House Hunting in Italy

Posted on July 31, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

House Hunters International, yes! It ranks among my favorite cable TV shows, one that I have set to record the entire series. Who hasn’t watched at least one episode of House Hunters, whether that episode be U.S. based or any other locale around the world. The premise rarely changes—an individual or a couple with or without children is looking to buy or rent the ideal home and enlists the help of a local real estate agent who either pledges her all to fulfill their needs, or pops back with, “You expect what on that unrealistic budget?!” Ultimately the agent provides our potential buyers a choice of three homes, none of which are perfect but quite possibly doable, especially when there are no other choices available.

It’s the international shows that draw me in, especially those located in Europe rather than the exotic islands in the South Pacific or the colorful cities and remote area directly south of the border or those in Central and South America. Of the European HH shows, my favorites have to be those set in Italy. I’ve watched homes being discovered in … let me think … Sicily, Calabria, Rome, Florence, and Pisa. Plus other villages in Tuscany because, hey, what’s not to love about Tuscany with its rolling hills, lush vineyards, olive groves, and green cypress reaching for the sky. But never did HH take me to the mountains of Northern Italy known as the Piedmont/Piemonte Region, that is, until several days ago. Wow! There I was, viewing three small villages, quite similar to those I visited on my recent trip and those before—Cintano, Borgiallo, Colleretto, and Chiesanuova among others.

In this particular episode of House Hunters, a renovation-savvy Australian couple and their two children have returned to Italy for a second time, having lived there for two years before returning to Australia. This time the parents are determined to make Italy their permanent home. They have in mind a fixer-upper costing no more than $20,000. Naturally, they want a view of the mountains, a place for livestock, a patch of ground suitable for growing veggies. In other words, back to the good earth and simple life. Good luck with that on your budget, I thought. Evidently this couple picked their right realtor and they all knew Italy better than I did, which comes as no surprise. Three houses popped up, between $18,000 and $22,000.

House No. 1 at $22,000 must’ve started out as a series of individual residences connected under one roof, similar to those of my families and Hubby D’s, except ours were classified as condemned ruins. In the HH version, most of the doors in this house led outside, which required exiting onto a long walkway to re-enter any another part of the house, even the bidet-equipped bathroom. Br-r-r … think snowy winters in the foothills of the Italian Alps. On the plus side this place did have a decent kitchen with a ceramic cook stove similar to the one our Italian cousin E used for making polenta.

House No. 2 at $21,000 was a former schoolhouse, plenty of square footage but no room to garden or keep animals, plus the nearest functioning school for the village children was ten kilometers away, a negative for these potential buyers. Toilets, yes, but no bathing facilities, and if that wasn’t enough, the floors slanted and the walls needed major work. I knew this wasn’t the place for our Aussie family.

House No. 3 at $18,000 spelled Old World charm, with its access through a narrow corridor flanked by stone walls on either side. Dark wood double doors opened into the courtyard and from there, a 17th century stone house offering a myriad of possibilities. The kitchen contained a working fireplace big enough for the Aussie dad to crouch in. And doorways so low he bumped his head when walking through. As with House No. 1 the only bathroom was accessed through the outside walkway. Underneath the house was a stable to accommodate the livestock, and outside enough ground for a decent garden. Was there ever any doubt? Not on my part. I chose House No. 3, as did the clever Australians who weren’t afraid of a new challenge.

Three months later found the family comfortably settled in their new digs. Lots of work still to be done. All in due time but not before a modern-day essential, which is where I next saw our industrious dad, perched on the roof while installing an Internet connection before the kids got home from school.

Hmm, maybe the simple life isn’t so simple after all. One thing’s for sure: the world as we know it is growing smaller with each passing day.

###

 

 

 

Posted in Family, Italian American, Italy, Lifestyle, television, Travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Making Cheese, the Italian Way

Posted on July 15, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

In the 1890s a young woman who lived in the Piemonte Region of Northern Italy sailed to America to marry a man she had yet to meet, an Italian immigrant who came from a village not far from hers. At that time arranged marriages were not uncommon. They were, in fact, a practical way for an immigrant family in America to bring over an unmarried sister or daughter. As for the immigrant bachelor or widower, he wanted a bride who shared his Old World culture and was willing to pay her travel expenses, sight unseen. Of course, if things didn’t work out for either half of a mismatch, he would also pay her return passage. That is, if she wanted to go back. Which wasn’t the case for the above-mentioned couple, who did marry and somewhat inspired the ill-fated arranged marriage between Carlo Baggio and Louisa Valenza in my historical novel, The Family Angel.

The real-life immigrant couple soon became parents to five children, those healthy enough to have survived infancy, one of whom became my mother. Her childhood recollections were of a disabled father struggling with lung disease he acquired while mining coal in Wisconsin and Southern Illinois. And of a mother, eventually my grandmother, who never stopped tending to her children and sick husband while working the land, milking cows, and making cheese she sold to support her family. A hard life I never witnessed first-hand. By the time I knew my grandma, she’d been twice widowed and living well within her income, mostly from sound investments and rental properties.

Although Grandma no longer made her own cheese, she did buy a variety of imported cheeses from a grocery store that catered to Italians. Ah-h, I can still taste my favorite, a soft cheese similar to French brie, one in the Piemontese dialect referred to as tomin (toe-mean′). Hubby D had similar memories of that same soft cheese which tasted better with each passing day as it ripened into a distinctive odor. Pungency, if you will, depending on one’s tolerance, or lack thereof, for the aging process.

All of which brings me to our recent trip to Italy, where we spent half of our time with the Italian cousins who visited us in America two years ago. D, who speaks the dialect while I just nod or prod him to translate my comments or theirs, started talking about the tomin we recalled from long ago and where could we buy that particular type in Piemonte since many cheeses were labeled as tomino.

“Buy?” Cousin L said in Piemontese. “No, no, we can make it. E will show you how.”

E, who is L’s husband, can do just about anything. And do it well, from remodeling a centuries-old home to gathering honey from beehives to hand-crafting a copper polenta pot for Hubby D. And yes, to making cheese from scratch, the Italian way.

Our late afternoon of cheese prep started in the village of Cuorgnè, with six liters of unpasteurized milk that E purchased from a vending machine, one euro per liter. That’s right, milk squirted out into the empty bottles E had brought along. Next stop, the farmacia (pharmacy) to purchase a bottle of caglia (rennet), the all important enzyme that creates cheese curds.

Back in the kitchen, early evening was approaching when E poured those six liters of milk into a large pot, turned on the gas flame under the pot, and let the milk slowly warm to the touch of his finger. Mine too, otherwise how would I know his definition of barely warm. Just hope my finger can remember that touch. Then E stirred ¾ T of caglia into the milk, turned off the heat, and let the mixture sit for half an hour to cool. Half an hour, what to do, what to do, time for a glass of wine.

After which E gently stirred the mixture with a whisk. Soon, what once was milk had now been reduced substantially and was forming curds. More wine while we waited. Then L brought out a stack of plastic mesh containers—round and about eight ounces in size. One by one E filled ten mesh containers, then transferred them to a rectangular container with a mesh insert placed on the bottom. It was there the containers were to sit while the whey drained away from the curds. Estimated time: about two hours.

So, to kill that time the four of us drove to a nearby cemetery (pardon my pun) and visited E’s family crypt. After leaving the cemetery, we ran into six cousins out for a stroll. After chatting with them, we drove another few miles to the home of E’s brother and his wife. A glass of wine, some nice buttery cookies, and conversation only I didn’t understand. Then back into the car for a series of hairpin curves and roads that were never meant to support two cars passing in the night before returning to check on our curds and whey.

Holy cow! (Sorry, couldn’t help myself.) We had cheese, almost. E made a few adjustments, turning the neatly formed molds sideways to encourage more whey to drain into the large container. Just a little while longer, enough time for another glass of wine, or maybe two.

“Are we there yet?” I wanted to ask but instead took another sip of wine.

The village church bells were chiming ten when E finally gave his blessing.

How about a bit of cheese that couldn’t get any fresher, topped with a drizzle of good olive oil and red wine vinegar, plus a generous sprinkle of salt, yes! Add a few grissini (breadsticks) for crunch—yum and double yum.

Did this fresh cheese, what the Italians call tomino, taste anything like the aging tomin D and I recalled from years ago? Not at all, but in its own way was just as good. Even better was an evening to remember and a project to attempt now that we’re home again.

Mustn’t wait too long, I don’t want to forget the touch of my finger in that barely warm milk, the pride and patience accompanied by a nice glass of wine and lots of laughter to make the time pass a little easier.

How about you? Any cheese lovers out there; or memories of growing up in a kitchen where cheese was made?

###

Posted in Cooking, Dining, Family, Italian American, Italy, kitchen, Lifestyle, Travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Left My Heart in Italy

Posted on June 30, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

Still dealing with an annoying case of jet lag brought on by my recent trip across The Pond—one part of my brain holding on to images of Northern Italy, the other part struggling to play catch-up with the real life of Midwest America. And don’t get me started on my wacky sleep schedule, waking up in the middle of the night, full of ideas designed to jump start a day that’s already nine in the morning Italian time, what had been my time for seventeen glorious days. Back in my Central Time Zone afternoon of four o’clock I find myself stifling one yawn after the other, willing my body and mind to stay awake through a comatose evening, at least until that magic bedtime hour of 10 o’clock that should eventually get me back on schedule

It’s all about traveling across those nasty time zones—seven between the generous hospitality of relatives in Italy and the comfortable routine of life in Southern Illinois. Recovery time for the physical aspects of jet lag: one day for every time zone crossed. Recovery time for the emotional aspects: yet to be determined or until my next encounter with all things Italian. Either way, I have a few more days to pamper myself, to procrastinate over self-imposed deadlines, and to make excuses for a disposition wrought with irritability.

I may have left my heart in Italy but I did bring back this awesome polenta pot, a gift from cousin E, who handcrafted it from Piemonte copper and steel, a project that took over eight hours of artisan skills and dedicated patience to create hammered perfection. The long wooden handle, an absolute necessity for executing proper polenta, is carved from ash, a tree prominent in the Piemonte Region of Northern Italy. Okay, confession time. In the interest of proper literary disclosure I do not hold exclusive rights to the copper pot. In other words it really isn’t mine. E made it for Hubby D, self-appointed chief polenta maker in the Giacoletto cucina, a near oxymoron if ever there was since at this stage of his life, he’s not into cooking on any level. Although D has a background in baking, plus bakery and restaurant management, he limits his culinary efforts to the occasional fish fry and yes, the making of polenta. He feels no one, as in yours truly, can stir a pot of corn meal better than he can. I say, “Go for it” since I’m not that crazy about cooking either… although I did return to America with visions of Piemontese and Ligurian specialty dishes spinning in my head, some of which I might attempt to duplicate in the near future.

Let’s see … how many times during our recent visit to Italy did we sit down to polenta? Only three as I recall—once at a roadside trattoria outside of Gran Paradiso National Park, once prepared by E, and once prepared by E’s son, A. All of which makes summer sense since this hardy dish is more often prepared during the colder months. Of course, the home versions taste much better, those mounds of rich, gooey cheese, plus generous portions of butter and whipping cream transforming simple peasant food into that of gourmet extraordinaire.

As for the latest version of Giacoletto polenta, one to be prepared in our new handcrafted-by-E copper pot, that polenta will have to wait until we’ve resumed our normal routine. A day in which the temperature has dropped more than a few degrees, making us feel kind of low and ultra needy, a day that we’ll want to relive a glorious moment in Italian time—seven zones away yet forever close to the heart.

###

Posted in Cooking, Dining, Family, Food, Italian American, Italy, kitchen, Lifestyle, Travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Missing

Posted on June 9, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

It first came into my house six weeks ago, an indispensable purchase I split into two manageable portions, one within easy reach of my fingertips, the other … the other … I could not recall where I put the other half. It went missing, of that there was no doubt. I only realized this after the fifth week of It entering our home and wasn’t too concerned at first. I began a casual search of the most obvious places, knowing It couldn’t have strayed too far. Ah-h, but It must have or else I wouldn’t have let my inability to discover It evolve into a potential obsession. Later, I’d think about It later. Later woke me up around four the following morning.

My search continued after breakfast. I stood in the kitchen and mentally walked myself through the initial acceptance of It, tried to picture myself moving It from the counter to … to where? If not in the kitchen, It had to be hiding in a bedroom or bathroom, in the living room, dining room, or family room. Niente, zero, I got nothing.

Hubby D joined in the hunt. He double checked where I’d already looked. I double checked where he’d already looked. Every drawer was opened and inspected, as was every upper and lower cabinet. We inspected every bookshelf, stood on a stepladder to view the upper shelves, knowing It couldn’t possibly have crawled up the case by Itself. We checked under the beds and all pieces of furniture. Of course, there was always the possibility that It got mixed in with something else and wound up in an obscure place It never would have gone otherwise. I did not want to consider the possibility of It getting tossed out with the trash.

My search for It did produce some positive results—locating a red sock I’d given up on long ago plus my favorite hairbrush that went missing in January; a purging of outdated clothes and of shoes I’d never wear again, some hardly worn at all. It’s not enough that a pair of shoes fit; they must allow me to walk in them without falling on my face. The shoe madness had to stop. I declared a moratorium on the purchase of more shoes until … a date yet to be decided or until I find a pair too irresistible to leave behind for someone who wouldn’t appreciate them as much as yours truly.

I’ve also declared a moratorium on the maddening search for my indispensable item. Inevitably, the It that went missing will be found, someday. Months from now when I no longer need It. So, I’ve made that no-longer-need day this day, having now figured out a way to do without It. And next time, if there ever is a next time, I will hide It in plain sight and with at least one reliable eye witness.

How about you? Anything gone missing lately? Ever? Did you figure out a way to live without your It?

#

 

Posted in Family, Lifestyle, Writing | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

End of a Generation

Posted on May 31, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

Since Hubby D and I were going to our lake house for the Memorial Day weekend, we paid our respects to the local cemeteries a few days early. This year we added one new grave—that of D’s 92-year-old Uncle J, the last of his late mother’s siblings, the only one of five children to be born in America and the only son. Uncle J had served as D’s surrogate older brother and father whenever the need arose, whether following D’s sports activities or those of our offspring or sharing insights into the ever-changing baking industry that at times consumed both of them. I considered J my uncle too since he’d been part of my entire adult life and always referred to me as his niece. “None of that in-law stuff,” he often reminded me.

Fifteen years ago after Uncle J’s British war bride passed away, we began including him in more of our family activities. Not just certain holidays but those sports involving the offspring of our offspring—soccer, basketball, baseball, and softball. Wherever the event took us, he was happy to ride along, perched in the backseat of our car and telling stories about the making and bootlegging of wine or his years during WWII and how he met Aunt A in England. What a memorable way to pass the time while driving through the rural areas of Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. And fodder for my Italian/American sagas, in particular, The Family Angel.

One year Uncle J traveled with us to Italy, along with my brother. Returning to Italy was a journey Uncle J had vowed never to make again, not after the boring experience he’d endured as an 8-year-old traveling with his immigrant mother and aunt. While the two women were taking care of family business, little J roamed the Piemonte villages around Colleretto Castelnuovo when he should’ve been sitting in a classroom. Too bad his mother didn’t enroll him in the local Italian school. As it was, she’d taken him out of school in Illinois before the year ended and by the time they returned, the new school year was well underway. For that oversight, he wound up two grades behind. And half way through high school, Uncle J’s father yanked him out for good, ending his formal education before he was ready for it to end.

Ah-h, but our trip to Italy was nothing like the one Uncle J made in 1930. Our trip he enjoyed every minute and thought I was a genius for finding the best places to eat, however remote the area. I tried to explain the credit belonged to my faithful guidebook but he’d have no part of that.

I can still see Uncle J in the village of Colleretto Castelnuovo, standing outside a two-story apartment house and calling out to his boyhood friend from long ago.

“You’re sure he’ll remember you?” I asked.

“Of course, he will,” Uncle J said. “We roamed these hills together.”

Uh, yeah, about seventy years ago, but who was counting. Apparently, no one but me because the man came out on his balcony and without hesitation, invited us to come upstairs. Of course, he remembered the Americano boy who took so long to return. Or perhaps he heard about the four adult Americani who’d been strolling around his village, standing in front of this house and that house, observing dairy cows grazing on a distant hillside. Seated around the kitchen table we drank the elderly man’s wine and listened to Uncle J and him reminisce in their Piemonte dialect. His wasn’t the only table we sat around with Uncle J. One woman brought out a box of old photographs, people Uncle J recalled from his trip as a boy. Another woman, an elderly distant relative, insisted he stay the afternoon, knowing they’d never meet like that again. Priceless, a cliché, I know, but there’s no other way to describe those moments.

This past October Uncle J took a bad fall and could no longer manage on his own. So he moved to Nebraska to live with his daughter K and her multi-talented, entrepreneurial family. In February, K and her husband brought Uncle J back home to celebrate his 92nd birthday with extended family and his beloved Knights of Columbus, an organization that had provided him years of camaraderie and countless opportunities to help those in need.

Uncle J returned to Nebraska a very tired man and six weeks later took his final breath surrounded by his loved ones. In accordance with his wishes, he came home one last time.

At the funeral home visitation Fourth Degree members of the Knights of Columbus served as an honor guard and presented Uncle J’s daughter with a communion chalice and paten. During the cemetery interment, the U.S. military honored him with a flag-folding ceremony and 21-gun salute. Uncle J would’ve been touched. I know I was, sitting there thinking about his service during the war, how his young bride A left England, her family still grieving over another daughter who had died during a bombing raid.

Later that day Uncle J’s daughter told D and me that the K of C chalice would be engraved with her dad’s name and could be placed in any Catholic church in the world.

“How about the family church in Colleretto Castelnuovo,” I said. “We’re going there this summer.”

“Perfect,” K said.

When we explained our plan for the chalice to Aunt A’s niece M and her husband J who live in England, they decided to meet us in Italy and participate in the delivery of the chalice. How sweet is that—the American niece and nephew getting together with the British niece and nephew to reminisce about the Yank and his war bride.

I think Uncle J would’ve been pleased, Aunt A too.

 

#

Posted in Family, Friends, Italian American, Italy, Lifestyle, Travel, Wine making, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Old Friends

Posted on May 15, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

I’ve mentioned this before, how I start each Monday through Friday with Imus in the Morning. Business News, you say, ho-hum. Not so fast, I say. Business news can be quite enlightening, especially when mixed with politics, entertainment, trash talk, and guests ranging from a mix of politicians, news analysts, and military experts to authors, celebrities, and country-western musicians. If that’s not enough, on weekends I watch the I-Man’s highlights from past shows, in case I missed anything during the week, or just want to have a second laugh or grit my teeth over some controversial subject, of which Imus has plenty.

I also have the Imus show set to record in order to catch certain segments I missed while at Casalago, our retreat at Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks. I guess that makes me an Imus fan, even though I don’t always agree with him or his guests. Nor am I particularly fond of country-western music, although I do make certain exceptions.

One of my favorite Imus spots revolves around the outrageous humor of Rob Bartlett and Tony Powell, always irreverent and often laugh-out-loud funny. And then there are those weekly “Blonde on Blonde” shouting matches between the passionate Deidre (Mrs. I-Man) Imus and her counter-part,  the much calmer legal analyst Lis Wiehl. Mustn’t forget Thursday’s rowdy “Mensa Meeting,” again with Deidre Imus plus former stand-up comedian Alan Colmes, the over-the-top frank and challenging Bernard McGuirk, and Mike Gunzelman who brings a twenty-something point of view to the panel.

Recently the Imus show was blessed with a visit from singer/songwriter/actress/business woman extraordinaire Dolly Parton accompanied by her entourage of musicians and back-up singers. Dolly is one of my country-western exceptions. What a terrific way to start the morning with songs like “I Will Always Love You,” which she wrote, and among others, the poignant “Jolene”. But it was the song “You Can’t Make Old Friends” that touched my heart to the core. Those lyrics by Kenny Rogers got me thinking about my old friends, those I first met as a freshman in high school and to this day still count among my best friends.

Old friends are a precious few and without a doubt will dwindle over time. One of the nicest things about my old friends from eons ago is never running out of things to talk about. We can be separated for a year or more and on getting together again, will resume our endless chitchat as if a mere matter of days had passed.  Over the years we’ve supported one another through dating, break-ups, weddings, pregnancies, children, divorces, and the loss of loved ones.

What is now known as sleepovers, we used to call slumber parties. Ah-h, those were the days, staying up all night, watching the sun rise, and later returning home to resume a normal day after one or two hours of sleep. Some of us still get together for a girls’ weekend. Yes, we still consider ourselves girls and always will.

Several years ago three of us—M, C, and I—met at the Lake of the Ozarks retreat of a fourth old friend J for a few days of R & R. We ate too much. We drank just enough. We never stopped talking. We stayed up until four in the morning playing board games, which I usually resist but made an exception for these old friends.

Hours later found us at the nearest Outlet Mall, where we shopped until we dropped. Make that plopped, onto a welcoming bench flanked by wrought iron arms, similar to the kind we used to plop down on during our high school days. Okay, so it took a bit of shifting here and there before we four old friends maneuvered our backsides into a snug fit on that unyielding bench. We started laughing as did this stranger nearby, a man around our age who’d been observing our determination not to give up.

Some things aren’t supposed to change but it’s inevitable that they do. As friendships continue to grow and expand so do old friends, especially when it comes to staying joined at hips that aren’t as slender as they once were.

So, what about you? Any stories about old friends you’d like to share? Come on, don’t be shy.

###

 

Posted in Friends, Lifestyle, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Butte Then and Now

Posted on April 30, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

Several weeks ago I received an email newsletter from the Butte-Silver Bow Public Archives that drew me to the Archive’s website. It was there I discovered two memorable quotes describing Butte in the early twentieth century.

The town grew on the side of The Hill and it was Butte all at once, out of the copper womb: Richard K. O’Malley

Butte was mercurial… The wicked, wealthy, hospitable, full blooded little city welcomed me with wild enthusiasm of the most disorderly kind: Theodore Roosevelt

That website brought back memories of my time in Butte when I sat in the archives gathering information for an Italian-American saga I was writing at the time. Part of my novel would be set in Butte 1930 so I was particularly interested in those immigrants who labored in the copper mines and the lifestyle of diverse residents who enjoyed the benefits of a prosperous mining industry when Butte had been known as “The Richest Hill on Earth” but now was in the throes of the Great Depression.  Newspapers provided me a window into that era; their display ads revealing the cost of groceries and of clothing, both lending credibility to the accuracy of my plot and characters. And since prostitution played a prominent role in Butte, I visited the DumasBrothel Museum. Once a brothel within the Dumas Hotel, the prostitutes kept forty-three rooms occupied around the clock to accommodate three shifts of miners, plus Butte’s elite who used the underground tunnels for convenient and private access to the hotel.

My research also brought Hubby D and me to Walkerville, a mining community overlooking Butte and where D’s immigrant grandparents had settled in1905, along with three young sons, including D’s father. During the winter, the grandfather and eventually his sons worked in the copper mines. In the summer they raised cattle on a ranch, probably near Helena although D and I don’t know the exact location. We did, however, drive up to Walkerville and stand on the empty lot where his family once lived on their own land. A neighbor came over and introduced himself as the current owner of that property. After we explained our connection to it, he told us he remembered the house, a two-story frame that had been torn down when he was a boy. Long after D’s family had returned to the Piedmont Region of Italy for what they considered a better life. The only one who ever returned to America was D’s father and he crisscrossed the ocean a number of times.

A short distance from where we stood that day was the shuttered Anaconda Copper Mining Company’s premier facility known as The Speculator. It became part of the novel I’d been researching, one I later named, Family Deceptions.

In this scene from Family Deceptions Pete Montagna and his low-life friend, Leo Arnetti, have finished their shift at The Speculator and are heading down the hill that leads to Uptown Butte. The year is 1930, the height of The Great Depression.

Pete grabbed his lunch bucket and tight roll of dungarees but before he could escape out the door, Leo yipped at his heels like some pesky mutt. They walked into a warm summer breeze caressing Butte’s summit and while Leo cupped his hand to light a cigarette, Pete surveyed the sprawling town below. Quiet from where they stood on The Hill. But down below Boisterous Butte never slept, thanks to revenue from an abundant supply of copper, silver, gold, lead, and manganese. Leo was on his third match when Pete lifted his head to the distant mountains. Their snow-covered peaks made a nice picture but Montana’s jewels couldn’t compare to his native Alps. A glow finally appeared at the end of Leo’s cigarette. He took a few drags and tipped his hat to The Spec’s head frame, a gallows supporting cables that raised and lowered men, equipment, dynamite, timbers, and ore cars three thousand feet into the unforgiving earth.

Pete fell into step with Leo and six other co-workers. They started the long downhill trek, passing the Little Minah and other mines intermingled with sooty, frame cottages and two-story flats perched above stonewalled streets. One by one the men drifted off until only Pete and Leo were left to trudge the unpaved portion of Main Street. At the modest white frame church of St. Lawrence O’Toole, Pete made the sign of the cross, a routine he’d begun with his first day on the job.

“You shoulda never started that,” Leo said.

“Bullshit, what are the odds?”

“No shit, just playing against the odds. Picture us in The Spec’s hellhole, slaving away on the day you forget to bless yourself.” He clashed an imaginary set of cymbals. “POW!”

“And what about you: saluting that damn head frame every time we leave.”

“It’s a habit, and nothing else.”

“The same goes for me,” Pete said. “One thing’s for sure: I ain’t superstitious.”

“Well, maybe you oughta be.”

“As if superstition ever brought you any luck.”

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

“So’m I, but luck didn’t get me here.”

“That’s right. It was me, Leo Arnetti.” He thumped his fingertips to his chest. “And don’t you forget it. What’s more, I got you this job, showed you how to talk like a real American.”

“How to lose like one too. And don’t get me started on America’s lousy economy.”

So far Pete’s luck had been nothing but bad, same as Leo’s, damn. When they weren’t mining copper or listening to old-timers extol the good old days—before The Company rid itself of the union—Leo talked him into panning for gold or taking chances on every conceivable game in Butte. And Pete seldom balked.

After they passed the Lexington, Leo brought up Tony Coronna. “You shoulda gone with him for some of that Meaderville wine, for some of Donatella too.”

“That ain’t funny Leo.”

“Ooh-h that Donatella. She’s got … whatchamacallit … the hots for you.”

“Basta! I’m a married man.”

“Not in America. Not to these people. Better they don’t know the real you. And don’t forget your godfather. Giovanni ain’t about to forgive or forget.”

“If God is good, Giovanni’s dead. And I’m going back home, just as soon as I get enough money.”

“Then what the hell are we waiting for, partner.” Leo draped his arm around Pete’s shoulder, pushing him where he didn’t need to go.

“First things first,” Pete said, moving away from Leo’s grip.

The two men took a right on Summit and dropped off their dirty clothes at Adie Turner’s aging three-story Victorian. Eight dollars a week bought them separate sleeping rooms, one bathroom shared with ten other men, laundry service, and three meals daily, including a full lunch bucket on workdays. Pete had tried rooming with Leo but that didn’t last. Not with Leo helping himself to Pete’s money and sneaking in floozies after dark.

As they continued down Main Street, commercial buildings outnumbered the houses and concrete replaced the dirt road. When the street traffic picked up, Pete moved onto the sidewalk and wiped dust from his leather high tops.

“Dammit, not now,” Leo said, kicking up more dust. “We only got a couple more blocks to go.” He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, jiggled coins to accompany the beat of his footsteps.

Leo the Loser: all talk and no show. And Pete always wound up on the losing end. Getting out of Butte meant first getting rid of Leo.

When they neared Uptown Butte, Prohibition saloons passed as soft drink parlors and billiard parlors stacked hustlers against greenhorns, a lesson Pete had learned the hard way.“My stomach’s turning somersaults,” he said. “We shoulda grabbed a sandwich back at Adie’s.”

“As if I need one more glob of navy beans on stale bread,” Leo said. “Just you wait, tonight we’re gonna feast on thick, juicy steaks.”

They eased into the swelling ranks of businessmen, professionals, skilled craftsman, teamsters, laborers, uppity matrons, bored housewives, and all varieties of miners. Vehicles crowding the streets and threatening pedestrians prompted Leo to lift his middle finger to a Model T rolling through the stop sign. “A car, that’s what we need. Then we’d show those bastards a thing or two.”

Not with my winnings, Pete thought. His getaway money dried up after Leo needed a loan to repay old debts, a loan he had yet to repay. After they turned on Broadway the pace slowed down while Leo lit another cigarette. At Honey’s Soft Drink Parlor, Pete hesitated at the beveled glass door.

“Now what?” Leo asked.

“I ain’t exactly in a rush to throw my hard-earned money away.”

“In that case we drink first.” Leo reached around Pete and turned the sticky knob. “And then we play to win.”

Inside the long, narrow saloon, large fans hung from an elaborate tin ceiling and whirled and circulated the marriage of tobacco smoke and stale beer with a calliope of tongues—Italian, Polish, Finnish, German, Czech, and English. Pete recognized thirsty miners from the Stewart, Lexington, Alice, Moonlight, and Parrot. They all crowded around the bar, waiting for Honey, a rotund Irishman moving up and down the stretch of polished oak, filling mugs and ignoring any man demanding service before his fair turn. After he served Pete and Leo, they carried their overflowing mugs away from the bar.

“This beer’s lousy,” Pete muttered, dumping his into a brass spittoon. “Honey watered it down too much.”

“So now you’re the expert, you who never drank the stuff before coming to America. Come on, big shot; let’s check out the Back Room.”

“Not ‘til you wipe that foam off your beak.”

### End of excerpt.

If you’d like to read Family Deceptions in its entirety, please considering purchasing it at Amazon.com or other retail distributors.

 

Posted in 99-cent books, Bargain Kindle Fiction, Books, eBooks, Family, Italian American, Italy, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Family That Plays Together

Posted on April 15, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

Don’t get me started.

I’ve written about Casalago before, our family retreat at Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks. Casalago truly is a family affair, involving four of our five offspring and their spouses. Add to that the assorted offspring of our offspring and the full house starts popping at its seams. When we bought Casalago thirteen years ago, it needed extensive remodeling to accommodate our needs. Mission accomplished five months later, with a spiral staircase leading to the reconfigured lower level that would provide ample sleeping accommodations and plenty of privacy.

But wait, what about the crappy entry from the carport. I pushed for an enclosure that soon became a reality otherwise known as The Sunroom, even though it contained more pine than windows. Several years later we added a third well to the dock. Hey, we’re on the lake. It’s all about the water. Several years after that we extended The Sunroom, opening it up to the carport we’d decided to enclose, making the improved area our new living room and the former living room a dining area with extra seating. Plenty of space, we were set. For a while, that is, until little kids worked their way into young adults and stumbling over full-size bodies at rest here and there presented a constant hazard.

All of which brings us to the spring of 2014. And yes, another project, starting with the galley kitchen. Except the galley kitchen will be transformed into a breakfast counter and pantry leading to … ta-da … the new addition! Yes, a full-service kitchen with lots of amenities plus another bedroom and bath. And on the lower level we’ll have a bonus room that can double for extra sleeping.

My thanks to Son P. His extensive background in architecture and construction has brought past Casalago projects to fruition. No doubt this latest project will go just as well. And if all goes as planned, maybe we can have the lower patio screened-in. My special project, a quiet area for writing, perhaps another story set in Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks—something on the order of “The Big Shot,” a portion of which I’ve included here.

On a Friday evening in late June, Lester Best eased his customized SUV across the wooden slats of a swinging bridge spanning the Auglaize Creek in the heart of Missouri’s Ozarks. He kicked up white gravel for another two miles before realizing he’d gone too far. Going too far best defined Les Best, that and an absurd name he regretted not having changed early in his career. Les turned around and retraced his powdery route until he found the campground entrance to the state park at Kaiser. He rattled along under the dense shade of canopied trees, dodging deep ruts and cruising past a hodgepodge of trailers and pop-up campers. After reaching the lakefront area jammed with more weekenders, he selected one of the few remaining primitive sites. No electricity, no water, and no flush toilet: the perfect retreat for a deadbeat fugitive nursing a matching set of splinted forefingers.

Les staked his tent as far away as possible from his nearest neighbors, two wannabe hill people who strolled over long enough for first-name introductions before returning to their beer and makeshift setup. Will, whose white beard overlapped his bib overalls, pressed a harmonica to his lips and played a haunting rendition of Ruby for his own Ruby. She wore yards of calico, chain-smoked, and complained non-stop from an aluminum lawn chair straining under her massive weight. After thirty minutes of the audio assault, Les stifled his urge to suggest that Will muzzle both Rubies, opting instead to utilize the earplugs he’d brought from his Lower East Side apartment.

Although Les Best lived and breathed New York, he’d grown up in Missouri, first in foster care and later on a boys’ ranch designed for discards and the wayward. Les qualified as both, then and now. His temporary return to the Show Me State was not out of nostalgia but to avoid settling a debt of ninety thousand dollars he’d incurred through a series of risky ventures. Joey Plastic, the New York mobster who held the note, had arranged for the dislocation of Les’s forefingers to induce an initial interest payment of five thousand bucks, but Les figured the bastard would never extend his pursuit into the fly-over boonies of mid-America. On that Les Best would’ve bet his mother’s life, if he’d ever had a mother. Still, he must’ve since his many enemies and few friends usually referred to him as ‘that sonofabitch’.
***
That night Les conked out in the back of his SUV. The next morning found him on the pea gravel beach, pushing a rented johnboat into the Grand Glaize Arm of Lake of the Ozarks. Splinters erect, he paddled from one cove to another until he located the ideal fishing spot, one deserted and edged with brush. By ten o’clock, water smooth as glass reflected the cocky blue of a clear sky and Les hadn’t caught a single crappie. At noon he peeled off his sweat-drenched shirt, dropped his knit shorts, and mooned a parade of skiers and speedboats stirring up the wake. “You can all go to hell!” he yelled, before sending his pricey rod and reel to sleep with the fishes.
Back at camp two Generation Xers had squeezed in between his site and the wannabes, who were making honeymoon racket in their tent—a conjured image amusing enough to make Les forget the fishing gear he regretted sinking. To the X couple, he returned an obligatory wave and howdy that seasoned campers felt compelled to offer each other. Still, he kept his distance, watching the Xers struggle with the pegs and canvas of new equipment. At last they stood back, arm in arm, to admire their saggy abode. It burped once and collapsed into a heap. Male X pushed back his red-orange feather cut and appealed to Les.

“What do you say, mister. How ‘bout some help?”

What the hell, Missouri know-it-alls, even those partially disabled, were supposed to be accommodating. Les ambled over. He offered a few practical suggestions and within five minutes the tent stood erect and operational. The sun-deprived stranger stuck out a soft hand accustomed to professional manicures.

“Much obliged. Sorry about those bum fingers,” X said with a grin of orthodontically enhanced teeth. “I’m Josh. Over there’s Betty Sue.”
Betty Sue, as in leggy and trim, nodded from a distance.

“No problem. Call me … Les.” Their encounter should’ve ended on the handshake but that’s when Les noticed Josh’s tattooed wrist: a pissing gargoyle with folded wings. As in the official logo for heavy metal’s Grotes and Gargs. As in Josh Nolan, lead drummer. The revelation prompted a closer look at Betty Sue, as in trying to fade into the background. No make-up, blonde pigtails, tee shirt and khaki shorts: typical back-to-nature but this chick was no typical camper. Les Best, master of deception, could spot a plain-Jane disguise in the most unlikely of locales.

Les didn’t linger with the Xers but Betty Sue hadn’t fooled him. That face and that body belonged to none other than Ivy Sinclair, last year’s nobody who shot up to become this year’s hottest glitz and glamour TV diva. When it suited Ivy Sinclair, the twenty-something preened for tinsel town’s red carpet. But when she wasn’t hustling the public, she kept her private life way too private: another ploy to fuel the fires of her clamoring fans. And before this weekend Josh Nolan had been nothing more than an unconfirmed rumor. Now the oblivious, sexy twosome belonged to Les, exclusively.

Never in a million years could he have plotted a better scenario: Les Best, New York paparazzo of uncensored privacy, tenting in Missouri next to La-La Land’s newest duo. Les had escaped from New York with his only cameras not in hock: the miniature spy and a Panasonic with 600mm zoom lens. From campsite to wooded area to man-made beach, he devoted every waking moment to cursing his splints and plying his craft. Ivy and Josh kissing, Ivy and Josh necking, Ivy and Josh rolling around—the usual predictable stuff. His best shot thus far: Ivy in a modest bikini, her trademark tattoo peeking out the underside. Nice, too nice: translation, boring.

###
End of excerpt.
“The Big Shot” is one of twelve stories from A Collection of Givers and Takers.
This anthology is available at Amazon and elsewhere.

“The Big Shot” was first published in the 2007 Horror Anthology Damned in Dixie and later in the 2010 Winter issue of Allegory Ezine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in eBooks, Family, Lifestyle, Reading, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dream On

Posted on March 31, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

Do you ever dream about your high school or college years? My school dreams are always the same. I’m back home—too old for high school yet determined to relive those days I so loved. After changing clothes several times and coping with other distractions, I finally take off in my own car, which I didn’t have in real school time. When I get to my dream school, it takes forever to find the right parking space, after which I hurry into the building, only to find the halls empty and the students already in their classrooms.

But wait a minute—I can’t find my locker, can’t remember my schedule. After running up and down several flights of stairs, I locate the school office, find out where I’m supposed to be, and scramble to First Period. Phew! I arrive just in time—but for what?! Oh, no. We’re about to have a test that I didn’t study for. This class has been going on for six weeks; but for me, it’s always Day One. I open my book for the first time, hoping to wing it.

Oh, no, there’s another problem. I forgot to feed my dream dog before I left for school. What dog?! I don’t recall ever feeding the dog or giving it water. Does this dog even have a name?

There’s only one thing to do that makes any sense: I wake myself up. I think about returning to the dream, try to straighten out the mess I left behind; but then Alka-Seltzer relief hits me. I don’t have to resolve anything. It’s only a dream.

During my high school years in real time, I started out riding the school bus and later rode with a good friend and her boyfriend who had a really neat car. Not once were we late for school. Nor did I ever go to any class unprepared. Nor did I ever forget to feed my real dog. In fact, one morning I overslept and within ten minutes managed to brush my teeth, get dressed, make my bed, and feed the dog before flying out the door in time to catch the bus that just pulled up across the street.

Research indicates recurring school dreams loaded with stress often play havoc with adults who put a high priority on being responsible. Hmm, translation: compulsive. That would be me. But what about my other recurring dream.

Eons ago Hubby D and I bought our first home before we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. A charming fixer-upper: according to the for-sale-by-owner description. I saw its potential, D and I happily working side-by-side; D saw never-ending projects, his precious softball evenings and weekends slipping away. After three tumultuous years we sold the money/remodeling pit and bought a ranch-style house, one that lacked charm but was move-in ready. I never dream about the low-maintenance second home but the first one still haunts me with this recurring episode:

The house we once owned is on the market again and I buy it sight unseen. Don’t ask about D; this is my dream. I walk through each room, thrilled with the house I’d imagined years ago, only now it’s twice as big. The kitchen has been remodeled, ceramic floor tile replacing the in-laid linoleum compromised by a nasty burn spot we discovered on moving the rubber mat covering it. Pricey colonial furniture defines the living room and master bedroom. The attic has been finished with two more bedrooms and a bath, a project our contractor in real time told us would not be possible. Behind the kitchen I revisit the screened-in porch, much nicer than the one D and his immigrant grandpa had worked on improving. And beyond the sloping yard that once plagued us with drainage issues I now see a frozen pond with children ice skating on it. Oh, yes, during that brief moment in sleep time, I’ve come full circle, having left my ideal real-time home for a return to the fixer-upper I left undone two houses ago.

I’m sure dream experts could interpret a more precise meaning to my first-house dream. As for me, I’m content to enjoy that house while I sleep without having to suffer all the work it took to bring me there.

So, what about you. How do you interpret your recurring dreams?

###

 

Posted in Dreams, Family, Italian American, Lifestyle, Writing | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Dressing for Success, My Way

Posted on March 15, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

In my life before that of a writer I often interacted with the sales staff of upscale hotels. One of the sales managers left her position to sell high-end products from home via the Internet and telephone.

“My plan is to get up at the usual time Monday through Friday,” she told me, “put on my business attire and make-up, same as I did with my regular job. That way I won’t forget I’m still working and sticking to my nine-to-five routine will be much easier.”

Hmm, I wonder how long that lasted.

When I left the outside workforce to write fulltime, one of the first things I changed was my mode of dress: from skirts and jackets and mid-heel pumps that got ditched on my return home each day to comfortable knitwear and slip-on clogs that took me from morning to night for all casual activities. And like my acquaintance from the hotel and in deference to Hubby D, I started each day with an appropriate lathering of facial war paint. And still do—that is, the make-up and casual wear. Today’s shoes aren’t quite as cloggy as before—more on the order of super lightweight flatties. Either style allows me to get where I’m going in a hurry, much as the mid-heel pumps once did but from lack of use now make me feel like I’m about to fall on my face. Alternating between the heels and the flatties might resolve this balancing act but for reasons not worth figuring out, I can’t be bothered.

During that previous life when the five offspring were still living at home, my favorite after-work outfit was a velour jumpsuit, its most striking feature a shade of fuchsia the offspring considered repulsive. But hey, what did they know about style vs. comfort. I wore that jumpsuit so much it soon became known around the house as Mom’s woobie after the beloved woobie from Mr. Mom. I loved my woobie and could’ve worn it to bed and shopping the next day and no one would’ve been the wiser because it never wrinkled or needed special care. Everyone in the family hated it, except Hubby D who knew better than to critique any item in my wardrobe.

Fast forward to this past December when D and I were Christmas shopping at Walmart, a place I rarely ventured without good cause and certainly not to buy clothes for myself. That is until I passed a rack filled with sleepwear marked down to a new low discount. I ran my hand across the merchandise, just as I would’ve done in any TJ Maxx or Marshall’s or Dillard’s. Whoa, what have we here? Black pajama bottoms, ultra-soft and light-weight knitwear, great for lounging or sleeping. To leave those bottoms behind would’ve been unthinkable so I bought them.

Two weeks later when we were visiting eldest son and family in Cody, Wyoming, I stopped by their local Walmart with D, on the off-chance of finding another pair of the lightweight bottoms. Only this time I found a matching top and bottom, same brand, same ultra-soft knit fabric but in a different color—purple. To leave this top and bottom behind would’ve been another unthinkable so I bought them.

Last week D happened to mention an end-of-the-season clearance at our local Walmart.

“Hmm, maybe I should take a look.”

The look he gave me was one of disbelief.

Did I care? No.

Oh, yeah, this time I really hit the jackpot, one that should last me for several seasons. Same brand, same ultra-soft knitwear, three complete sets of pj’s, plus an extra bottom, all color-coordinated to mix and match with those I already have.

Talk about 24/7 versatility to the extreme. I visualize myself slipping into a pair of black bottoms and print top after a nice hot shower, then settling down to watch The Vikings slaughter each other and their neighbors on the History Channel. I’ll sleep through the night in that same outfit, get up the next morning and have breakfast in it. Need to pick up a few groceries? No problem, just throw on my coat and no one will know the diff. Might as well leave the outfit on to prepare our noon-day meal. It still looks good enough to eat in, so I will. This time of the year my afternoons are dedicated to writing—what better way to concentrate than in these comfortable loungers. Ah-h, well what do you know. It’s another evening and time for my shower. After which I think I’ll slip into another ultra-soft and lightweight outfit. My new woobie, not just one but in multiple sets.

What about you? How do you dress for success?

###

Posted in Family, Italian American, Lifestyle, television, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment