irons in the fire

    We've now got ourselves a fine list of jobs. The rough landscaping that had developed over the last 9 years has been uprooted to make way for our waterproofing project. The trenching and finishing touches will require the design and construction of a new outdoor stairway connecting our terraces. The stairway will require a strong retaining wall to keep the upper terrace where it belongs. The bottom of the stair will require a final plan for the old rainwater cistern which sits right where the stair will land. On the north corner we are rebuilding our drains and footing a low retaining wall to outline our little corner patio. And finally, all that soil will have to find a final resting place somewhere, before we can claim our downstairs, main patio back.

    You'd think we'd be eager to get all this over with before the busy spring season begins, but actually we've taken a pause from working outdoors (european weather is horrible this season) and decided to begin constructing two new bathrooms, one on top of the other in the stairwell. This, of course, leads to a final design decision on our underfloor heating of the top floor which requires tearing up the old floors up there to make way for the pipe runs. The trouble is these rooms have been lived in for the last 9 years and have accumulated a LOT of stuff. All that stuff has to be moved either out to the garbage bins or up into the attic and that's what we've been doing.
    It's been a busy couple of weeks. (months? years?)

Isolde's opinion of cleaning the playroom

this post is unfinished and still being edited.

My thanks to Thomasina.
    I would never help my sister clean out her future room, even if half of the stuff in it was mine.
   Well, I might take out my stuff, but not clean out two shelves of books (I think it was about 18 books in all) just before going on a school trip. I mean, I would be packing or looking up places on the internet so I could impress my friends with stuff about all the places that we'd be going to. But Tommy worked all day and would not let anyone help her. When she got back from her trip, she went straight to work. I admire the way she makes everything fun. I'd be putting away books and she would plug her MP3 player into the jambox and we would throw books at each other and sing along to the songs that would be playing and do a few dance moves to them as well. Those 4 days were a mixture of hatred for books and board games, and triumph at the end of the day when we had put all the books in the attic or had managed to drag a heavy bookshelf downstairs. At the end of each day I think we all heaved a sigh of relief and and smiled at our success.
     Our first step was to clean out the bookshelf and we did that in the first two days (we have a lot of books!). We put them all in the attic and put all our toys and games either in the attic or downstairs in our current bedroom, and that took up the second day. On the third, we cleaned the whole room except the huge wardrobe that now lay face down on the floor.
     We swept the floor and at the end of the day all traces that two kids once occupied that room were gone. We had played in that room for practically our whole lives. 9 years.  During that time we had learned how to read, write, draw, paint....

When we took apart our shelves and cleaned out our drawers, we found all the things we had made and done while we were growing up, we remembered playing with the toys that now were doing no more than collecting dust.

It was a time to remember...

a reminder of how much we had changed...

But the room itself had changed too....
Before 


After

Gita, posted by Thomasina Cadell

      It was 4 o'clock in the morning. Somehow, Freddie woke up and actually got herself ready. We had to catch the bus to Puglia, leaving our school at 5:30.
     Weighed down by our suitcases, backpacks, bags and money we climbed in the car and drove to Paciano. In the black of the early morning that was quite thrilling and exiting, there was a huge crowd: mothers, fathers and kids all waiting for the bus. When it finally came, there was a big rush to get our bags into the bottom and get the best seats.
    Seven long hours later we finally came to the first stop. It was a castle. We looked around for half an hour or so and piled back into the bus. The hotel was lovely:  big, posh, three star...one problem...it was falling to bits. The pole that opened the shutters flew off in every single room. The drawers wouldn't come out of their sockets, the lights flickered; and you could hardly fit your leg into the bathroom. But the elevators were great. We were whizzing up and down in them all the time we were there!

      On the second day we went to Alberobello to see the "trulli." They are the cutest little houses with slated roofs and white walls. Our guide took us in one of them. He also owned a food and souvenir shop so he took us there and got a lot of money from us!
    All the driving around in the bus was beginning to get we down. The air conditioning didn't work so the silly driver put on the air heating instead. We drove around for hours in a sauna. I knew that the south of Italy was going to be warm but I wasn't prepared for this! Also, there was no free, fresh water I could get between meals so by the time dinner came I was as dry as a bone.
The same day we went to Lecce and got guided around the town. I bought some souvenirs and only spent five euros fifty. The minimum amount of money that other kids spent was 30 euros, some even managed to spend 160! Mostly the money was spent on candy, potato chips, games and souvenirs, so considering everything, I'm quite proud I only spent 5 euros.

Last day in Puglia: We went to Trani. Here there were lovely gardens with lots of flowers and trees. We were right next to the sea so we could look down and see the waves crashing up the pebbly beach.
Here we saw the cathedral of Trani and a palace. The cathedral was beautiful! It was old and not very decorated. Inside was lovely too. It had huge pillars all down it, an alter at the back and next to it there was a HUGE organ with giant pipes and pedals. It was fascinating!
We ended our three day trip with a big lunch in a fancy restaurant and a spoon of nutella.
And then waiting for us was the dreaded bus to take us home.

trenching

   When Matt and I were growing up, Dad used to take us camping for a holiday. I was going to say 'Mom and Dad,' but I think if it were up to Mom, we would have spent our holidays reading a book or seeing a film rather than feeding a family on a makeshift gasoline stove outdoors in the rain somewhere.
   Dad taught us to pitch the tents and build the camp cots and organize the campsite: all good fun. Once the tents were up they had to be trenched. The trenches were intended to take rainwater away from the sides of the tent before it had a chance to seep underneath the canvas floor and flood our sleeping bags. This was normally done as a precaution, but I can remember trenching and re-trenching in the rain, after dark; and waiting for the pools to form in order to get the flow right.

    Now, 50 years later, I'm back to trenching. Rainwater is finding it's way into our nice new cellar and stairwell. This winter has been particularly gloomy and wet, coinciding with the closing stages of our downstairs conversion. Numerous wet spots and floods have dampened the joy of the occasion, but maybe it's a good thing. We've been forced to take on the mammoth task of trenching the house before we actually got our 'sleeping bags' wet. We delayed our hire of a digger until we got a couple of clear days and it's been a big rush to get the job done before the next rain.
   Two days later and rain will begin this evening. Stay tuned for more photos of me reliving the experience of trenching the tent in the rain, getting the flow right.

terremoto

    Leslie came around before lunch to take Alex to the post office and mentioned that there were some cracks in our road. She lives and works in London and they have cracks in the roads there but nothing like the potholes and gaps we can generate during a wet winter. We didn't really take her seriously, but when Alex returned she was so impressed she phoned the LeCoste office. They must have thought an Englishwoman has no experience with Umbrian country roads. They didn't take Alex seriously. At around 5, Charlie and I set off in the van and returned with a heavy load of wet sand. We had to bump down about four inches and 30 meters later bump back up again. To me the crack was something I had anticipated for years. The land was obviously slipping down the hill but it was still passable. I didn't take it too seriously, either.
   At suppertime the Italian neighbors called in panic. Dido, returning home, was afraid to drive his Land Rover over the crack. Alex calmed him down and I think we all felt that the Italians were overreacting. Why didn't they have the gusto to take a chance? They have a four-wheel drive car so what could be the problem? After getting little sympathy from us, Dido called the office and somehow convinced Enrico to go take a look.

   Within minutes, Enrico decided to close the road. When I rode up on my bicycle in the eerie dark of my little headlamp, I first saw the ribbon and then, well, a gap in the road; and I knew in a minute that we were trapped. Two cars and two vans and six people. We had waited too long, favoring a nice hot meal over evasive action. I had completely misjudged the speed at which the ground was moving, and standing there in the dark I could hear the slab of earth beneath me creaking and cracking. I returned with the news which encouraged Richie to go for a walk. Despite all his bravery, he too conceded defeat.

    We all slept fitfully. It's difficult to describe the feeling but when the terra becomes not so ferma, it can make one quite nervous. We take for granted that the ground is solid, but it ain't so. Next morning Richie and I walked the girls to the school rendezvous and found Enrico and three others surveying the scene. A rough plan was developed and, after breakfast, an excavator was already at work. No instrument surveys, no environmental impact reports, no permissions from the city, no building permits, no fussing around. Just plow a new road through, but this time higher up the hill.
    Unfortunately, our stacked firewood piles, which we incorrectly placed on the wrong side of our boundary, had to be moved out of the way of the excavator: a hell of a way to employ builders. The combination of poor judgement, bad planning, inaction, stranded cars and wobbly ground contributed to a humiliating sense of "what's the use?" Meanwhile, clever ol' Dido managed to keep both of his cars on the other side of the chasm.

la drama della frana

    Ten days later, the landslip continues to creep downhill. It is a curved bite out of the hillside taking 40 meters of road and three olive trees on the terrace above along with it. The vertical displacement is now three to four meters and a ladder is required to descend onto the old road surface. Remarkably, our phone line, which is buried alongside the road, has not snapped. Slack coiled at either end could be paying out as the landmass moves.
    A new by-pass has been hastily built up slope. We are all impressed by the speed and dedication of a family of two brothers and a father who have a small earthmoving company. They worked Saturday and Sunday and we were able to drive out Sunday evening.
    A meeting was held Monday evening where we were told that the four houses of the Borgo would be handed the bill for the repair. It comes as something of a surprise since these are legally designated Strade Viciniale by the local authorities. We've been told that the 'comune' is responsible but there is no money so they're not going to pay. LeCoste is washing their hands of the affair saying that they have donated the land and that's the extent of their contribution. The condominium will likely debate the matter for months and in the meantime the poor earthmovers go unrewarded.
    The house below us in the borgo has been occupied by occasional vacation renters for the past two years since Sue and Bob returned to Great Britain. Now, a Roman doctor has bought it and we are looking forward to new neighbors, however, there's nothing like a little landslide to make a new buyer get the shakes. The deed didn't manage to change hands before the road disaster so Sue and Bob find themselves in a touchy bargaining position. Enzo, our new neighborhood doctor, has been doing some homework and he's informed me that according to the law, Strade Vicinale that serve single homes or a group of homes are indeed the responsibility of the homeowners. We, along with Lorenza and Dido, the fourth neighbor Marta and Marcello, and poor Sue and Bob are going to share the expense. Sue and Bob have returned from Britain to move some furniture but we've all avoided them, fearing an angry eruption. They've done a lovely job renovating their house, but they've spent a lot of money and the market has turned against them. We've suffered some bad luck with the landslide but for them it's a nasty parting shot.

milestone

      My simple life sometimes seems stalemated by doubt and delay. I can get bogged down in the most ridiculous worry over things that shouldn't bother anyone.
      Alex, on the other hand, worries about proper stuff. She worries about the kid's grades. She worries about our money. She's concerned about our nutrition. She thinks about her mother. She thinks about my mother. She even worries about me. And she usually does something about it.

      I worry about how to connect two pieces of plumbing pipe. This is something people have done for centuries. The answer is a phone call away, or a trip to the shop. But then I worry about what to say. I worry about how I'm going to look to the shop keeper. It's crazy.

     Fully a year and four months ago, we wrestled a massively heavy steel woodstove off a moving van. The idea was to connect it to the hot water tank and provide us with central heating. The thing has sat in our way ever since and I have fretted and suffered over how to make the connections. I've lost track of how many times Alex has lost her patience. First I had one design, then I got the nerve to call the manufacturer for verification and he sent me another idea. I couldn't believe his idea would work so I fretted some more. I designed a natural heat convection circuit and a blow off valve in case the electricity failed and the circulation pump quit. I purchased enough big diameter copper tubing to break the bank. I still haven't decided on a pump. I called the local plumber and he miraculously lent me his hydraulic press for joining the pipes. Finally we managed a visit from the solar panel supplier to put in his two cents, and I changed my design again.

     In the meantime, all this back and fourth has been holding up progress on the underfloor heating installation. With Richie and Charlie on the full time payroll, progress is not something that can be held up for long. I managed to stall them with the impossible task of plastering the entire ceiling. They finished in far less time than I needed to worry about my pipe connections, so I gave them the stairwell to plaster (can you imagine the scaffolding?).

    Finally, with all the materials mustered to assembled the underfloor heating pipes, and all the sand and cement dumped on the driveway to cover whole thing, I couldn't delay my pipe connection any longer. Counting all my delays and testing and worrying, it took about 15 minutes.
    The pipes are down. The manifold is in. Richie and Charlie, with the help of a Youtube video, mastered the cementing process with a remarkably dry mix that lent itself to troweling. Now the cement is leveled and we've just passed a major milestone. Thanks to Richie and Charlie and Alex. Now I can continue to worry about my stove hook-ups while progress continues on the rest of the project.

break

    Winter here is not that great. I thought winter in Davis (central California) was pretty bad and I thought moving to central Italy would help brighten up my winter months. The winter darkens Davis in a dark, damp ground fog that protects the city from the warming sunshine and keeps it at a constant two or three degrees (centigrade) above freezing. In addition it helps keep the town moist so that any hint of warmth is eliminated by soaking everything, including your clothing and firewood with a moisture more profound than the most rampant downpour. An afternoon glimpse of blue sky overhead heightens the effect with the realization that anyone living 100 meters up is clothed in bathing suits and suntan oil. It's a tough act to follow.
    But central Italy gives it a good try. Needless to say, I got it wrong. For some reason, not only did I spend, of my own free will, some 30 years of my precious life suffering Davis winters, swearing I'd never do it again; but I've somehow managed to spend 10 more suffering central Italian winters in the same condition. And I love to ski. I love snow. Hard to believe. Anyway, when winter comes I like to pretend I don't live here. It's cold inside and out.
    This fall the lovely November sunshine failed to sustain itself. We didn't even bother to harvest the measly olive crop. Sure we had our warm days, but on the whole it was pretty wet. Early on, we received an invitation to visit southern Portugal for Christmas from Alex's aunt Janet and uncle Martin. They were trying to entice my parents into a visit and I have a feeling they might have been using us as a bargaining chip. We had spent Christmas there once before and I remember it as being absolutely marvelous. Warm. Plenty of free time. Lots of good food. Good wine. Good talk. And Sun. OH! Sunshine! In winter. Bliss. Airfare is steep for four of us, but when I heard two families of cousins were also invited, I insisted we go.
     Twelve days of mooching, eating, christmas shopping, trekking, sunbathing, eating, wine drinking, beach combing, meal planing, wine buying, reading, eating, orange squeezing, sleeping in, hill walking, cooking, christmas celebrating, gift giving, more eating, .... how good can it get? It was that good. Here's an indication. Normally our girls love getting back to school after they have been away on vacation. In the past, we have taken them to London and London, and London, and London. They've been everywhere. Once we took them to America but I wasn't there. When we returned from Janet and Martin's this Christmas, they looked like an ad for Prozac. When it was time to go back to school, they were quiet and depressed and unable to face their homework. They had had the best time with their second cousins. They had found children they could talk to and play with who behaved decently and were educated and well spoken. They didn't have to watch TV to communicate but they were allowed to watch several movies together. They played on the beach, they swam in the sea, they played with the dogs, they minded their manners, they ate with their knives and forks, they said goodnight properly, and they thanked everybody properly, just like they watched their cousins do.
      Now it's been a few days since we've been back in the old routine. The kids and I get up in the dark every morning and shuffle about getting ready for school. I'm not sure how much they miss the sunshine. While we were in Portugal, they were able to get into their swimming trunks, but now they don't seem to mind their puffy winter jackets. But I do. I hate the damned things. I also hate the dank air and the lack of hot water and the frozen hands in the dishwater. I hate the damp clothing every morning. I hate the stiff plastic and rubber. I hate the fire that won't light and the tea that cools too soon. And I hate facing the work with the wet cement and ice-cold tools.
     But the winter break doesn't end until Alex's birthday on 13th Jan. I'm going to get her something special. Like a ruined shack in the south of Portugal.