Letter from Italy

You'd love it here. The compound has been restored from an exceeding old stone farm house. It is situated high on a mountain side overlooking a valley defined by pastures and bordered by an ancient forest. Across the valley, and a bit below us, is a 16th century farm house with out buildings. Right now, and very often, the old farm is partially cloaked with wisping fog that drifts up onto the mountain tops, then settles lower onto the old farm and further down toward the valley floor. At times the entire valley is visible only through the fog. It is as green as anyone can imagine. And I have learned a great deal from Pasquale.

Oh, and as it has ever since we got here, it is still gently raining. And it is about 50 degrees. Each morning I put on the same two work shirts, my old sweat shirt and my beat up blue jean jacket. They don't get the job done! It is wet and cold, both inside and out, of our apartment. What we have here is a setting of intense beauty and learning, upon which sits the fallen log of personal discomfort.

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We work outside under a porch. It's wet and cold. My hip hurts. The only escape is to crawl under the covers. That's where Gay stays a good bit of the time. That is, when she's not in France.

Pasquale sings arias throughout the day, while under my breath, I'm humming, "Well it's cold over here. And I swear, I wish they'd turn the heat on…I wanna go home to the Armadillo!"

Ciao, baby!

Mercatello, Italy 2012

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