postcards home from a honeymoon

June 13
My dear Crystal,

After the longest-ever flight, we finally arrived at Stintino, on the coast of Sardinia. It is lovely here, the ocean green, green, green, the skies an impossible brittle breathtaking blue, but! oh! to be forced to spend one's wedding night cramped in the steerage class of Alitalia, ten hours of stale air and overcrowding following the rush to arrive at Newark -- why, I hardly feel properly married! And dear Mr. A has retired behind the Herald Tribune with a bloody Mary, leaving me stranded on a beach surrounded by lovers!

Very sincerely yours,
. . .


June 16
Caro Louisito,

Yes, we have arrived, at last, in Rome! Oh, dear little brother, it is not at all the same city today as it was in our childhood. Everything has been sterilized with the Euro and the European Union heritage site plans, and I fear that even the cats no longer haunt the ruins to such charming effect. My darling Mr. A has been ill with a touch of fever these last few days, but sends his warm regards.

Ti amo,
. . .


June 16
Dear Sharaan,

Just this morning I took my constitutional to the Spanish Steps, and took my morning cappuccino overlooking that lovely fountain which has a ship in the center. Do you remember? We used to watch the children climb about and wrestle from the carved rigging on still July afternoons that summer. And now you are grown, and wed, and in Nairobi, and I am revisiting old haunts while my beloved recovers from the difficulties of travel. Oh! Such light! And the shopkeepers sweeping their stoops in the clear morning air!

Yours as ever,
. . .


June 17
Dearest Dad,

Happy Father's Day! Yesterday evening I caught the sleeper train and ferry to Catania, having such fond memories of your stories of growing up in Sicily. Every corner I turn, I expect to see you and Uncle C. as little boys in sailor suits just stepped out from Grandmother's photo albums. The architecture is glorious, and the ancient olive trees exude such a sense of permanence, a life beyond our own! My dear Mr. A has, alas, decided to remain in Rome as I explore my heritage; I fear his constitution may not be suited to the Italian climate.

Love,
. . .


June 20
Dear Page,

After hearing your rhapsodies of a honeymoon journeying through Italy, I had thought nothing better suited for Mr. A and myself. And ... and ... and I find myself in the ruins of the baths of Caracalla, the site of debaucheries Catullus or even Fellini could not do justice to, with a marriage a week old and not yet consummated! My poor Mr. A's health has suffered from the travels, and he remains drugged on Xanax and Scotch in the air conditioned bliss of our hotel. Can you imagine?

Yours,
. . .


June 22
Dear Mayor ______,

I have spent the day exploring the mosaics of Ravenna, the work of countless dedicated Italian craftsmen, and am inspired with the seed of a project to unite the city's artists with the needs of the municipality. Imagine if, instead of painting a mural behind city hall, which would require restoration every 5-7 years, we executed a mosaic, in tiles, which would weather the elements much more successfully. Pending your approval, I shall begin applying for grant monies immediately. My husband Mr. A sends his regards to the other city councilmen.

Sincerely,
. . .


June 24
My dear Emily,

I am exhausted -- and slightly tipsy! -- following a day of wine tastings in Piedmont. Poor Mr. A is still ill in Rome, so I have rented a little convertible and am honeymooning to my heart's content. Today I met the most dashing -- and gallant! -- gentleman, who may have an uncle who is a doctor who can help Mr. A. More soon!

Yours,
. . .


June 25
Darling little Richard,

Your Auntie T found a delightful toy for you yesterday in the flea markets of Trastevere! I do not trust Italian mail men, who are not at all as nice as the one who brings you this postcard, and so I will bring it with me when your new Uncle A and I return home!

Lots of love,
. . .


June 26
My dear Aunt,

When you and Father recounted such tales of family and adventure in your childhoods in Sicily, I could only feel the tug of my own heartstrings -- the family land! And so I had hoped to begin my married life on the same auspicious grounds. When Mr. A recovers from his illness, I have promised him that he shall see Sicily before we return home, although I fear his enthusiasms do not match my own.

Very truly yours,
. . .


June 28
Dearest Sharon,

A villa in Tuscany indeed! The charming farmhouse which you entrusted to Mr. A and myself for a part of our honeymoon is one of the most delightful places in which I have ever stayed! The morning sun streams through the balcony windows, and each morning I take my coffee in the crisp air of the patio. The maid has been kindness personified, and I only wish Mr. A had been able to travel here with me. He remains in Rome, sedated and air conditioned, encouraging me to ramble about this magnificent countryside. I've taken some glorious photographs, which I intend to paint as soon as we arrive home -- or I may find a small travel set to take out this afternoon!

Sincerely yours,
. . .


June 30
My dearest Verbal,

How to explain the way the light reflects from the hills, illuminating them so that they glow from within? I have met the most charming traveling companions, and we all squeeze into my little Fiat convertible and go tearing over the hillsides and through towns which seem to literally grow up hills! This week we plan to drive to Spoleto, wander the winding ancient roads and hear the echoes of the opera. It is indescribable how inspiring and invigorating the air is, how close I feel to my heritage and to the great history of Art! The contrast of the solid history of the cities and the vibrancy of the people and the humm of my car as we spin off on a new adventure -- delight!

Sincerely,
. . .


July 7
Dear Carlin,

As you suggested -- wisely, as always! -- I made plans for a special pilgrimage to Florence. The memory of the Flood of '67 is everywhere -- as are images from Michelangelo's David, on aprons and boxer shorts, no less! We had gelato just over il Ponte Vecchio and saw Fra Angelico's frescoes before heading to the Cathedral. While I am heartbroken to not share these memories with Mr. A, he will at least see the photographs -- and you and I must compare notes over a bottle of Prosecco upon my return!

Yours,
. . .


July 8
Dear Raymond,

How kind it was of you to slip a first edition of Daisy Miller into my carry-on at the airport! I have found the writing provides a steady beat against which to measure my own progress, exploring again a land whose memories are enmeshed in my own mind and in my blood. As I stroll through the Forum or wander the gardens, I feel the voices emanating from the cold stone of the walls, I can almost hear their ancient murmuring at dusk. I fear Mr. A has become worse; and I believe I may remain here for some time.

Very sincerely yours, as ever,
. . .

---

reading
Le Carre spy stories, when all else fails, and facing a deluge of city regulations paperwork

weather
the final well earned thaw

and in every definition, the opposite is also implied

Local Bulletin Board.

Lost & Found.

Found. One key; color: stainless steel. Appears to open domestic lock of doorknob or deadbolt. Please write to claim, providing rubbing of matching spare or address of inadvertently locked door. Residue of hot pink plastic around keyhole.

Found. One inebriated gentleman of indeterminate late middle age. Clothed in flannel and Boston Red Sox ball cap, slightly soiled. Asleep in doorway of residence #3; please claim at earliest opportunity. Reward for removal.

Found. Small cloth bag containing set of solid gold antique Spanish coins. Describe color of bag and number and weight of coins.

Found. One black tennis shoe, brand Reebok, men's size 9. Frayed shoelace, otherwise in sound condition. Please verify ownership by providing mate.

Found. Small fledgling bird, probably a sparrow. Please advise how to proceed.

Lost. Black sock, blue stitching and heel, 100% silk, knee length. Last seen at the Hillside Laundromat.

Lost. One dozen eggs, brown, extra large, organic, still in basket hand woven from reeds. Last seen at Tuesday afternoon farmer's market, but may have been left at post office, bank, or hairdressers.

Lost. Corkscrew. Traditional waiter design, engraved along arm with cursive script reading "To Snookums, 25 years and no worse for wear." Reward. Last seen on Nob Hill Park, picnic area #32.

Lost. Small yappy white dog, badly groomed, dingy hair from rolling in mud. Answers to the name of Puddles. Must be located before wife returns from Florida. Large reward.

Lost. Child, age 4 or 5, male, wearing striped overalls and carrying a water gun. Last seen in the grocery store cold cereal aisle. Parents are due to return from vacation on Monday: report all sightings to the above address.

Employment / Help Wanted.

California hydroponic growers supply seeks enthusiastic sales reps to demonstrate product and horticultural results. Salary commensurate with yield of grown plants.

Fish feeder sought for local supplier of South American exotics. Partial loss of mobility through occasional blood letting and / or personal sacrifice may be required. Access to speed boat and / or private plane helpful but not required.

Help push the boundaries of medical research : become a cadaver courier today! Own car, preferably a station wagon, required; shovel, spade, sturdy boots, and map provided to successful applicants.

The Co-Op is now hiring hunters and gatherers to staff the new All Locavore All the Time deli section. Specialists are sought in fields including, but not limited to, mushrooms, invasive edibles, ornamental edibles, weeds, poached pheasant, squirrel, and berry picker.

The Rousseau School seeks applications from dedicated educationalists who wish to liberate children's natural intelligence and curiosity through a non-invasive hands-free instructional environment. Uniform will be provided. Applicants must be state certified.

The Yugo Dealership plans to open a branch here and seeks followers of Marx and Engels to provide an authentic cultural experience, as the car for the people is brought to the people. Mustaches are recommended, corduroy jackets are required.

Items for Sale.

Collection of fly-fishing rods, ties, hip waders, and reference library. Free to first taker. Find on curb at #139 Woodlawn Ave, next to golf clubs.

For Sale. Vintage 1970's American refrigerator, complete with unmarked frozen food supplied as an authentic period accessory. Must be picked up from residence; third floor apartment.

For Sale. Rowboat, slightly leaky, missing 1 oar, otherwise sound.

For Sale. Gently used windshield wipers and oil filters. Gently used / authentic vintage motor oil available at additional cost.

For Sale. Dentures, off white, clean, barely used.

For Sale. Scrabble, Operation, two puzzles of Irish castles, one three-dimensional shark puzzle, and four decks of cards. Most pieces present.

For Sale. Grandfather clock. Grandfather, embalmed with reading glasses and cigar, included in sale.

---

Pop Quiz 3/18/09

name: Pippi

Define these terms; then, please, use in a sentence.

1. epistolary
of, or relating to, the study of pistols as used in short range combat
Alexander Hamilton was killed in an epistolary duel over a matter of very little purpose.

2. home
a gnome who has gone bald, either through genetic predisposition or as a side effect of medications
When Harry reached the age of forty, he knew he was home to stay.

3. insomniac
a dweller of the island of Saint Helena, whose inhabitants are known to be insular in opinion and fanatical about persecuting outsiders
Fodor's Travel Guides recommend that casual tourists only interact with insomniacs when other options are no longer available.

4. secret
a sect of believers who hold that conducting nightly raids on the safe deposit boxes of suspected but unconvicted fraudsters is the only path to divine grace
The secret is out to find the Bernie Madoff holdings.

5. rambunctious
a foot sore similar in appearance to bunions, found only on the hooves of male sheep
Mary noticed the unusually rambunctious sheep in the fields that wet April morning, and promptly telephoned the vet.

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reading Elinor Lipman, charming and diverting
weather unsettled

if/then

Should the dedicated reader have encountered difficulties viewing the Bridges photo gallery, it is recommended that this alternate slide show be viewed.

bridges

The spring break DYP! edition features a range of bridges & overpasses to important and frivolous locations, sighted across the continental United States.

And also an ocean view.

---

reading James Herriot, much to my own embarrassment. Who wants to become one's mother?
weather clearing into spring

the house not on the corner

It was that house -- just there, not at the very end of the street, but two or three before, set back from the sidewalk about the same distance as the other houses, with the large live oak tree growing in the front yard.

Now it is well manicured, landscaped, straightened and tidied to reveal the lack of personality of the current residents, their focus on upkeep and traditionalism over all other considerations of preference or taste. There are no annuals decorating the front steps or mailbox; no roses or hibiscus or crepe myrtle; no obvious vegetable garden; no scattered children's toys or dog accessories; no broken-down car on blocks; no accumulation of rubbish; no newspaper drying in the morning dew.

The house itself sits solemnly in its yard of silence, the paint neither peeling nor new; the windows neither streaked nor shiny; the shades partially drawn, neither concealing nor revealing. No car disturbs the asphalt on the driveway; no bicycle leans against the porch; the flag on the mailbox is not raised. It is impossible to tell who lives here, the size of the family, their background, history, aspirations, culture, social rank: only that they aspire to remain unobtrusive, discreet.

The house may, improbably, have remained in the same family, passed down to a relative interested in maintaining the property, held in store for perhaps another generation, a generation less mobile than the current one, a grandchild interested in remaining tied to a suburban neighborhood that is neither here nor there, that is neither gentrifying nor declining, that offers neither avant garde architecture nor inspired floor plans.

Or the house could have been sold, following a death or prior to a move, and the current inhabitants may be the second or the fourth families to occupy the house. There may have been speculations and intents to purchase, renovate, flip, or rent; there may have been bankruptcy or probate rulings; children may have moved out, died, or never been born.

It is impossible to tell any of this from the street; and where others, less mindful of privacy or property laws, may take advantage of the quiet afternoon and the sunny skies, to intrude on the peaceful existence of the residents with the residue of a sticky past would be neither seemly nor a source of pleasure.

Everyone has a story about their house's past, the resident ghost or the happy marriage, the previous homeowner who became mayor or congressman, the stories of love or loss which are based on half-truths and hearsay, glossed and retold so that any barb protruding from the messy stuff of reality is removed from the glamor of the legend. The fence taken from the old town cemetery and installed by the rose garden. The tree planted from a single seed by the first grade son. The drowning in the swimming pool; the drunken parties; the tornado damage; the Underground Railway hiding place; the secret passageway; the bones buried in the cellar.

Who would want these romances of the past to lose their luster and their mystery, to become sullied with the dross of mundane human existence? The house used to be a crack house, was owned by a gang, was used by the CIA as a halfway house for informants, is where the forty third president was conceived, was the setting for William Faulkner's fifth novel, was a distillery during the 1920's, has the only wallpaper designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. These are the stories the home enshrouds in mystery, a romance of adventure in someone else's life, a future that can never be as bleak as past or that is inspired by the previous greatness achieved in such humble or bourgeois or respectable circumstances.

Was the kitchen remodeled to accommodate an island and marble counter tops? Was a jacuzzi master bath with waterfall shower and his and hers dressing rooms converted from an extra bedroom? Was the old shed torn town, or rebuilt, or left to age gracefully, doors hanging ajar and roof leaking? None of this can be gleaned from the street, the neighboring houses acting as mirrors which reflect stillness, sameness, consistency back onto this house.

The entire street is neither overwhelmed by action nor paralyzed by silence. No elderly ladies are sunning on front porches, eager to impart the local gossip into a receptive pair of ears. The mailman would break federal law if asked about the subscriptions and catalogs of the residents; do they receive packages of odd shapes or postcards from glamorous destinations? There is no wreath on the door, no flag or banner hanging from the porch, no political sign or band plaque mounted in the lawn; no candles in the windows; no particularly obtrusive set of antennae or wires or satellite dishes.

Yet the house does not lay dormant, in a stupor; the self satisfaction of the well kept lawn purrs silently; while there is no feeder where birds gather, the requisite squirrels dash between trees. This house keeps its secrets, its stories close to the chest, choosing not to reveal the past or the present on this sunny afternoon, the future hidden by the passing clouds.

There was a time when it was not so self contained, self satisfied, when the grass struggled against the weeds and furniture grew on the front porch, when a perennial garden and a rose bed could be discerned under the chaos of the scattered toys and repetitive garden ornaments.

Or there was a time when the house hosting constant traffic, a stream of cars for bridge parties, luncheons, cocktail parties, barbeques.

Or there was a time when the police drove down the street hourly, in discreet unmarked cars, waiting for their opportunity to seize the contraband being grown or chemically created in the basement.

Or there was a time when the FBI had bugged the phones, when the house was a known meeting ground for Communists or black listed authors or members of the weather underground.

Or there was a time when the house had a constant secret service presence, protecting a nuclear scientist or a defected Russian spy.

Or there was a time when the house was a kennel for beagles, responsible for the greatx7 grandfather of a Westminster winner.

Or the house was torn down following a major fire, and painstakingly rebuilt to the exact specifications of the original.

Or there was a time when the owners were moved out so that Hitchcock could film a scene of staggering ordinariness in the living room.

Or there was an inexplicable murder, unsolved for decades.

Or a society wedding, a perfect spelling test, a contented couple, a golden retriever, an unresolved dispute involving the properties of flavor and use of a tube of toothpaste, a dryer that ate socks, a chimney that smoked, a staircase that creaked, or windows that whistled in the wind.

There, in that house, not at the very end of the street, but two or three before, with the large live oak tree growing in the front yard.

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reading Cooking with Fernet Branca, by James Hamilton-Paterson, a contemporary P.G. Wodehouse

weather snow sun and some rain