sabato 21 febbraio 2009

Our last 15th August Feast

15 August 2008
The storm had been stronger than expected: the water had fallen violently in the afternoon, as to prevent us from assembling the tents in the woods, where we expected to pass the "Ferragosto".
Repaired as in the stable of our farmhouse neighbors, the Porro's family, where we could finally mount the tends and lie on a table, improvised, all the food and drink provided for the picnic.
Tight, wet, a flock of children who ran in every way, in a strange atmosphere of rain after a month of hot ruthless, we passed our Ferragosto, the Feast of the summer of all Italians.
In the end of the dinner, Franco asked me to play and sing on his show, with my accordion, an air of southern Italy, as a "prelude" to his recitation. I sang "Brigante se 'mmore", a popular song of revolt, sung by the brave soldiers of King Borbone, King of Naples and Sicily, who fought to the end of 1800 against the invaders, the Piedmontese soldiers who had unfairly seized their land to create a stupid Italy, that still does not exist.
Franco and Carmela began, two voices, one reads in ancient Sicilian language: a ritual of courtship between the "pulzella", and man, his courtship. 15 minutes of magic. Transported to another time, and everything from the surreal confusion of rain and people in the stable, and bottles of wine and candles to be confused with each other.
I looked around to try to understand the environment in which I found them, once again: at the table with us were: Bruna and Mauritius with the two children, Chiara and Roberto with a child and a half, The Porro's family, which are always at least a dozen, Carmela and Franco, another couple of friends of Romagna (fleeing from the crowded beaches of Germans to come to Piedmont in peace), a family from Lago Maggiore in Piedmont, on vacation, a family of Swedish, Miss Lucia with his gentle mother, and a pair of Catalans from Spain, arrived for the event, which had found Casa Scaparone house completely empty, then accompanied by my father-in-low up to the stable where we were refugees.
predominant language was the Piedmontese Language, since the family of the Piedmont Lake spoke well, while the Catalans almost completely understood. As always the food was more than enough: each family had brought more than was necessary.
Towards 1 am, when all the children were sleeping in tents (mounted in the stable) and that the storm was about to cease its violent anger on us and all the tourists in Piedmont, we prepared a bed for men: six bales of straw, flanked, on which were scattered further bale of straw, covered with two blankets military.
5 minutes after lying down and turning off all the candles, i called Aldo, the owner of the barn, sleeping next to me: I said to him in the silence of darkness, "perhaps we have still left a bit of wine in a bottle?" . he answered: "it is true." In the dark of night, we ended a brief and frequent sips, the last drop of wine left in the barn.