Tocco da Casauria

This is the last assignment of this semester's writing class. The assignment was to write a lyrical essay. I am still struggling with essay writing but essays are my favorites to read and to write.

At the top of my list of the most admired women is my maternal grandmother, Emilia. She was a beautiful woman, full of grace, class and courage. Most of my childhood was spent at her side, my fondest memories began in her home.

Its Monday morning, from the little yellow radio in the kitchen I hear the familiar theme song of one of her favorite shows….”sing everyone sing, sing everyone sign, all of your troubles will vanish like bubbles, sing everyone sing”………

After many trips to central Italy, we made a very good decision one late Autumn and spent a lovely week further south, visiting Sorrento and the gorgeous Amalfi Coast. Our plan was to drive directly north at the end of the week, to our final destination of Orvieto before returning to the states to prepare for our Christmas holiday.

As I enter the door to the kitchen, I see the mounds of pasta dough on the black Formica counter. The long narrow rolling pin is whirling to the tune…..sing everyone sing….

Was it the romance of Sorrento or the call of the open road that set my dear husband Joe to his generous offer of a side trip. "Let's set the GPS for Tocco da Casuria". My heart leapt and my response needed no second thought. Very soon after, we were on the road. The unusually warm November weather that we had enjoyed was changing and we left Sorrento with clouds over our heads and the threat of rain.

After sharing our greetings, I walk away from the kitchen, down the long hall that leads me to the “Little Room”, that which belonged to my mother and aunt so many years ago. I glance into the big bedroom and see the special sheet, draped the entire length and width of the bed, the pasta sheet, now holding almost the weeks’ worth….sing everyone sing…..

Tocco da Casuria is a tiny town in the province of Pescara in the Abruzzo region of Italy. It’s patron is Saint Eustachio. A small town with a current population of 3,000 inhabitants, located high in the mountains. The birthplace of my grandmother whose grandfather came from the nearby town of Capistrano as a stone mason. He left his home for the job of creating the relief work for the Municipal Building in the center of Tocco before meeting her grandmother. We knew little more than that when we set out that day for our drive through the Gran Sasso mountains along roads that were more modern than we could have imagined.

My grandmother Emilia was educated by the nuns. In my mind as a child, I was sure that she meant that she left her home, taken by the clergy women, never to return. I thought that she only learned how to embroider but as the years went by, I realized that she was smart, nicely educated in many areas, and especially classy for an immigrant…..sing, everyone sing…..

If you ever find yourself in Italy and you do not like to miss lunch, you should know that it is necessary to plan your day very carefully because lunch time is sacrosanct. The entire country shuts down for it and it happens at the same time every day, everywhere. So, from noon until two, streets empty and the serious work of preparing, eating and relaxing starts. It was at this very time that we saw the sign we had so anticipated and headed off the highway and up the hill to the official blue and white "Tocco da Casauria" sign assuring us that we were in the right place. Slowly, we proceeded, around the curves and into the center of the tiny but pristine town. Empty streets, this was not a tourist town and this was lunch time.

When I was still a teenager, my brother became ill and my parents had to go to California to help him, leaving me behind. My grandparents came to our house to stay with me and my grandmother continued to do her domestic duties which now included reorganizing some things for my mother. One day, I opened the pantry door and found that she had labeled some canisters, her way of helping my mother as she tended to her child….The flour canister now had a perky new label which ready "Flower".....it remained that way for years to come......sing, everyone sing……

As we wound our way, we easily found the Municipal Building with relief work , a row of the most heavenly stone cherubs encircled the building, my great-great grandfather’s work, beautifully adorning it. My heart started beating, faster and faster as I tried find anything that would be familiar to me from my childhood memories. I had so few. I just knew about the convent, the church of San Eustachio, and the houses with the dirt floors, now long since replaced.

My grandmother had stomach problems. The doctor across the street in the Bronx had the solution. Routine surgery. Some news about Potassium loss. We’ll be there tomorrow to visit her. All of your troubles will vanish like bubbles…. A phone call, instant heartbreak. I was the one to tell my mother….sing everyone sing.

Slowly, we walked around the paved stone road in front of the church. I tried the ancient door, it was locked. My disappointment lifted as I allowed myself to realize that I was touching the very same door handle that she had touched, walking on the very same pavers as did she, looking out at the very same snow-covered mountains that my grandmother observed every day for the first fourteen years of her life. I studied this view, took it all in for what seemed like a very long time before I realized that the sun was shining, the clouds had lifted.

She’s here….here to greet me…..all of your troubles will vanish like bubbles so sing everyone sing.

Auntie Mae Brandt

My mother gave me one great gift in my life when she chose her very best friend, Mae Kelt, to be my godmother. She was the most vivacious, beautiful woman I had ever known and she, childless for most of my childhood, treated me as her own, the daughter she wished she had. I was the object of her affection and she always made that very clear to me. She knit for me, bought for me, baked for me and shared me with her friends and family just because she was proud of me. I vividly recall, to this day, almost sixty years later, an outing to New York City, a first trip to see the Radio City Musical Hall's famous Christmas show. I can't remember the outfit I was wearing but I do remember my high emotions. As she held my hand and we waited in the long line to enter the theater, I pretended she was my mother. Later that day, she treated me to my first trip to Rumplemeyer's ice cream parlor on Central Park West, the height of little girl nonchalance. I don't recall this, but she has told the story over and over as the years went by, about how sophisticated I was and how amused everyone was by my ability to order my confection. I have a feeling she was one very proud auntie, pretending to be a mommy.

There were so many birthdays and Christmases that were made so much more special for me by a doting Aunt Mae who always had just the "right" gift, the prettiest of cakes, cards and special birthday dinners. The memory of those times still gives me an incredible feeling, like a little child rapt in anticipation, over and over again.

Auntie Mae was gorgeous. Slender, well-heeled, beautiful hair and skin, a true Scottish lass who bore the pain of the loss of her equally beautiful Danish sailor bridegroom, just weeks after their wedding, with grace as she finally re-entered the single world. She was wined and dined by many a charming man, desired for her great looks, beautiful figure and adorable sense of humor.

If she had a heartbreak, I as a child had no knowledge of it. To me, she was a constant source of happiness and fun, fun, fun.

When she finally remarried Arthur Brandt and became pregnant with her only child, she did not abandon me. Richard, fourteen years my junior, became part of the nonstop wonder of our relationship. He was a perfectly beautiful child with a wonderful disposition, adored by all. Her joy was obvious as she now she had her own child to shower love, attention and pride upon. Never did she ever make me feel that I had lost my place in her heart.

Instead, I felt that Baby Richard made all of our lives happier and all of our celebrations richer and more meaningful.

Aunt Mae was there for me as I grew up, supporting my entrance into adulthood and cheering me on. It was she who bestowed the first string of pearls upon me. It was she who made certain that I would have a proper bone china tea set, hand selected by her cousins and sent to me all the way from their home in Scotland. It was Auntie Mae who made,by hand, the most beautiful of all the gifts my babies ever received. Items that are still held in special places, as lovely as they were when I had my first born, forty one years ago. Hands of gold produced sweaters that my granddaughters have only recently worn, still in perfect condition, a testimony to the quality of work and love that went into them.

I can hardly have a dinner party without being reminded of the gracious ways in which Aunt Mae entertained her own guests. The "Aunt Mae" china is used on my table with a lovely pink tablecloth, just as she used it before me. One day, my daughter will use the same set and hopefully, her daughters after her. I only hope that it shall forever be referred to as "Mae's China" and that it will cause it's present owners to have a moment to think about all the love and admiration that it has come to represent.

I also hope that my granddaughters will have relationships with their own godmothers. It's sad that my daughter lost her godmother, her Aunt Patty, before she graduated from college, years before she married. I'm comforted in knowing that Sara had a godmother who loved her in a special way too and, like my own godmother, can never be replaced.

My godmother died, peacefully, this morning.

Rest in peace, Auntie Mae and thank you for just about everything a little heart could desire.

Guest Post

Patty Hughes is a member of my writing class. She's also affiliated with another of my pleasures, the Barnstable Comedy Club. We've both rescued and fallen in love with dogs and she's lucky (?) enough to still have hers. For all of you who have the same love......enjoy!

Let him know you’re in charge! “He thinks HE’s in charge! Take control!” So said Ryan, a flaming 20 something who gelled his hair upward into a curl on the top of his head.

That’s good advice I responded with a hint of insincerity. I’m not in charge and I know it!
I can’t lie to myself. From the moment they pulled him out of a stinky cage at the far end of that 18 wheeler, I was lost.


“Tater”, drawled the burly tattooed man. “That’s funny.” “I have a cousin named Tater.”

I was momentarily distracted by the thought of some guy in Oklahoma with an improbable name and then I took my scruffy little sweet po-tater in my arms and he gazed meekly at me with those soft innocent brown eyes fringed with white lashes. From that first giddy moment, I knew with a certainty, that I was not in charge and that I would spend the rest of my days devoted to his doggy desires.

After a few days the trouble began. Left home alone, he got into trouble with the wood pile. He was positively contrite when I returned. If his little cropped tail could have been between his short stubby legs, it would have been. I hurried to reassure him that I was looking forward to vacuuming the entire house anyway and not to fret about it. Cookies kisses and hugs followed.
Next it was the toilet paper roll, ripped from its holder and torn and shred in some mad rampage room to room. I ran for the camera. He posed nonchalantly amidst a cloud of white tissue. “You’re a bad bad boy!’ I cooed adoringly.
He chewed the bottom of a folding screen …nothing a file and a little paint couldn’t fix; a plant stand, the arm of a wicker sofa… He took a bite out of a hymnal…as if it were an apple.

I started taking him with me everywhere I went.- just to be safe, but leaving him in the car had its own perils. He got hold of a pen. He had a new spot and it was blue. My prescription sunglasses were mistaken for a chew toy.
One night I let him outside with the half-hearted suggestion that he “get busy”. My Christmas lights went black..
One snow boot lost its sole; the computer power cord was severed. I was worried. The problem was escalating.

In desperation, I convinced my bachelor neighbor that the dog thought of him as “Uncle Jim”. He bought it. - Tater went down the street to watch the Super Bowl, but not before I lost a leather boot, my pocketbook strap and a sneaker. When I went to get him, he was out cold, glutted with Cheese Doodles and Dorito chips, his little freckled tummy full to bursting with forgotten food from the kitchen floor.

My outdoor garden bench took a hit, a Feng Shui manual called “Move Your Stuff Change Your Life” appeared in the back yard,- sending me a cryptic message , an entire bag of curtains was dragged from a bedroom closet and deposited in a different room. He’s redecorating! I joked.
The keyboard foot pedal, it’s power cord and an extension cord became defunct . Guess he doesn’t like music, I quipped. “You’re a BAD DOG, yes you are, a BAD Doggie, yes you are ! Yes you are!” He flopped onto his back and began to wiggle.

He got tangled up in a roll of duct tape. One foot stuck to the floor when he walked.

The breaking point arrived the day he charged past me out the door and I dove under a UPS truck to save his life. I experienced an epiphany as I lay there on the ground, holding my shattered leg. My rescue dog has “issues“.
Admitting you have a problem is the first step. So,
I signed him up for an obedience class, the dog equivalent of a 12-step program.


There were 6 exasperated, fed-up and worn out people sitting in a circle with their problematic dogs . Ryan, the instructor, in gabby girlfriend style said, “Lets’ go ‘round and introduce ourselves and tell us why you’re here.”

“Hello, my name is Bill,” Bill shouted to be heard above his barking dog…“and this is Rusty.” “Rusty barks at everything.” Ryan jammed a toy into Rusty’s mouth.

“Hi, my name is Ellen,” a very apologetic Ellen announced, “and this is Coco.” Ellen sat a little apart. “Coco hates other dogs.” A tiny snarling mop of hair peered out from under Ellen’s chair. Certainly Tater’s occasional incontinence wasn’t as bad as Jane and Frank’s pooping poodle!
When my turn came I panicked wondering which bad habit to announce. “Tater chews things”. I said stoically.

Meanwhile, As Tater strained at his leash to grab Rusty’s discarded toy and investigate the reclusive Coco, an overzealous pit-bull puppy knocked him over and pinned him down. Ryan gave a rousing command and 6 obedient adults stood and practiced using a clicker in one hand while holding a leash and silently offering a treat to their bewildered pets with the other.

Our dogs, waiting patiently for us to master the awkward routine, got tired and sat down to wait it out . To all appearances, our dogs had mastered the first lesson - ‘SIT” But, in truth, they were confused by the strange sound emanating from 6 clickers simultaneously, the invention of some marketing genius no doubt, but the treats were good and plenty. In our hands we held our last hope and clicked a little SOS message to our respective dogs. Swatting and yelling hadn’t worked; maybe communicating with our pets in the aboriginal language of the Masai is what they needed.

I was so proud the first time Tater “SAT”. I began to show off a little as I had already taught Tater at home how to “sit UP.” I received a commanding “NO’, from Ryan but fortunately not with a rolled newspaper. I learned that Ryan is “in charge.” That’s called “sitting PRETTY” he explained in his Chatty Kathy style. He has to “SIT”.

After that we learned the cardinal rule of potty training. There was a solemn hush when Ryan revealed the secret, “Never let them see you clean it up!” after a thoughtful silence I raised my hand, tilted my head to one side, - an attention getting trick I had learned from my dog. - and asked “WHAT?”

The explanation was lost on me as I tried to get into the mind of my sub-equatorial speaking dog. Had Tater seen me take apart the vacuum and scrub all it’s moving parts after encountering a surprise on the Oriental carpet? Was that the problem? Was I to blame?

“Never punish your dog after the fact” “You have to catch them in the act.”

I feigned sleep that night holding a flashlight under the covers waiting for Tater to make his move. Sometime around 2, groggy from sleep he dropped off the bed and waddled quietly from the room. Like a commando I leapt from the bed and caught him with my flashlight in a telltale crouch. “NO” I said, and I kinda meant it, and to my surprise, he complied. I’ve been a light sleeper ever since.




I suspect Tater’s hiding something from me though. Learning to SIT was all a little too easy. He wore a bored “been there, done that” sort of expression, like my friend Jim wears at every social function that reads , I‘m just here for the food.
I like Ryan’s gabby girlfriend style though and I’m sure I’ll get the hang of this “taking charge” thing and being “in control.” In the meantime, I bought a kennel to lock him up, just in case.

There’s just one big problem as I see it. The damn dog is diabolically cute! Today he “SAT” without the aid of a foreign language and “DROPPED” a paper towel he had retrieved from the trash. He’s very smart! We haven’t even covered FETCH and DROP yet! And,… to top it off, under all that curly white hair,… he’s pink!

Recently, I read an essay which was written by a man who professed his lack of patience with a peculiar habit of his countrymen. He told of how the Italians don't like to answer invitations or, if they do, they tend to avoid making a commitment. One never knows, when planning a party, how many of those invited will simply show up. He finds this to be particularly aggravating and seems to think this is a breach of etiquette that is unique to the Italians. I beg to differ, having issued many an invitation or other type of query that required an answer or at the very least, an acknowledgement. I know the author's frustration and hold no hope that the trend will reverse any time soon.

I have my own personal etiquette peeve. Mine involves the loss of several time-honored and very uncomplicated series of words: please, thank you and you're welcome. Simple, to the point and ancient. Babies, the world over, have been taught these words. Prayers have started and ended with them, so have relationships and wars. Favors have been bestowed or withheld pending the mouthing of these easy expressions. Our first words, our earliest forms of communication. Do or die, especially with figures of authority who patiently awaited their utterance.

My best friend Cam recently brought this to light when she told me that she has yet to receive any acknowledgement whatsoever for a gift she thoughtfully chose for her niece's birthday. She was visiting me at the time of the purchase and together we ooohed and ahhhed over the perfect choice. We agreed that her niece would love the hand crafted pottery bowl, ornamented with shells which would remind her of her beloved Cape Cod. The party came and the gifts remained unopened. Surely a note would soon follow. After all, the recipient was a well-educated physician, celebrating a fifthieth birthday. To this date, one year later, neither she nor her sister in law who's gift was a rather large sum of money, have received anything from their niece.

What's happened? Where have the words gone? Why have they left us? Where are they now, at a time in history when we've needed them more than ever before?

As amazed at the times I have expected to hear a simple expression of thanks in vain, I am equally amazed at the times I do hear words of gratitude. That is a very sad note. Is a nod of the head supposed to signal thanks? Has "you're welcome" been totally replaced by "no prob"? Or, is it all down to the symbols used by the new generation as they text, tweet and social network on Facebook with a little "shout out"? It all escapes me. I refuse to buy it. I want to be thanked, the good old fashioned way, with simple words. No nods, signs, symbols of facial expressions for me, thank you. And if this is a "prob", I ask that you please consider a shout out so I will know, especially if I have invited you to a party.

Friday Fiction

Based upon a true story but I certainly did take liberties.... Apologies to all Franciscan scholars....

As she knelt on the cool, dewy-moist green grass she drew in a breath of spring air, expanding her lungs as she stretched in appreciation of the beautiful morning and the landscape before her.

In the distance, she heard the church bells ringing their lively prima, the daily first call of the faithful, the only alarm clock that would be in existence for centuries ahead. The people in her town, in every town in her region, in every region in her beloved country would have no need for anything more than the bells calling them to the first Mass of the day. They lived in fear of eternal damnation for such a grievous offense as not participating in this daily ritual. But today, Claire felt differently as she exited her home, slipping out quietly without waking her sleeping parents. Today, she was drawn from her doorstep, out onto the streets which led her to the outskirts of her town, high up to the top of what is now known as the Rocco Magiore.

Claire did not fully understand what was happening. Why was she so moved to her bravery, her utter lack of concern for the religious law of the land, her lack of fear of reprisal from her parents? She simply got up, followed what she felt in her beating heart, and made swift in her movements, not stopping until she reached this vantage point. From here, she had the most spectacular view of her town and as the morning fog lifted she could swear that she heard a voice…..resta qui…resta con mi….stay here, stay with me. “Am I dreaming?” She wondered if this was just another of the voices that she had been hearing of late. From where were they coming….resta con mi…..drifting in and out of her head.

Slowly, the fog lifted, allowing the most spectacular ray of sunshine to follow. Everything that she touched and looked at felt sweeter, brighter, radiance she had never before experienced. A new day presenting itself in a way so unique her breath was taken away. New feelings awakened in her causing her to be more awake, more aware of her surroundings. She was not frightened. Instead, she was feeling protected, warm. The thought of returning to her home remained far, very far. Nothing could lead her back down the little mountain. Her eyes remained fixed now. Her view, the center of her town, a little city actually, bustling with carts and wagons as the rumbled along unpaved streets. All around, she became aware of the cacophony of sounds. Sheep bleating, horses clip clopping, children laughing and running along. An everyday morning to all but her it seemed.

Amid all of the morning activity came a new sound. The sounds became louder and louder, filling the piazza below with an air of chaos, stopping all other sounds as passersby grabbed the children for fear that a madman was approaching. Was he singing? Was he shouting? Is he dancing or is he stupefied from drinking through the night into this otherwise perfect morning? Louder, louder, totally obliterating the calls from the street peddlers as they shouted out their offers of merchandise. Now, everyone stood in silence, most in fear as the man approached, whirling, twirling, shouting, and singing. Who was he?

“A religious freak” …..”he’s possessed by the devil”…..”Is he a madman?”….then suddenly, Claire recognized him. As she stood to her feet and started to walk down the mountain, her gaze remained fixed upon the man who was dancing with joy, shouting the words “God” “Love” and “praise” as he whirled and twirled. She recognized him as her good friend, the child she played with until he was too old for such things and too busy being the play boy rather than the play mate of their youth. Now she knew him as the son of wealthy parents, living the good life, showing off his good fortune. Could it be him? Her heart started to race, faster and faster as if it were a bomb about to explode in her chest. She enlivened her pace, briskly walking, now running toward the piazza in the Centro, and hoping to confirm the impossibility before her eyes. “How can this be” she whispered to herself.

Just then, the dancing, singing, shouting man in the expensive tunic lost his step and found himself on all fours in a puddle of water muddied by the early morning rain that has touched the grass upon which Claire had only moments before rested in quiet anticipation of what she did not know. Without missing a beat, he was once again on his feet, smiling, laughing, shouting “love, peace, joy”….over and over as more people began to recognize him and news spread rapidly throughout the crowd like a wave crashing at the seashore…….

By now, Claire was once again in the center of her town, not far from the doorstep of her home, herself amid the crowds of startled townspeople. From their own doorsteps, they tumbled onto the cobblestoned street, some rubbing their eyes as if they had seen an apparition or a dream sequence that they were trying to validate. Silence quickly replaced their gasps at recognition and disbelief of the vision before them. Some tried to subdue him in gentle ways. Others drew whatever weapons they could quickly devise as they attempted to beat him down but the more they tried, the less they were able and the apparent “madman” continued his flight down the street, smiling and shouting his songs of praise.

As Claire’s heart filled more, she too started to smile. She knew now why this day was special, why she has been called to the mountain top to await this extraordinary demonstration. Her friend was no ordinary man. Her friend was named Francesco, better known as Francis and from the beautiful town of Assisi, they both would travel on and one day they both would be proclaimed saints.

Amen.

Stella! A PARTially True Story...

La Via e bella! Oh, I’m not too sure of that but for now, I’m safe and it appears that I am going to make it after all.

I was cold, oh so cold, and tired. My entire body was weary and oh so filthy. My once beautiful golden hair was matted, was that mud it was caked with? I was hungry, starving, in need of food, water and a warm bath. I don’t know how long I had been running, just wandering the countryside and I’m not sure of where I came from. Maybe somewhere in Umbria or even as far as Tuscany? My memory is a blur. I’m safe now and that’s all that matters…but for how long? Can I stay here? Will these people take care of me or do I have to start my run again?

The telephone has been ringing all day. The nice woman who found me outside near her home is relentless with that phone and seems to be talking about me. But who am I? I don’t remember. Think, think, think. As much as I try, I can’t so for now, I’m just going to rest in this nice bed, eat and drink the food she’s laid out for me, and enjoy life. I’ve been bathed and my hair is clean. My needs are few. There goes that phone again.

“Pronto. Si senora, ah perfetto. A due? Certo, certo. A presto”

Meanwhile, in Fabbri, a small suburb of Montefalco, Mark has just returned from a long day. His business is growing steadily and he’s a happy man. The idea that he and Giselle had two years ago, to take tourists out on all day wine tours has paid off. They’re booked months in advance.

Giselle is quite content to be the behind the scenes partner, taking reservations, fielding questions and making the business end of this joyful enterprise hum. Cooking is her forte. Wine is his. Together, meals at their home are a concert that always begs an encore. Their home is Umbrian. The rooms are large, the floors, tile. They have invested time and money into making this large rental what it is today beginning with Mark’s installation of its well-equipped IKEA kitchen down to the recent acquisition of a stufa which sits proudly in the middle of the house producing heat from tiny pellets. This was a tour de force if ever there was one. Ten service calls, six different technically challenged service men, and a host of differing opinions as to how to hook it up, how to keep it running. A multitude of Italian explicatives each time it shut itself down and now, finally, a warm house with a happy stufa doing its thing. A welcoming home, ready for visitors who at any given time will enjoy a great meal from Giselle’s garden bounty and a fantastic bottle of sangrantino. Home in Umbria, all is well.

On this particular day, change is in the air. “Darling, I phoned that woman in Trevi this morning”

“Oh, what did she have to say Love?”

“Well, she thinks she’s found what we have been looking for”

“Are we really ready to have a permanent houseguest Gis”

“Mark, I’m so ready. I think we both need this. All this extra room should be doing something for us. All of our friends here do it. You’ll see, once we all get acquainted, we’ll soon become a family. It’s too late for a baby Mark. “

“Are you sure you have the time and energy Gis. I mean with the business, the garden, the cooking and your blog…..”

“She can be by my side in the garden Mark and meal preparation has never been a problem. Remember Darling, I did own my own café in Cornwall before you came into my life and we took off for this great adventure in Italy!”

“Okay, night bird, you can take care of business details after she’s asleep. Might as well continue to use some of that energy that you have. Let’s talk more tomorrow. “

Morning comes softly and sweetly in Umbria. From Mark and Giselle’s, one can see the sun rising from the back bedroom of the house. It sets in the front, giving a spectacular show through the lounge windows. A whisper of a fog drifted, followed by a brilliant ray of sun. No need for an alarm clock. The rooster outside the front door does that job. The cat stretches and hops up on the bed, nudging….I’m hungry, let’s get the day started.

“Good morning Darling”

“Good morning Love”

“Well, have you decided?”

“Well, have you?”

“I decided yesterday, as soon as I made that call to the woman in Trevi. In fact I called her just moments after Letty called me to tell me the news. I think I had already made up my mind before I hung up from her call”

“Okay Love. I’ll make the coffee and you make the call. Off we go.”

“Oh, thank you My Sweet Mark…..I can’t wait. It will be good; I promise we won’t regret this”

“Our lives are going to change, GIs. But we are ready. We’re ready to become the Three of Us so let’s do it”

Trevi is a short drive from Fabbri. With each kilometer, the day brightened. The GPS voice seemed especially cheerful as the nice lady inside the box guided the excited couple along the way to their destination where they were greeted by the owner, Senora Lidia Brigolante. After the requisite “permisso”, they entered the home, hearts beating rapidly with anticipation.

“She’s in the kitchen, just finishing her breakfast. It almost seems like she senses your arrival and she is a bit nervous but she’ll be fine. They always are after they meet their new parents”

Here they are. They look friendly; I think I might be able to actually like them. A new beginning. Calm down so that they don’t think you’re too wild. Time for good impression. I’m going to wag my tail as hard as I can…..Jump up, there I go….lick the lady’s face, lap, lap, lick, lick, wag.

“OH MARK……..I’m in love!!!!”

In the car…..off we go to La Dolce Vita. Woof Woof. Life is beautiful!!

Inhale, Exhale

To every thing, thing, thing, there is a season.

Today is the first day of spring and a new season.

I'll be back soon to report of the buds of ideas that are currently filling my mind. Soon.