Anna Latino's photos

Sometimes volunteer workers can see things around our home that we can't, things that we have become used to and don't see anymore. Thank you Anna Latino for the vision we lack. (Click on her name to see her blog, then the entry The Beginning, where she has posted some photos of our countryside)

some of our books in a house in Santa Fe

   Anyone who doesn't like books would be foolish to admit it. Most people like books. Love books. Ebooks are OK too. But there are lots of books that just don't work as ebooks. For example, there's a favorite bookshelf of mine at my parent's house in Santa Fe that holds a collection of mountaineering books belonging to my grandfather. A Scot living in India, he joined the Himalayan Club and the Himalayan Journal holds a special place on the top shelf. These journals contain maps, pictures, drawings and route sketches that must be folded open on the dining room table and accompanied by descriptions in order to grasp the difficulties and possibilities of the adventure. These books smell of canvas and jute fiber, stove fuel and campfire. If you need to escape into some reading there's nothing that comes close. I don't know, because I haven't looked, but I don't think there is a book in my parent's house that describes man's first step on the moon. If there is, you can be sure it won't smell like rocket fuel or stardust. Neil Armstrong likely didn't smell much of anything beyond his own saliva when he jumped out of his rocket ship onto the foreign lunar soil. Of course I doubt that Tenzing Norgay enjoyed any more pleasant aromas on the summit of Everest, but I bet the approaches served up something far more interesting than anything Neil sniffed in his sterile capsule. And then there's the characters themselves. Compare the personality of Eric Shipton, or H. W. Tilman to Sally Ride or Alan Shepard, to name a couple of our more colorful spacepersons. Let's face it, if anyone needs a whiff of jute fiber about them, it's John Glenn.
   My grandfather was a self-taught man. He read and collected thousands of books. He died many years ago. Some of his books have survived to my mother's bookshelves and others are protected by my mother's sister in New Jersey. They are all stamped with a strange seal: Dare To Be Wise. On this overleaf is written: "G. M. Martin, Bhatpara, Bengal, Page 78, Dare To Be Wise." It's a challenge, a threat. There's something dangerous in wisdom. It's safer to be ignorant, to be told what to do and what to think. It seems solid, substantial, comfortable. It may sound romantic to be informed and intelligent, but actually there's little comfort in it. Only unanswered questions.
    In addition to his collection of Himalayan Journals, there are many original titles of famous expeditions, many mountaineering but also polar and other travels to uncharted lands. Shackelton is represented. And Scott. John Hunt, and Bonnington. There are seven volumes of The principal voyages of the english nation  by Richard Hakluyt. The fourth volume in my hand begins: "A description of a Voiage to Constantinolple and Syria, begun the 21. of March 1593. and ended the 9. of August, 1595. wherein is shewed the order of delivering the second Present by Master Edward Barton her majesties Ambassador, which was sent from her Majestie to Sultan Murad Can, Emperour of Turkie." and ends with: "The valiant fight performed in the Streit of Gilbraltar by the Centurion of London, against five Spanish gallies, An 1591." And not just adventure. Further down the shelves you find T. E. Lawrence, Kipling, Burns, Stevenson, Kafka, Churchill. When's the last time you picked up Danesbury House by Mrs Henry Wood (Ellen Price), 1860? The books are small, delicate and full of worm which was a problem for collections in India at the time. But they are delightful to hold and read. And they do smell, sometimes faintly of bookworm powder. Look up bookworm on Google and you'll go down well beyond five pages until you find any mention of the actual menace. Such is the fate of real books.
  I'm writing this in Santa Fe and I will be leaving here soon. My father has died and the little house he has left contains all these delightful books. He contributed little to the collection beyond a couple of dated editions of the Mechanical Engineers Handbook; but he did much more than that. He provided the shelves themselves, as well as the roof, the dry rooms and the comfortable chairs with which to enjoy this small collection. We have celebrated his life and his passing, and now we are taking my mother away for a few months and leaving this house empty. For me, it's a terrible occasion. I was born into this profusion of good writing and lived most of my life with respect but little regard for it or its shelter. Now I can't bear the thought of disturbing this peaceful place and the possibility that it might not survive the passage of time.

  The house is available for the time being for any friend of ours who has an interest in the area or an interest in spending a few hours with part of a curious man's collection of old books. The house itself, thanks to my father, comes complete with car, electricity, central heating and housekeeping. The kitchen is as complete as the bookshelves. If you'd like to help with a temporary occupation of our house in an authentic, old west town, write me an email.

twenty one guns

On a quiet snowy day in Santa Fe

the ashes of an old soldier are put to rest

more photos of memorial service

   My father was an unusual man. His self confidence and disregard for what others thought of him made him embarrassing for us children. He could be kooky in his manner and dress, yet utterly correct in his practicality. He couldn't care less what others thought of him, and the truth is we thought he was a little weird. In old age, he had a nice way of not imposing his will on us or others; although as a child, I thought him a tyrant. He lived a clean life with impeccable habits. Low fat, lots of fiber, lots of fresh fruit, lots of exercise; and he out-lived every one of his siblings and friends. No one attended his funeral except three of his surviving kids and his wife who was 8 years younger (and in poorer health). He left all bills paid and no medical expenses. He died in his own house, mortgage free, accompanied by his wife and two daughters. He always preached the virtues of his clean life-style, and living to 96 seemed to prove it.
   At 1:30am we received a call from my mother. 

Why!?

This article was written by Thomasina for her after-school journalism class and will be published on their facebook page (Istituto Superiore Italo Calvino).

Italy vs America

Ever since I’ve been in Italy, the one question people ask me, without fail, the minute they find out where I’m from, is:


“Why did you leave America to come here? You’re crazy!”


I used to just smile and tell them it was my parents’ decision. But now I’m old enough to understand how different these two worlds are, it’s much easier to come up with an answer.

I ask Giacomo, who’s staying with us, three things he thinks of America. He says:


“Multicultural society


“Violent police force


“A better opportunity at succeeding if you work hard”

On the very day I was writing this, a boy on the school bus said he was “deluso” when he found out I was American. Is it because I’m not fat? He grinned and hopped off. I’ve no idea why he was “deluso”. [I'm deluded]


It’s hard not to be impressed by America because so many of our movies and the media comes from there but my experience when I went there was quite different. When I saw kids on school trips or in after-school groups, they were quiet and listened to their instructor with concentration and respect. The people were friendly and kind, always ready to help and enthusiastic. My sister and I literally couldn’t believe it. We would go to the skating rink near my grandmother’s house and we would see groups of kids there as after-school activities skating around. Every time me or my sister would fall, we were instantly ambushed with kids asking if we were okay, helping us up and brushing us off. I was amazed by the difference between these kids and the ones I’m used to here in Italy. In Italy, if I fell down everyone would gather around to step on me! Even more surprising, were the lines of children waiting to come onto the ice: they sat and waited under the supervision of teenagers barely older than I am now who were organising these kids as a summer job. In Italy they would be jumping over each other to get onto the ice first!


The number of visiting foreigners I saw was huge, and I suddenly understood the attraction America had for tourists.


But bad experiences can easily outweigh the good. Health and hospitals are outrageously expensive. When my father lived there, he fell off his bike and broke his leg. He was in hospital for two days. When he got out, the fee was $74,000.


He fell off his bike again in Italy. This time he broke three ribs, a shoulder balade, a cheekbone and had a swollen arm. He was in hospital for over three weeks. When he got out, he payed 34 euros.


I was amazed when I discovered this. The health service in America is just crazy.


Another thing I noticed was the racial discrimination going on. On the news recently, we’ve been hearing about black people being shot and beaten to death and condemned to years of jail. But even little things like the way, and what, people eat is stumping. Also the way they spend their time, going to malls, fun fairs and Disney land is wasting a lifetime of culture and learning that you can get in Italy with the museums, galleries, ancient civilisations, temples and churches.


Also Italy is very famous for it’s food. This I can’t dispute in any way, because it’s true in every way. In fact, Colin, an American guest also staying at our house says, when I ask him what he notices most that’s different from his home:


“Food, obviously.


“And family. People are more likely to stay and live with their families and to include them in their lives.


“Less diversity.”


So, in conclusion, we can’t really establish which country is “better” because they are so different in good and bad ways. I suppose it all depends on what you prefer: if you like hamburgers, Disneyland and malls, you’ll love America. If, on the other hand, you prefer homemade pizza, culture and ancient, rustic buildings, Italy is the place for you. And answering the question that so many people have asked me: No, it wasn’t my decision to move here, but I’m glad I was brought up in Italy rather than in America.

warmth in the cold cellar

Tonight, the girls (Isolde, Thomasina, Caroline and Alex) returned home from a visit to a neighbor after dark. The warm sunny day had turned to a cold fall evening. But instead of entering a chilly, cold cantina, they entered a warm kitchen and sitting room. The previous day, I had finished the stove pipe penetration of our roof; and this evening, I lit the first fire in our new sitting room. By the time the girls returned home, the rooms were unusually warm and cozy. And, boy, did I get a bunch of hugs and kisses! In fact, Isolde announced that we should have our supper in front of the fire as a celebration. And so we did, eleven years since the idea was hatched.

recce on the path of the partisans

 They were communists. The partisans, the local people who resisted the crushing, grinding cruelty  of the fascist regime and it's economic system. Poor people. People of the land. Proud, clever, honest, family, community people. They are still here. They are in every handmade brick, olive tree, terraced hillside, vineyard and crumbling ruin. They are in every bottle of wine, every loaf of bread.
   When we first visited the bar in Moiano, we stood on a large outdoor terrace paved with broken flagstone. In the mosaic of the paving spread a huge hammer and sickle. When clearing out an old partition wall in the house, I found the hammer and sickle stamped into the old bricks; and when removing old plaster from the wall outside what was once the front door, I unveiled a painted hammer and sickle. The proud symbol of the local resistance.

abandoned transit station at top of the ridge with 'modern'
campaign sticker

   The Italian fascists insidiously took control of Citta della Pieve under the increasingly desperate authority of their Nazi occupiers. In June, '44 a local religious leader was killed for partisan sympathy. One by one, two by two, the cittadini abandonded their farms and family homes and hiked their gear from the town to a camp on Mount Pausillo, overlooking tiny, and appropriately named, Paciano, where Isolde and Thomasina attended elementary school. They left a small gravel road contouring near the ridge top across the valley. The victims, the temporary refugees of their own right-wing government, became the communist partisans. The resistance fighters armed with a few farming tools and plenty of cunning determined to defend their common human rights and honest lifestyle.
   In a Santa Fe bookstore, Bob found a book entitled An Umbrian War by Romana Petri, a translation of her Alle Case Venie published in 1997. Romana describes the fall of the fascists in Citta della Pieve through the eyes of a fictitious young orphan and her younger brother. It's told in thoughtful, ephemeral, occasionally confusing style with Alicina having conversations with her father's ghost, coping with treacherous nazi sympathizers, sending her younger brother on spy missions and finally abandoning her old family home and joining the rebel band in the mountains. Hearing the story set in the countryside right around our house thrilled me and inspired me to seek out and follow the the path of the partisans. Any excuse, really, to get up on the high ground and have a look around will do; but the idea of a history lesson as well as a mountain bike adventure turned the idea into a compulsion.
   So Bob arrives. We scramble into the attic and dust off his bike, dig out his helmet and shoes, and have a good hard look at what the girls will ride. We're going to need water, of course, and the promise of a summit picnic as well as ice cream at the end. We'll have no map, but I've been studying the contours with Google Maps for so long, I've got most of it memorized. It'll be a little tricky since it's a point to point ride with the start in Citta della Pieve, about a half an hour away from our house. The girls have actually been to the summit of Monte Pausillo on school outings, so they know the way down from the top to Paciano. I'll have to drive us up to Citta della Pieve, guide everybody across the traverse and then return to the car, leaving Bob to accompany the girls down to Paciano and home.

Monti Cetona e Amiata for anyone who might care

    Realizing it's a complicated route and likely too difficult for our novice crew, I organized a light-weight, low-key reconnaissance by driving the bikes up the Via della Resistenza to the top of the ridge where it intersects the path of the partigiani. Zoe and Alexander, two workaway volunteers, were conscripted making us a party of 6. Two cars. Bob decked out in full regalia on a proper cyclo-cross bike, the rest of us in blue jeans, sneakers and a hodge-podge of children's mountain bikes and used clunkers. One of the bikes I rode had 24" tires and had to be stopped to engage the inner chainring. What looked like a smooth fire road on Google Earth turned out to be nice a steep in places well washed down to babyheads in places. Bob rolled over on one of the uphill pitches putting a gruesome elbow on display. Everybody had to push eventually and from the high turn-around we could see our objective (along with the rest of tuscany and umbria), but it was just out of reach for our preparation. "You can't do that," Thomasina said. "What do you mean? It's right there. We'll go up there, but not today." "It's too steep. A car couldn't get up there." "We'll get up there. We might have to push, just like this; but we'll get up there."

   I watched Thomasina and Zoe walk down from the turn-around thinking it wonderful we wouldn't have any foolish casualties. A little further on, Thomasina got the hang of it and off she went, just to skid and jump off in front of Isolde on the last pitch to the car. Jeesh! We've got some learning to do.

toying with father

   Isolde looked at me and said between gasps, "One lesson from this ride: Stick together." I failed to mention that when we left the Madrevite winery we'd have another hill to climb before we headed home. Thomasina and I had swapped bikes so I was now on the nice Stumpjumper while she was on the heavy clunker. But despite this, she eased away from Isolde and I and by the time we reached the intersection at the top, she was gone. But which way? Back to Villastrada from where we had come or across the white roads to Cioncola in the direction of Le Coste and home. We coasted along looking in both directions until I finally asked Isolde to stop and wait while I raced back to Villastrada. No Thomasina. I rejoined Isolde and we climbed up to Poggi and through the narrow gap between the buildings where the view opened up across the hills. No Thomasina. "Do you girls know these roads? Would she know how to get home from here?" "No!" "OK, I think we should go back to Villastrada and down that way. She'd know that road."
   Earlier that day, on the long climb up from the valley to Villastrada, Thomasina rode away from Isolde and I, establishing herself as the best climber. Light, skinny riders do this to their friends. Being light and skinny myself, I used to do this too. But now I'm old and creaky as well as light and skinny, and my children are doing this to me now. At least Thomasina is. I never felt it was a competitive instinct that would drive me to do this, but now I know better. We found her resting at the top, red-faced and radiant. Isolde and I red-faced and defeated.
   Now, a little worried, Isolde and I huffed and puffed back to Villastrada and began our long coast down through the little town and out onto the open descent to the valley floor. It's a long, straight, gentle descent that makes one feel like a soaring bird. And the landscape sweeps away and it seems miles are covered with no effort. But in all the openness, no Thomasina.
   And it dawned on me, of course she went the other way. She pressed her advantage on the hill to guarantee she arrived home first. From the high country all the nearby landmarks could be seen and the direction home would have been evident even if she had never been on the roads before. She was, right now, home waiting for us. Red-faced and radiant.
    "What if she's been kidnapped? What if she has crashed? Or maybe she's lost." Isolde's worry grew with every pedal stroke. We cranked along the long road home, my shoulders down in the headwind. This, the very same stretch of road where the girls pedaled away from me for the first time as I ran
behind, helping with their balance. "What do we do if she's not there when we get home?" "We'll back-track with the car." Isolde needed a plan. I was the leader, but I wasn't leading now. And I knew the ache in my legs was the same feeling Thomasina must have felt getting closer to home. But better. And only I was feeling the ache in my knees.