Liabilities Of Working From Home

Di roccia e pietra: tra i fantasmi di Morano Calabro

second and final part

I ntimorito as if I was caught in a moment's hesitation, I face and feel even touching the face, but the anguish gives way immediately to wonder ... how wonderful! I see all clad in white, light petals fall from the air cold and still, all is peace and quiet. For a moment forget the pig killed shake off the snow, then looked back towards the window, stunned but I see that the interior is dark. Quick look better but now the smell musty breath and closed.

Lost by that vision go down the stairs, a thin layer of snow has covered everything. I hear the hollow sound of my footsteps and the ticking of the snow that is deposited near the gates, ruined roofs, and light creeps silently in dark windows and ramshackle, melancholy eyes empty and off like someone who knows he's dying. I get off along the Via di San Nicola then goes inside a dimly lit alley, step-children from the place called "the giocattuli went," was the place where we went in search of "treasures". For a time he was also the place where we prepare fried shrimp pool, but that's another story.

The snow continues to fall, the country has died or to pass another season has just fallen asleep. Step behind closed doors now lived there for some time that I knew of old, they are now all in the cemetery. I remember their faces, people were in hand, invited me home when I passed by these alleys to go to the grandparents. Always refused their invitation considering the recommendations of my mother: "Do not enter anyone's home," "not accept anything from strangers." I smile thinking about it. Today, as then I am sure that the calls of the old ones were sincere. They felt alone and looking for a little 'company. But I pulled right I did not want to disobey my mother. While flows through those doors I see their shapes that invite me Yet, these same gestures and smiles, greeting them with tears in her eyes softly whispering a prayer. Step outside the door where he lived an old woman whom I fear, said she was a witch who stole children and to serve him in his magic rites. He was always locked in the house, went out only to withdraw retirement. It said that after a few months of marriage her husband had left for the war but had not returned, they had no child was left alone for life without remarrying. A neighbor recently arrange for their spending. The old gave him the money without her into the doorway of the door, to return the woman gave a knock at the door, was the signal that the old vedova poteva ritirare quel poco di roba lasciata sul gradino. Non chiedeva mai indietro il resto, così raccontavano. Io la vidi una volta: era alta, magra, il viso nascosto all’interno di un fazzoletto dalla quale uscivano ciuffi di capelli grigi come la cenere, vestiva tutta di nero infagottata all’interno di un grosso scialle dalla quale penzolavano grossi fili di lana.

Temevo quella vecchia, più per quello che si raccontava in giro che per il suo aspetto, ma la paura, che è la madre del coraggio, mi spingeva alla curiosità. Ero solito spiarla nelle winter evenings when I went by their grandparents. I was attracted by the glitter of the fire that lit the dark, dark cavern. He was always close to the brazier. I climbed up on the wall by holding some stones protruding. Today I can not climb the glass to peer-to-read burrs strewn with cobwebs, if you peek right here ... is still there just as I remembered sitting next to the coals, his head wrapped in a handkerchief china with pronounced lip protruding. That poor old woman did not hurt anyone, it had decided to die with her husband so many years ago, closing in pain, the frost arrives in the spring dries the buds of life.

helping me get down the stairs in the dark with light snow, I leave footprints that are quickly covered with confetti light. Clinging along the wall of an abandoned house, a vine with slender white fingers, menacing look to catch the excess going to the side walls of the ancient ruined church of the Purgatory, I stop to look at the apricot tree that grows to ' inside the ruins, in the spring when blossoms like a flower on a grave, now gleam in the darkness of its branches such as crosses draw chalk on a blackboard.

"Ndi Lauri "I spent my childhood, once one of these streets there was life in the summer we children were slow until late at night to revel in the winter when the chill grip of forced to stay closed in the heat next to fireplaces if you went to these streets you could smell the "ra frascatula" or the intoxicating're paten cu stoccu "now reigns a bleak sadness that grips my heart. No longer feel the smell of the past, many people left, many for good, others to seek his fortune. I have not seen again.

The snow keeps coming down, covering everything in white as a blanket increasingly heavy. Our parents and our grandparents before they were born between these rocks, these ancient stones that have seen the hardship and toil of many generations. This desolate and empty country has lost its voice, no one listens. Only during the long winter nights when I listen you can hear the houses creak, shake in a last embrace, you can hear a silent cry to the memories pure and simple, and a daily life that did not ask for anything more than just living.
There is a light right after u sipportu, "comes from the house and Cuma Nuccia Cumpa Luigiu the last old fighting between these lanes. They recently renovated the house, the City has not given them any financial help, they did with their savings, those of a life.

Busso, Cuma Nuccia peering from the window, now in this country do not trust anybody anymore and think that once in the lock outside the door there remained the key from morning to evening. In the neighborhoods of a time watching the house each other. In the neighborhoods of spying on the house all day for everyone.

- About beji giranno cu Tembu up!?
- Sungu ngiru to roppumangetu Cuma Nu, u Tembu Jera mbrioca. Meji pinzannu about me in there cughijri Niva!
- Tres, tres, vèniti scarf.
Luckily I always carry a backpack and that all necessary.
Luigi and Carmela (for all Nuccia) are nice people, in their watery eyes, their fingers twisted and broken by the ground people understand that it is rigorous in its effort, but the feast and friendly hospitality. The children have left the north for a long time, often returning in the summer with families, I remember a beautiful girl, with her back to the memory of a distant memory and with it a naive and good love.

Wet memories with some good glass of wine. Cumba Luigiu is an affable man, the Italian dialect also alternates as well as his wife in that while we still pour a glass and then another bowl resting on the table fills the "FeVi arrappeti.
I was intent on observing the swashbuckling stunts fire, glass in hand when Louis said
- 'poor jerumu vulija goods and people, everyone was happy pocu c'avijinu ru, mo instead keep everything and everyone is happy nisciunu di niente. Mangiavano tutti nda stessa coppa, c’era il rispetto, a disciplina, mo tutti fenu quiddru chi bbonu e nun si capiscia nente. C’erinu puru tannu i vacabunni e l’attaccabrighe ma era gente che si ubriacava, nunni ricijia proprio di lavorare. Ndu munnu i goi a genti s’ammazza pi nnu parcheggiu i machina, apprima s’ammazzavunu pi nnu pezzu i terra addrù ciavijinu scianghè puru u culu. Apprima s’angappava u tostu e lu moddru, i giovini a vent’anni avijinu già na famigghjia, avevano molte responsabilità che gestivano cu pacenza e tanti sacrifici.»
d’un tratto lo interruppi
- «Cumba Luì i giovani i mo venu in crisi pi i semi all’università o picchì Nun can find the right look. "
- 'Je Nu who up luc? asked turning to his wife Louise
-" Cumbo Warbler Cumi you mean. Je l'image, nun se na zenu Cumi tagghjiè the capiddri, Cumi se na clothes, who rrobbi mindi se na ja "said
-" Who vo na ffe cangareja apprima jijimu those pieces ngulu grumbled
- 'Cumba Tembi on Him cangeti "said Luigi
Then the tone became serious again it seemed that his eyes searching for something in the air
- 'ura Aspittavumu first piacijiri ni ni ca quatrareddra who looked nun zapijimu Nendo ru sex, ssi malatiji guests on mo, you eppuru Ricu ca u capiscijimu quannu jerumu Verame mannureti. Young people are supa mo senu tuttu malatiji axes, Cume se na protect and Tandi well, but fail to recognize their own feelings. "

listened to this man as I did with my grandfather near the fireplace on winter nights
- 'vo mo ffe Nisciunu Nendo. Apprima nunn'abbindavumu na peaks. Mo quannu had acciri porcu nun u zi no prize, but everyone shows up there quannu ddra manga u prisuttu. Je Rico scundu munnu Robe u, nu malla no one, A GENDA s'accorgiri ru focu quannu arriviri the door, there jettunu Tannu sulu nu sicchiu the water, but Je too late, and u get focu vrucia. AND NAND ssi ports je u focu arrivetu already! Je nu nu focu who vrucia sulu and scarf. "
Luigi Nucci and give the idea of \u200b\u200blove, that love which does not need to live in mutual affection, looking at images that could ever really love.
I'm leaving in the middle of the night. This is going to end my trip. There would be many things to remember and tell, but remain lodged deep in my heart as the laying on the bottom of the bottle of wine, others I have forgotten in deep sleep of memory lost.

summer between these streets never comes the sun, the walls of the houses perpetually covered with green moss now are wrapped in a thin beard of snow. I pass the house where I lived for many years, there is still the light of my home, not fight again, my son since he was born he brought peace. I look up to the window of what was my room, it's dark but if I look good I see a child with her nose and hands pressed against the windows fogged so enchanted as to count the snowflakes.
Today I saw many signs attached: RENT, SELL, SELL, RENT, I met only loneliness and abandonment, walking through these streets I got the feeling that life is not coming back inside these houses.

Spio into the dark basements of the past, the smell of the past permeates my nostrils, I listen, I feel the pace of memories, take shape, move, breathe, feel whispers ... is a world away from the past yesterday.

I love my country, a love that has roots live in the flesh, but I think no one can save it from abandonment, we have lost the essence of daily life simply forgotten.
Snow. It will snow even in summer for those without memory and for those afraid of time, because there a time that passes, never to return, there is a time to understand that things change and move away and separate changing. It's snowing there this time to dream, to overcome our fears, to go back to the surface and continue to love.
My journey is over, his hands in his pocket a long walk on the street without sidewalks, behind me in the middle of that pile of houses, I saw a light ... a thread that is in the silence there is a tendency for an ever suspended ...

How Long Do Colleges Keep Immunization Records

Di roccia e pietra: tra i fantasmi di Morano Calabro

PART

E ' early afternoon just stopped raining, I feel the smell of wet grass that spreads in the air, a trickle breaks the silence of this late summer, pure drops fall from roof blackened by time.

On a damp and peeling walls covered with lichens and borage I see two, three snails slowly approaching a clump of grass, but halfway cowed by a ray of sunshine are confused by the arrival of the warm light, antennas straight up to that point and defiant of a sudden you portray, wiggle, I am making them go away shadow for a moment, a few meters and noted with surprise that the wall crumbling shell of Parmelia has become a tangle of silver embroidery, are filaments of slime left by the time those harmless mollusks.

are almost eight years that I Morano in the "new" but I never stopped in recent years to resist the lure of the old country, today as yesterday I go around like I did as a child, I feel the need to live the narrow and steep streets of the village, to lose one of its stone gardens, harmonious homes between this plot whose main walls are based on ancient rocks. An up and down the steep stairs are narrow and winding streets intersect in getting lost in a maze of dead bowel smell of stone and moss.

no longer born around the corn to my country, there is no one in the river, not blanket hung out to dry on that railway bridge, the singing of the silent women returning from the fields, I do not feel the smell of homemade bread, the smell of hay for the narrow streets, the sound of flying hooves of donkeys on the steps cobbled made plain by floods during storms. I can not feel the bitter smell of soaked alleys grumatura from the barrels, there are no longer smoky cellars where the screams and curses of morra players mingled with his fists on the table and gestures of those who played fast tressette! I remember women slim but strong belle nelle loro lunghe vesti ora bianche e colorate, ora nere a lutto, femmine coraggiose, abili nel portare in equilibrio sulla testa le loro gerle, rendendosi libere le mani in modo da poter affrontare gli erti sentieri ed i vicoli del paese. Fra la testa e l’oggetto che trasportavano interponevano “a curuna” una stoffa che intrecciavano per non sciogliersi e che serviva per alleviare la pressione del peso.

Ricordo la messa celebrata nella chiesetta i “Sandu Linardu”, le donne del vicinato accorrevano a seguire la “funzione”, altre scendevano “ra Siddreru” e “Sandu Nicola”, i capelli sistemati “ca scettula” the characteristic bands of silk braid-shaped head, others wore handkerchiefs hiding sometimes grotesque faces I make us tremble. Older women clutching a rosary in his hand, the grains were obtained from the pits of the olives. Today, small churches of the past have all closed, some ruined, other sides have given way to major churches, those "signed", where the ladies adorned with trinkets and jewelry to show off the latest hair fashion. When I pass to the churches of the unfortunate "I still have the habit of marking the chest, I wish you would reopen it to continue to instill in my heart for the simple and firm faith that accompanied the ancient people, those who could neither read nor write but who have inherited this wonderful country that we today, and educated generations of graduates, we're doing to die for lack of affection.

forward "vicinanzi" abandoned, lost in the embrace now perennial "ra mindose. Cracks in the walls, split and crumbled by the deadly blows of time, wild fig trees and shrubs make room. The houses hug each other, as for support, but some do not make it crumble under the weight of loneliness and oblivion.

Salgo snaking along streams of rock, the sky disappears hidden behind a door of the walls, I find myself in a neglected garden at dusk, the trees are bare, a chill wind slips into a window without glass. A door is open, go into what once must have been a barn, there's some moldy hay in the manger seem to hair graying of time. Crusts of manure secco ricordano un mondo perduto che non tornerà mai più. Grosse ragnatele tappezzano muri neri come la pece, il soffitto fatto con travi ed assi di legno ha ceduto, sembra una grossa cassa toracica spolpata dal tempo.

Quando esco dalla stalla una scarica di pioggia mista al vento freddo mi piomba addosso, vengo punto come da api impazzite. Dura poco, mi rimetto in cammino tra i vicoli, salgo scalini che sembrano ricavati nel cuore di questa collina. Nella penombra della sera i muri bagnati dall’acqua appena caduta sembrano allungarsi come lingue lucenti nei chiarori obliqui dei primi lampioni that light.

I pass the house of his grandfather, a lump rises in my throat, I keep inside the regret was not to be his neighbor when he left, I preferred the chase days of life, I had to stop, feel the breath of these stones today. When you're young you feel strong, you have the presumption to be able to dominate and subdue the time. Life in our hands is nothing more than a scythe, and when you are young and beginners is easy to cut close to the ground and contaminate the blade with the ground, beat against the rocks and blunt. The weather makes us less stubborn, errors need to become more adept at keeping the blade close to the earth and even to cuts, the experience makes the effort less burdensome, but the shots went bad over time, they use the sickle and cut flowers can no longer hang . Dear grandfather, I hope you will forgive me, I had to sit a bit 'more with you. In your memory and your example every day I try the path.

I walk these steps in the silence of the night, streams of tears dripping down my face. Light beams out from the inside of some houses, there are people who still resist, this is perhaps not the country is allowed to die at all, still feels a warmth that gives courage and hope.

I am leaving behind the acrid smell of chimneys, the smoke is dispersed into narrow alleys that penetrate deep into a dark, I find myself in an open space without life, a gust eddies of wind lifts the leaves, there is none, hence the country is dead, there is a gloomy silence. I walk quietly to avoid disturbing the sleep of these tombs. Yet once this place was full of life! I listen to hear the sounds of the past, the ticking of chisels, hammers the beat, the rhythm of agile and industrious hands, pat the presses, the slight creak of the mill grind, I see the breath come out of the donkey stables I hear the faint wail of a few chickens, a stone staircase from the wind rolled a barrel of milk, then all of a sudden from a dilapidated basement, I saw a faint light that was not there before, it is not a modern light seems to be flickering of a candle.

Frightened climb a steep ladder and peek inside a large window barred with iron rods and un graticcio annerito, appeso ad una grossa trave di legno scorgo un maiale e sotto la gola osservo un secchio di latta che raccoglie il sangue bollente dell’animale ucciso. Un uomo anziano lo rimesta con una canna per evitare che coaguli, il pavimento è cosparso di peli, su un piccolo tavolo di legno una serie di coltelli affilatissimi e sottili aspettano di essere adoperati. Un uomo di spalle senza voltarsi ne afferra uno con presa sicura, vedo la lama scintillare alla luce fioca di una grossa candela. Sul grugno dell’animale il sangue ha creato un rivolo grumoso e nero dalla quale esce ancora qualche goccia. L’anziano toglie il secchio con il sangue raccolto mentre una donna vi poggia una tinozza di plastica. L’uomo di spalle dirige la lama verso the lower part of the animal, cut marks on his neck with a knife then sinks effortlessly slicing his carotid artery, on the arms of the man spitting pieces of clotted blood black, with a movement decided by a last shot, his head hanging for a while 'then drops it into the tub. On the top affects the skin carefully whitish, cleverly designed with short and conservative cuts in a row with very thin line that splits into two parts the pink nipples of the pig, from tear out intense fumes, the steaming entrails are placed in an old tin pot battered and blackened by smoke, pungent smells of piss and shit, plumes of steam rising into the air more and more subtle and eventually disappear.

Intent to spy, he suddenly felt a weight on his shoulders a cold shock to me along the back, the air is still there is an eerie silence.

(CONTINUED)