In Love with France, At Home In Italy

Having already admitted that I’m no fan of holidays or birthdays, I have another embarrassing confession that puts right me up there with Scrooge McDuck and the Grinch: For most of my life I have not liked to receive gifts. Further, I only like to give them when something strikes me as just right for the person, regardless of the date. But this year I may be changing my tune, because I received some gifts that felt just right.     One was opening “The London Review of Books” and seeing the elegant ad for “Letters to Men of Letters.”      Another was my deadly-looking hori-hori, the Japanese garden tool that no weed wants to see coming. I’ve written about it previously.    http://franceoritaly.blogspot.com/2022/01/not-only-in-italy-garden-tools-and.html?m=1   The third which was the subject of a recent three-part post: realizing my long-held wish to get to my mysterious Dream House across the valley.    http://franceoritaly.blogspot.com/2022/01/the-dream-house-walk-part-twoen-route.html

The reading lasts about 9 minutes.   If you're a technodunce like me, the instructions that follow may be helpful. They were written by my clever husband who is NOT a technodunce.  Click the Play arrow below to start.  If you want to Pause, you can, by clicking the Pause sign in the same place as the Play button. If you do, the first time you may see a new heading from SoundCloud.  To remove that heading, Close it by clicking on the X in the right-hand corner. That will remove the heading and return you to the recording.    If you Pause again, you may see at the bottom some recommended other recordings. You can ignore those and just click Play to resume. Diane Charney · Dear Reader Diane's Letters Audiobook 2 - 1:15:22, 10.42 PM

In Italy, when they haven't got the garden tool you want, sometimes they will offer to make it for you! Let me explain.    Cape Cod weeder? Nah, never heard of it. This is the land of MACHO power tools. Manual ones, the only kind I like, are scorned by most Italians as being "for sissies like the English.” I remember the howls that greeted my question about where to buy a manual lawn mower. Go back to England, lady! Never mind that I'm not from there. According to these dudes with their giant gas-guzzling weed whackers, I might as well be.    YAY! I finally got this beauty from Germany, which works great in small spaces, via the internet And now, back to that explanation I mentioned in my first paragraph about the offer to make me a tool that didn’t exist. You have weeds in your Italian garden. Do you know where your estirpatore is? When I first heard that word, I had a FLASH to when I was singing Mendelssohn's "Elijah," the most thrilling moment of which was

While appearing to write about garden tools, I’m reminded of a post I wrote years ago:  REVIVAL (OR, HOW TO MOW LIKE THE QUEEN!)  Although I was not grieving the loss of a dear one at the time, I think I was anticipating the losses to come. As I re-read this piece, I’m struck by how it is speaking to me now, eight years later when I have lost an old friend. I see that Queen Elizabeth who is featured in this old piece is now well into her ninety-fifth year and is as wrinkle free as my nonagenarian mom was when she died as her ninety-fourth birthday approached.    The last lines of my piece feel prescient:  When you are the Queen, you can probably carry on longer. Impermanence reigns more easily further down the line.   Even so, there are limits. The Buddhists have got it right: Remove attachment.  Everything is going to change.   But memory?  Maybe not. * Update with my scary new tool, a 2021 birthday gift from my husband.  My Finnish friend who is one of the best gardeners I know swear

  Here comes a Coda—the first of many? This one comes on the heels of the Day of the Epiphany, and it feels like one: Although we do not get sunsets at our house, we do get stunning winter sunrises.  I was reminded of this when from the cozy vantage of bed, I looked up and saw a most beautiful blend of colors illuminating for me my Dream House!  But rather than spotlighting the front of the house as it does at sunset, the striking light show was emerging from behind it, leaving the part of the house that faces mine in shadow.         After the first lights of the sunrise, it will take the rest of the day for the Dream House to reveal itself in its full glory.  But I’ll be waiting.  

Some people including me believe that I already live in a dream house. But there’s another one that until this Friday (if the weather cooperates) will have existed only in my mind’s eye. For the past 12+ years that we have lived here, I’ve been staring across the valley at a house that reminds me of Alain Fournier‘s classic, Le Grand Meaulnes , known in English as The Lost Estate . I keep hearing various stories and myths about my dream house which do not necessarily jibe with the ones I have been inventing on my own. Mine go like this:   It’s an abandoned house that has its own chapel. Nobody can figure out how to get there, although over the years it has, from my vantage, been too well-kept to have been left to nature. Its true magic comes out best at the end of the day when it’s the last place to be illuminated by the setting sun. Situated as we are, we have no sunset of our own. But it’s enough that someplace does, and that I can view that “some place” whenever I step outside. A

The “next nice day” designated for the pilgrimage to my dream house arrived, and it was far more than nice. It was splendid! Who would guess that the last day of such a year could be so perfect—cloudless and the ideal temperature for a 4-mile hike to a magical place? We have had a wonderful tradition of going on holiday walks led by dear friends Lois and Paul who generously share their knowledge gained from over thirty years of exploring in Italy. However, as excited as I was about the chance to realize my long-held dream, I tend to be anxious about leaving home. The rumors I had heard about the property left me with some questions. Lois had previously sent me the photo of our own house they had seen from across the valley—the sighting that had set this entire plan in motion. LOIS TO DIANE  Here’s the view of your home from your fantasy house. Not much to see but a fine roof.  DIANE  And the slide for our granddaughters!  Grazie, Lois! It’s fascinating to see things like our ow

The racy headline of a Midwest newspaper of December 25, 1946 read, “Stork Flies Over Wedding.” It refers to my having been born practically at the wedding where my father was his brother‘s best man. My sweet, uncomplaining mom was having labor pains at the reception and needed her cousins to tell her to get the heck to the hospital.   I only recently noticed the term “origin story” when Jim used it in his excellent forthcoming book to tell his own story. I guess this is mine.   Three score and fifteen years ago, Edith and Lou brought forth Diane Joy Gillman, the kind of kid who would, a few years later while standing at the Lincoln Memorial in front of the Gettysburg Address, decide to memorize it.   I don’t have trouble coming up with thoughts for the annual “Happy Birthday, Mom” letters I’ve been writing each year since my mother left us at age 93.5. “Happy 98th” is next. But although I’ve been taking notes to try to come up with a holiday birthday message of my own, those notes r