteenth-century women’s dresses that belonged to the noblewomen of Naro.
During World War II, the city suffered heavy damage. Contrary to popular belief among friends and family, Naro did not have German soldiers stationed there. It was Canicatti that the Allies targeted for bombing because that was where the German troops were located. When the Allied airmen asked how they could distinguish Canicatti from the other towns in the area, they were informed that it was the first town on a mountaintop as they approached the island from the sea. However, Noto, not Canicatti, was actually the first town. Additionally, Canicatti was one of the few Sicilian towns that were not built on a mountaintop.
Nevertheless, as we drove up the mountainside towards the city, we somehow got confused by the road and ended up circling the city without actually entering it. After some time, we gave up and headed back to Canicatti.
On the journey, I enjoyed the beautiful Sicilian countryside. We passed a small mountaintop called “Piezzu gu medru” by my family. Some of the stories of the medieval paladins of Charlemagne in the Sicilian puppet shows and Ariosto’s “Orlando Furioso” were set in Sicily. According to my relatives, the mountain had been split apart by Orlando during his jealous rage at the loss of his love. They also mentioned that at the top of the mountain, there was Orlando’s chair or throne. When I lived in Sicily, which was fifty years ago, I walked to the mountain, climbed it, and sat in Orlando’s throne. It was an enormous chair, and I felt like a small child in my parents’ chair.
Eventually, we safely returned to Antonio’s place, enjoyed another marvelous dinner prepared by him, and had a restful night’s sleep.
From top left and clockwise: Leaving the olive grove to head for home; Maryann, George and Naida waiting for the tram to take us to our car; View of the Sicilian countryside during our drive back to Canicatti; Piezzu gu medru; Dinner preparation at Antonio’s; Enjoying dinner.
On the following morning (October 10, 2022) we left Ortygia Island and headed off to Canicatti. We passed through the rest of Syracuse. On the edge of the city, we passed the Greek Theatre and the Ear of Dionysus. The Ear of Dionysius is a limestone cave carved out of a hill in Syracuse. Its name, given by the painter Caravaggio, comes from its similarity in shape to the human ear. The name is also linked to the acoustic effects inside the cave: it is said that people’s voices echo up to 16 times. Sadly we did not stop and visit them because if was raining and we were in a hurry to get to Canicatti before sundown.
The outskirts of Syracuse, looking toward the amphitheater and the Ear of Dionysus.
We had planned to stop along our way at Modica, Ragusa, Piazza Armerina, and Enna. It was a grey day with episodes of rain and drizzle expected for most of it. Our first stop was at Modica, a city noted for its beauty and Chocolate. Modica was established about 1000 BC by the Sicels one of earliest tribes to inhabit the island of Sicily. It passed to the Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Ostrogoths, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans, and then into the control of Aragon, Spain, Naples, and Italy. In 1474, during the Spanish occupation and installation of the Inquisition, Christians slaughtered 360 Jews in the worst anti-semitic massacre in Sicily. In 1693 an earthquake destroyed much of the city resulting in the rebuilding of a lot of the city in the Baroque style for which it is famous today.
We stopped at a chocolate factory, attended a presentation about the chocolate production and bought some. We then strolled through the city and visited the Cathedral considered by many to epitomize the Spanish Baroque style.
From top left clockwise: View of Cathedral of St. George; Presentation at the chocolate factory; The presepio in the cathedral; A statue of someone on a horse.From upper left then clockwise: The cathedral alter; The dome in the cathedral; Naida in the cathedral enjoying some organ music; View of Modica from the cathedral steps.
Leaving Modica we drove on to Ragusa. We wanted to see the city primarily because we had seen it as the location of the Montalbano television series we enjoyed so much. Ragusa is built on a wide limestone hill between two deep valleys, Cava San Leonardo and Cava Santa Domenica. Together with seven other cities in the Val di Noto, it is part of a UNESCO World Heritage Site. In the early 20th Century it was referred to as “The City of the Reds” because of its socialist leanings. It strongly opposed the Dictatorship of Mussolini and welcomed the Allied liberators during WWII.
RagusaFrom upper left then clockwise: View of the canyon separating the old from the new town; The three amigos in Ragusa; Naida observing the canyon; A pleasant lunch in Ragusa.
Ragusa is actually two towns separated by a deep canyon, the smaller one called the Old Town and the larger appropriately known as the New Town. The two parts of the city are connected by bridges that cross the deep canyon. We walked through the town stopping now and then to view the canyon and the city on the other side. In the center of the town we passed the cathedral and found a nice place for a late lunch including some freshly prepared cannolis for desert. Then a little more sightseeing and we returned to our car.
The Cathedral of St George in Ragusa.From upper left then clockwise: Naida and George enjoying the view; A antique store in Ragusa; an interesting sculptured balcony in Ragusa; Another view of the canyons.
It was getting late and the rain was picking up again so we decided to skip the stops at Piazza Armerina, and Enna and head directly to Canicatti and Antonio’s.
Two photographs of the Sicilian countryside on the way to Canicatti from Ragusa.
We arrived at Catania Airport in Sicily around noon on October 9, 2022. After picking up a rental car, we drove to Syracuse where we planned to spend the night before continuing on to Canicatti for a few days at Antonio’s home. Syracuse was once a great Greek city during the peak of Greek Civilization, comparable to Athens in terms of military power and intellectual achievements.
As we drove into the city and onto Ortygia Island, the heart of the ancient Greek city-state, we searched for the location of our BNB where we would be staying for the night. Despite having a map on our phone that possibly showed the street and building, there were no signs or any other indications to confirm our arrival. It is worth mentioning that for those unfamiliar with traveling in Sicily, signage and location markers are often incorrect or nonexistent. Nonetheless, Naida, George, and I got out of the car in a little plaza or parking lot (we couldn’t discern which) at the end of the street we believed to be the correct one. We set off on foot, exploring the neighborhood in hopes of finding some signs or the hotel itself. Meanwhile, Maryann drove off in the car to search the surrounding area. However, she had only gone a few dozen feet before turning into a one-way street going in the wrong direction. This caused a small commotion among frantic Sicilian motorists as Maryann disappeared from sight and didn’t return for over an hour.
Eventually, we managed to locate the hotel, and to our delight, it turned out to be quite pleasant. After settling in, we decided to explore Ortygia Island. Maryann and George went in one direction, while Naida and I headed in another. After walking a few blocks, Naida and I reached the Mediterranean shore and began strolling along it. The experience was delightful, with raised platforms offering fantastic views of the area and designated spots for swimming. Whenever we looked into the water, we often spotted ancient Greek columns and ruins just beneath the surface. Somewhere along our walk by the sea, I unfortunately lost my beloved hat. It was a hat I truly cherished.
From upper left clockwise: The street in front of the BNB; Pookie and his hat at the Mediterranean; One of the swimming spots: Naida by the sea.
After walking along the waterfront for some time, we made the decision to cross the island and explore the other side. As we navigated through the ancient streets, we unexpectedly encountered MaryAnn and George walking in the opposite direction. I proceeded to express my frustration about losing my hat, and we briefly discussed and shared our experiences and observations from our respective walks. They continued towards the place where we had just come from, while we continued towards where they had just been. I suppose each of us hoped to discover something the others had missed.
Eventually, Naida and I arrived at the Fountain of Arethusa, a natural freshwater spring that holds significance in Greek mythology. According to the legend, the nymph Arethusa, who represented the ancient city of Syracuse, escaped from her underwater home in Arcadia and emerged on the earth’s surface. This fountain also served as a source of inspiration for numerous writers and poets during a bygone era.
We then proceeded along the opposite side of the island, away from where I had lost my hat. We passed through a lengthy passageway, which resembled more of a plaza, running alongside the waterfront and beneath a tall wall adorned with impressive buildings. The plaza-passageway was adorned with trees and several benches where one could take a rest in the shade. Numerous stands were also selling food and drinks. Further ahead, we stumbled upon a carnival-like arcade and spent some time there. Afterwards, we climbed the stairs that led to the top of the wall and admired the buildings before winding our way through the old town’s streets back to our hotel.
As we neared the hotel, we coincidentally met Mary and George, who were now heading in the opposite direction. We agreed to have dinner together. After taking some time to rest, we concluded that we weren’t up for navigating the streets and alleys of Ortygia Island, so we decided to search for a place to eat on the nearby streets.
` From Upper left and clockwise: Pookie without a hat again; The promenade with trees; Naida at the carnival; Mary and George walking off.
We walked a few steps up a quaint street and stumbled upon a promising establishment. Intrigued, we decided to enter. As it turned out, the place exceeded our expectations—it was not just good, but great. To our delight, there was even live music playing. We relished a marvelous Sicilian meal, although I now regret my inability to recall the specific dishes. After taking our time to savor dinner in true Sicilian fashion, we bid farewell and made our way back to the hotel. We needed a good night’s rest to prepare for our departure tomorrow to Canicatti.
From top left then clockwise: Naida sitting outside of the restaurant waiting for our table to be prepared; Maryann and George enjoying the meal; Maryann and George enjoying the music of the musicians; The musicians.
I guess it is about time in these emails for another edition of “The Hayden and Pookie Saga.” For the past week or so SWAC has a considerable amount of time rationalizing why I should not be permitted to see Hayden. However, due to Hayden’s insistence on spending time with me when Joey is not around, and her absence of acceptable baby-sitters, again when Joey is not around, Hayden and I have found ourselves sharing a number of adventures appropriate for an old-man and a young boy, like toy shopping, inventing nonsense songs and splashing each other in the pool. A few days ago, however, the first official document from the court regarding the custody hearing arrived along with an attorney’s retainer agreement. The court document contains a record of the complainant’s statement to a child protective agent. Now, I am perhaps the last person in the world to commend SWAC’s child rearing abilities or mental balance, but this person seems a menace to society. Not only did he lose visitation rights to his daughter by a prior marriage regaining it only after the woman committed suicide, I suspect encouraged by his harassment, but he claims that although he had not visited or sought to visit the boy for five years he has evidenced his paternal devotion by recently sending him emails every day. In reviewing those emails, they appear to consist primarily of this man urging this young boy of 6 or 7 to become a Republican because Obama and the Democrats are scum (remember this guy is a Federal government employee). Hayden told me that during one of his visits to this man, he wanted to shave Hayden’s head so that he would look more like a man. Another time he threatened to cut Hayden’s eyelashes because they were too long and made him look like a ladyboy.
Suddenly, I find myself in SWAC’s temporary good graces, because I might be able to testify on her behalf. I have never been that good at lying under oath but in this case if need be, I may make an exception.
For the past two days Hayden and I have shared a hotel room and spent our time swimming, watching National Geographic television programs generally featuring large animals killing and devouring smaller ones or making up silly rhyming songs.
2. Travel Plans:
My on again off again travel plans are on again. We plan to depart for Italy on the 14th remaining there for about two weeks. Nikki and I have discussed taking Hayden with us on a brief trip to Sicily, taking the overnight ferry from Naples to Palermo.
On the 38th or so of July we will travel to NY where I will spend about five days. I hope to be able to visit with Terry and with my daughter Jessica. I would like to get all the way to Williamsburg and see Ann but I am not sure I have the time to do so.
Another possible change of plans: Since I wrote the above, it seems that the both the Italian and the NY portions of the trip have gotten much briefer so I am contemplating skipping them on this trip and going directly to SF in early August. This will allow me to spend some time with Gates who is in Thailand for two weeks and with another friend and her son who is visiting until the end of the month.
“Without confirmation, in the absence of direct contradiction, hope will linger long beyond point of being useful.”
Mina, Denise. The Less Dead (p. 1). Little, Brown and Company.
I spent Wednesday evening at Peter and Barrie’s house where I was permitted to expend a whole month’s worth of words in one evening. At home in the Enchanted Forest, I don’t talk much. Naida spends a lot of her time writing her memoir, I fiddle with my computer and write T&T and a few other things. I speak a few dozen words in the course of the day, a lot of them to the dog. I write perhaps a hundred or so more. In the evening, sometimes Naida plays the piano or we watch television together and now and then commenting on or discussing something we see. So, a lot of words back up inside of me that I need to get out. Peter and Barrie allow me to do that. When I am at their house, a glass of Prosecco in hand, all those pent up words begin to flow out. I projectile vomit words for several hours until I am empty of them and I, exhausted from the effort, trundle off to bed. Peter and Barrie are very understanding of my particular peculiar peccadillo. They are a lot like health workers in an insane asylum, sympathetic but not too intrusive.
Anyway, the next morning Peter drove me to UCSF and after some blood tests and CT scans, I met with my oncologist. He told me that, after over nine months since my last immunotherapy treatment, my cancer cells remain crystalized and dormant. He scheduled another series of tests and further review in three months. Pleased with the results, I caught the next train back to Sacramento. For some reason, when I got home I was exhausted. Perhaps it was a result of all the energy I expended evacuating the truckload of words at Peter and Barrie’s. So after dinner, I went to bed and slept until morning.
Friday was meh. Nothing to write home about.
Saturday, we got up too late to attend the Saturday Morning Coffee. By the time I had breakfast, washed, dressed, and moped around the house it was about 3PM so I ate lunch and decided the day was over. Today was somewhat better than “Meh” but it still was a “nothing” day on “Pookie’s classifications of the subjective quality of my days.” Tomorrow, I am sure we will make it to an ”OK” (Good, not great but good) day. It was my onomastica today, my name day, the feast day of St. Joseph. In Sicily it is Father’s Day. It is to Sicilians what St. Patrick’s Day is to the Irish, except in place of partying, singing and dancing, Sicilians celebrate it with food, special breads called St. Josephs bread, and sweets such at Zeppole. An elaborate altar is constricted containing statues and/or paintings of Joseph and Mary as well as piles the foods to be served at the feast. The family, fathers, mothers, grandparents, cousins and so on all gather to enjoy the festival. The fact that it is not celebrated by Sicilians here in the US and also going out of fashion in Sicily is a bummer for me.
An example of St Joseph’s Day feast preparation. Waiting for the relatives to arrive.
Sunday was warmer. I went for a couple of nice walks through the Enchanted Forest — another OK (good but not great) day.
Monday, I did not wake up until about 11AM having spent most of the night reading my latest novel, this one about necromancers, dragons and zombies and finally deciding I need to get a life even if I am a short timer. After breakfast and some hanky-panky, I had a long telephone conversation with Frank from Florida. He wanted to check on the current state of my health. I told him I was feeling better and promised him that he would receive an invitation to my funeral when the time comes. Naida and I then had a late lunch outdoors at Piatti a local restaurant I like. We enjoyed it a lot. After lunch we returned home, I yelled at the dog for barking too much, Naida went to work on her memoir, and I busied myself making travel arrangements for our trip to Denver and Tennessee next week. Another “OK” ( good but not too good either) day. I am in a rut.
In the evening, as we usually do, we walked the dog through the Forest. We walked a path we had not explored before and came upon some interesting local folk art.
uesday afternoon I drove into the Golden Hills to have lunch with Hayden. I met him at his house in EDH. He had just returned from school and had Kaleb with him. In the past six months or so, Kaleb has grown from about 5’10’’ to 6’6’’. He told me he had been diagnosed with a growth disorder that may cause him severe physical problems as he grows older. I feel bad for him. He is a great kid. We went to Nugget Market in Town Center, bought Pizza and soft drinks and took them to eat at a picnic table by the lake. We talked about the 50s and 60s which they thought was a great time to be alive and teenagers.
I agreed it was a great time and talked about my friend Bob Cavallo and my experiences in the music business at the time. We learned that in about 1956-57 wealth in the US had passed from the hands of men to women primarily because of the increasing longevity of women at the time. Also, disposable income (money not needed for shelter, food and the like) passed from adults to teenagers, mostly on account of the baby boomers coming of age and the increasingly vibrant economy of the time. Since, most of the money owned by women were due to their longer lives that their husbands had tied up in trusts and estates and were controlled with rabid tenacity by Wall Street and the banking industry, there seemed to limit the opportunity for two ambitious young men to become wealthy, so we decided to become rich by selling to children, and what children wanted at the time was music (dope came in about 10 years later). So we went into the music business — at first by arranging dances at concerts at Georgetown where we were matriculating. After returning to NY, I continued promoting concerts and dances and later organized a company providing low cost air and hotel packages to Bermuda and Puerto Rica for college students during spring break. Bobby remained in DC, dropped out of college, and opened a night-club before branching out as a manager and promoter of music groups, first with Loving Spoonful, then Earth, Wind and Fire, Prince, Elvis Costello and a host of other groups. He then added to his portfolio by producing movies such as Purple Rain, 12 Monkeys and others.
The boys, Haden and Kaleb appeared fascinated by my stories. I reminded them that the Viet Nam War was going on about this time also and it was not such a good time for teens and young adults. Kaleb told about his grandfathers experiences in the Viet Nam war.
Hayden holding the pizza, Kaleb holding a bottle of sarsaparilla, and Pookie holding himself up.
After lunch I dropped Kaleb off at his house and drove Hayden to his. We spent a few moments discussing Haden’s future and how proud I was of him. He described how bored he was at school and how much he enjoyed working, figuring things out and solving problems on his own, and being active.
After that, I drove home, Naida went to play tennis and I walked the dog. The dog and I went to the pool where I decided to take a hot tub. For me it ranks as an adventure to sit in a hot tub and stare up at the trees waving gently in the grey-blue sky at dusk. It is an even more delightful adventure to sit there in the hot tub staring at the trees waving gently in the grey-blue sky at dusk and watching two ducks gently enter and quietly swim across the pool. Staring at the trees waving gently in the grey-blue sky at dusk as a pair of ducks swim across the pool while the dog begins barking like a..like a mad dog forcing me to jump out of the hot tub dress and drag him home, I am not so sure. Anyway, it was still a good (not bad at all) day. No, better — it was great (Great!) day.
Pookie in the Hot-tub with Boo-boo the Annoying but Heroic Farting and Barking Dog in the background
The next day was curious. We got up a bit late. The previous evening Naida was quite concerned that the first chapter of her memoir was unsatisfactory to present to her critique group later this week. After a night of twisting and turning instead of sleeping, she seemed to work out something that she felt confident would fix it. After breakfast and her fixing the errant chapter, we set off to the bank to withdraw the small fortune needed to pay for my new solid gold reconditioned hearing aids. At the hearing aid office, we paid the blood money. I then mentioned the inconsistent performance of the hearing aids so far and complained that I expected that after paying a kings ransom for the damned things they would perform near perfectly. The woman dealing with me (What do they call someone who deals in hearing aids, auditors?) apologized, took wax impressions of my ears and promised to have adjustments prepared to be installed on my devices by the time we return from our trip next week.
Pookie with wax in his ears.
After that bit of adventure, Naida and I set out to find a replacement battery for her iPhone. Eventually, after several stops at places we thought could do the job, we were sent to the Apple Store in Arden Mall. We arrived at about 2PM, for the next four hours, I was imprisoned in the Arden Mall with only the music of Django Reinhardt on my iphone to accompany me while Naida spent the time locked-up in the Apple Store Dungeon. She finally emerged without a battery or a phone having been released only upon her promise to return the next day at precisely 11AM where she will learn whether her phone will be returned to her with or without a battery. We then rushed home to relieve the dog from his unexpected incarceration. After a quick dinner, I crawled upstairs, flopped into bed and struggled with nightmares about tomorrow. You would think this would be a “Shit,”(Sometimes, ‘Porca Miseria’) “Meh,” (I am not impressed), or at best a “Nothing” (nothing) day on *Pookie’s classifications of the subjective quality of his days, but it is not. I consider it a “Hmm,”(Get back to me later) day. After all, I did have Django Reinhardt and perhaps, it will all work out at 11AM tomorrow.
Today is tomorrow, the day after yesterday and I feel like shit so I spent most of the day in bed leaving Naida to brave the Apple Dungeon and Boo-boo to fend for himself. Naida returned after only about four hours, iPhone and battery in hand and full of stories about her adventures surviving the Apple Jungle. Eventually, I got up and spent an hour or so obsessively arranging my shirts on hangers in the closet according to rules understood only by me and which I refuse to divulge fearing accusation that I am an idiot. So far I classify this day as Porca Miseria (a little better than shit). The only thing good about it is the hope it may get better. A hope that has little basis in reality. After all, one of the main reasons one wallows in shit is the absence of hope things will get better. That is why Porca Miseria is a slight improvement. There is still hope, as small as it may be. I apologize. I am sitting here typing this and snacking on raw vegetables. I usually hate raw vegetables, except carrots. I like raw carrots. Anyway, I am snacking on raw vegetables and enjoying them. I am very confused.
Friday. Spent much of the day in various stages of hysteria assisting Naida in sending 10 pages of he memoir to her critique group while listening to Louie Prima’s greatest hits. Porca Miseria! Outside of that, it was a mostly lovely warm day.
While lying here in bed typing this, I discovered somewhere in the internet that I probably suffer from clinomania, an excessive desire to stay in bed. It is good to know that I may be obsessed rather than simply lazy.
On Saturday, we attended the Saturday Morning Coffee. One important announcement was that the monthly Happy Hour at a local gin mill that we “alters” had enjoyed and that were suspended due to COVID will now resume. Unfortunately we will be in Denver for the first one. Also, one of the people who manage the small lending library in the Nepenthe Club House that I try to contribute some books every time I get a chance, came up to me and suggested that I take my books and drop them off at the local library instead.
After the coffee, I drove into Roseville for another CT scan then up to EDH where I dropped into The Purple Place for lunch. Hayden was just getting off work so he joined me.
I think that is enough chatter for this post. Next week I am off to Denver and Tennessee. You all take care, hear?
Rachel Donadio: Lampedusa’s ‘The Leopard,’ Fifty Years on: ‘One novel is the key to Sicily: “The Leopard,” Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa’s masterpiece… the decline and fall of the house of Salina, a family of Sicilian aristocrats…. Don Fabrizio, the world-weary, cleareyed Prince of Salina, scion of an old feudal family and lover of astronomy. It opens in 1860 with the landing in Sicily of forces intent on unifying Italy and ends in 1910, when a priest comes to assess the reliquaries of the prince’s now aged spinster daughters. In between, it recounts the fortunes of the prince’s favorite nephew, Tancredi, who supports the unification efforts of Giuseppe Garibaldi more out of opportunism than idealism and eventually becomes a diplomat. Tancredi’s career is made possible only by his marrying money—which inevitably means marrying down. To the horror of his aunt, the devastation of a cousin who loves him and the wry comprehension of his uncle, Tancredi falls in love with Angelica, the beautiful daughter of an upwardly mobile landed peasant father and an illiterate mother…. Tancredi… speaks the novel’s most famous line: “If we want things to stay as they are,” he tells his uncle, “things will have to change.” Tancredi’s declaration lies at the heart of “The Leopard,” at once a loving portrait of a vanished society and a critique of its provincialism… LINK: <https://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/29/arts/29iht-booktue.1.14826755.html>
Monday, Christmas week, 2020. News from the White House becomes darker. Like Frankenstein and his benighted monster trapped in the burning windmill, Trump remains barricaded in the White House railing his fury, plotting desperate measures to retain power and developing strategies for fleecing his most ignorant followers for funds to ease his transition into his post incumbency life.
The COVID pandemic has reached the pinnacle of its wrath and destruction, just as a vaccine to end the plague begins distribution. Meanwhile COVID creeps closer. My grandson Anthony has two friends die recently and one of Hayden’s closest friends seems to have contracted it.
The week began with Naida and I at work on our computers finishing up on whatever holiday purchases we will make this year. It is December 21 and still winter has not yet descended on the Enchanted Forest. While I do not expect a snow storm, this is California after all, I do expect daytime temperatures to drop below 50, now and then before I call a season winter.
This morning as we sat in our matching recliners, Naida rummaged through a folder the called her “haystack” of poems, a collection of poems she had written during her life. She discovered one she had sent to her father as he lay dying. She read it to me and, as she reached its end, she began to cry.
A little later, she discovered in the haystack notes of a site visit she, I, and John Curci made to the Giumarra Brothers agribusiness properties in Kern County. I had forgotten all about that trip. The 87 year old Sicilian immigrant, head of this large agribusiness empire, took us in his Cadillac convertible for an exciting and at times harrowing drive on and off the dirt roads that traversed some of his properties. At one point, he, this 87 year old, raced a train to a crossing and beat it with seconds to spare. He told us he bought his first piece of land in the area cheaply because the sellers believed nothing could grow there. “How did you make the land produce so well,” I asked? “Imagination,” he replied, “ imagine anything, you can do it.”Later I negotiated the gift of most of their extensive holdings on the coast including, much of Morro Bay lagoon near Los Osos and the surrounding lands on which they had plans to build a large recreational resort and housing for their very large family. They retained a site on which to build a home for the family.
Tuesday, I went for my COVID test and await the results.
For some unknown reason, I received a small puzzle through the mail in a nicely designed box. It is a suitable present for the age of self-quarantine. Who may have sent it is a mystery. It only included a note from the manufacturer in English and Russian (at least I think it is Russian. The letters appear to be Cyrillic.) It includes the note that if any pieces are missing I should contact the manufacturer. As it seems to happen whenever I see an unassembled puzzle, I feel compelled to assemble it. And so I did.
On the afternoon before the afternoon and night before Christmas, Naida and I packed up Christmas presents for her daughters and grandchildren and set off to play a COVID-age Santa Clauses. We drove to their separate homes in the area. On arriving at each house, Naida would exit the car, grab the appropriate holiday decorated shopping-bag containing the presents for that family, run across the lawn, and deposit it before the door. We thought we were so clever.
As we drove from neighborhood to neighborhood, we noticed much higher automobile traffic than usual in these otherwise quiet areas. We wondered why until we saw several cars pull over to the side of the road, the doors open and women carrying decorated shopping bags rush across the lawns.
While we were delivering the presents, the defeated President pardoned an additional 26 people who could testify against him after he leaves office. He also announced he was considering vetoing the recently passed legislation that contained the needed funds for COVID release and funds to allow the government to continue to function. He has also stated he intends to veto the 760 billion dollar military budget. If he should utilize the pocket veto by not acting on the legislation, it will leave the country at the start of the new year without a government or a military. He now has now left the White House for Mar-a-Lago and no-one knows when or if he will return.
So what does all this mean? Confusion for sure. American responses to actions by our adversaries may be crippled, State government operations for public safety may be truncated, COVID relief halted, and, finally the ability for any governmental institution to resist a coup, insurrection or public crisis damaged. I wonder if that think tank that gamed the options available to Trump to upset the results of the vote gamed this.
On the day before Christmas, I awoke at about noon. Naida went out to shop for Christmas dinner. I worked on the computer and read a bit. In the evening we watched some science-fiction movie I did not pay much attention to. We retired early. So went Christmas Eve during the year of self-quarantine.
Christmas Day — I awoke grumpy. Like 80% or the people in the world I usually wake up grumpy and stay that way until I finish my morning coffee. For that 20% who wake up chipper and ready to meet the day, may someone drive a stake through their heart.
After my coffee and shaking off the foul thoughts accompanying my levee, Naida and I drove to her daughters house to drop of some presents. We returned and I watched Ted 1 and Ted 2 on HBO until it was time for a Zoom Christmas party with Naida’s Children and family.
Earlier we opened our presents. Well, not really… I few weeks ago I had given Naida a painting by Alexandra Leti and a long sweater for Christmas.
Naida in her Christmas sweater gazes at Alexandra Leti’s painting.
She had gotten me an exorbitantly expensive silk pajama’s that unfortunately had not yet arrived. She also got me a jigsaw puzzle picturing one of the towns in Cinque Terre (Romaggiore I believe).
The next day it was an unseasonably warm so Naida and I decided to go on a long rambling stroll through the Enchanted Forest. We found camellias blooming out of season and the citrus trees hung full with ripe fruit.
Our Christmas Camellia
I enjoy walking with Naida. She can ramble on nonstop with fascinating stories. We began with her response to my question to her that, since she had been trained as she was by a student of Brahms, from the point of view of an accomplished pianist such what was the difference in baroque music and romantic? She explained that Baroque music began shortly after mechanical clocks had been installed in towns throughout Europe. Before then time was an approximation. Now minutes and seconds could divide up time with mathematical precision. In baroque music the rhythms are laid down with the mathematic meticulousness of a metronome while the music twined about the rhythms with geometric clarity. What was missing was emotion. The romantics added emotion. Naida’s piano teacher claimed that the music of the baroque period was not music because in order to be music it must be based on emotion.
She then launched into a long story, with many digressions, about an author friend of hers, trained as a veterinarian, who mostly wrote children’s novels until she explained to him how to use history to provide the background and characters in novels. He eventually became an accomplished and well known mystery and science fiction novelist.
Periodically she would stop and explain something or other about interesting flora or fauna of the Forest that we strolled by. We ended, as we returned to the house, with a discussion of the fugue and Mozart’s Requiem’s possible influence on the rise of romanticism in music.
A few days after our walk, the UPS driver hurled a package over our back yard fence containing my new silk pajamas. I love them.
Pookie in his new silk pajamas and quarantine hairdo.
After a week of bitching about some items in the COVID relief bill and demanding that the $600 per person relief that his own staff negotiated be increased to $2000. Trump signed the legislation. He followed that up with a veto of the National Defense Authorization bill. Congress has only a few days to overturn the veto. Next we face the attempts by Trump’s minions on January 6 to upset the vote to accept the Electoral College decision declaring Biden the winner of the Presidential election. Also, of course, we await additional Presidential pardons, last ditch attempts to upset the election results and whatever circus he has prepared for inauguration day. I think the nation would be disappointed if he does not make a fool of himself at least one more time.
This morning I woke up late and a bit muzzy. The bright sun slanted through the slats on the window painting bright stripes on the floor and walls. Boo-boo the Barking Dog who had been strangely silent this morning sat by the window suspiciously eyeing some workmen carrying things back and forth into a garage further down the alley. Naida brought me some coffee and crackers and I settled in to reading a fascinating post in Facebook entitled The Very Real, Totally Bizarre Bucatini Shortage of 2020 (https://www.grubstreet.com/amp/2020/12/2020-bucatini-shortage-investigation.html?__twitter_impression=true&fbclid=IwAR3bhMWS182uzFua-qFqrz6B60OXIlU6uEWrm3EJO-GDogrGzyG9a5vZiUvDCU). I also watched an amazing short film of dancing robots from Boston Dynamics.
After this, I went downstairs and watched a magnificent documentary on Mozart’s life and music while Naida explained to me how the rigid almost mathematical rhythms and almost absent melodies of baroque music evolved through Mozart into the varied rhythms, and melody and emotionally rich music of the Romantic composers. She pointed out that Mozart’s piano pieces were designed to demonstrate the well-tempered abilities of the newly introduced piano. Mozart’s Requiem, she seems to believe, with it’s emphasis on emotion and melody, was a key element on the transition of the Baroque-classical music tradition to the glories of the Romantic. Each piece of music presented in the documentary inspired her to launch into a brief stream of consciousness thesis on music history and method, much of which went either over my head or was lost due to the sad state of my short term memory. For example, during one piece she exclaimed “He is using the scales to create melody.” I have no idea what she meant by that. Periodically, she would express her distress at the state of modern music with its obsession with the beat (rhythm) at the expense of almost everything else. “Something, a new music, must come out of this as it has in the past,” she exclaimed at one point.
As a historian, I learned, the development and spread of the mechanical clock generated the court music of the baroque-classical period. Much of that music (and, I imagine, the income of the performers and composers) was often intended to be performed as background music for the nobles (the music would be performed in a nearby room to where the rich and powerful ate or met) and was intended to set a mood. With the rise of the social changes of the late eighteenth century, the melodies and rhythms of the music of the lower classes and the growth of more public performances with a broader audience changed the emphasis in music from timing and mood to melody and emotion.
See, self-quarantine is not all bad. It is possible to learn something. It’s not much but it is undeniably something.
Today is the last day of this God forsaken year. I suspect most people have a timid hope that next year will be better. Hope, however, is an emotion usually reserved for when reality seems to indicate the opposite. So it is with the almost universal longing for a better year than that we have most recently experienced. The installation of a new empathetic leader of the country and the roll-out of vaccines to halt the modern-day plague that has descended on us, however, seems to me to be at best a feeble impediment to the forces of chaos unleashed on us all over the past few decades.
I spent much of the day driving into the Golden Hills for a pizza lunch with HRM. Because of the pandemic, it has been a relatively long time since we had gotten together. The people close to him that may have tested positive for COVID all seem to have tested negative recently. We ate our pizza by the lake in Town Center where we had the usual teenage/adult conversation:
Me: How is everything going with you?
H. : Great.
Me: How is School?
H. : Great.
Me: Do you need anything?
H. : Thanks, but no.
Me: Any plans for the rest of the vacation?
H. : Going snowboarding tomorrow.
Me: Great. How about plans for summer? Do you have any?
H. : Drive around a lot. That’s cool.
Me: What have you been doing during this winter vacation”
H. : Driving around a lot with Jake and Kaleb. I like that.
At this point in our edifying conversation, we both turned to gaze at the lake, eat our pizza, and enjoy each other’s company in silence.
Terry, ever the optimist sent me the following:
This article answers the question:
In historical context , how bad was 2020?
The answer: not so bad.
We have been throughic
much, much worse:
1. In the world: 1356 , the bubonic plague wiped out 65% of the European population .
2. In the US 1862 : the Civil War was at its worst, casualties disastrous on both sides. And there seemed no way out but secession.
Actually 2020 is far down the list . Let’s count our blessings as the NEW YEAR begins, with a new President, a vaccine (s) and hope! HAPPY NEW YEAR 🎊🎈🎆
Was 2020 the worst year ever? Historians weigh in.
Those who study the past have offered their own ranking of history’s worst years.
Despite Terry’s optimism it is important for we all to remember, the light we see at the end of the tunnel may just as well be the train coming down the tracks as the sunlight. We might as well hope it is the sunlight shining on us as the Orange Menace flees down the tracks and away from us all.
Naida and I will probably retire early and miss whatever properly social-distanced festivities might be shown on television or available on smart phone.
Tomorrow is another day and another year. It seems like it is always something now-a-days.
Papa Joe's Tales, Fables and Parables 