Cerro Veronese

Here is Lake Garda, near Verona.

We arrived in Italy in late May after a short stop to visit family in Paris, France. The original plan had been to rent a cottage on the Lago di Garda (Lake Garda) for the summer and then look for an apartment in Verona in the Fall. I was told the weather would be warm and sunny, so I packed summer clothes with a couple of sweaters for the kids and myself. The rest of our clothes, furniture, household effects etc. were in a storage crate deep in the bowels of an ocean freighter making its way across the Atlantic. It would take 3 or 4 months to reach Italy.  But Instead of a house on the lake, my husband's colleague suggested renting a cottage in Cerro Veronese, a village in the pre-alps, in the Lessine hills above Verona.

The village of Cerro Veronese.

The village of Cerro was perched on one hill and we lived across from it on another.  When the weather was clear we had a wonderful view of the mountains in the distance.  The cottage was built on a slope.  It was constructed of cement blocks, stone and stucco.  Downstairs was a garage, a bedroom and a bath.  A staircase led up to a balcony across the front of the building. There was a small kitchen with the basics, a large room with a table and six straight-backed chairs, a sofa, a cupboard for dishes and a TV with "rabbit ears" that worked rarely.  The reception in the hills was not good.  

In the back there were two bedrooms separated by a bathroom.  The three children were in one room with 2 single beds, a crib and an armoire.  The other room contained a double bed and another armoire.  The floor was tile, the walls white-washed.  There was no heating.  In May there was a chill in the air and I realized that we would need coats and some thick blankets. 

This is the another postcard view of our hill from the village of Cerro .

Our house in Cerro Veronese.

The landlord, Signor C.,his wife and daughter were there to greet us when we arrived.  They were lovely, generous people who would serve as surrogate grandparents in the years to come. But more about that later. 

 

Mr. C. was quite well-off.  At the end of WWII, as a young man, he managed to obtain an old bus.  He repaired it and bartered for some tires.  He began a bus service around Verona and into the hills.  Little by little he was able to buy more busses and by the 1970’s he was the prosperous owner of a thriving bus company.

Me, the children, Signor C.,wife and daughter.

Leaving for Verona, Italy

This blog has been sailing along on the crest of a wave with no rudder and no discernible purpose.  I’ve decided to use this site to share my personal experiences as a teenager and young woman living in Europe.  I’m going to begin with our move to Verona, Italy in 1974.  Later I’ll backtrack and share some stories about my teenage years in France and Sweden.

In 1974 we left Chicago and sailed for Europe on the QE 2. My husband, Vincent, would be serving as comptroller of an ice-cream plant partly owned by Beatrice Foods, a large American conglomerate.  Our three children were still small:  Marie-Juliette (5) Charles (3) and Christopher (1).  We drove to New York in our yellow Volkswagen wagon.  The chief advantage to that car was that the engine was in the back under the rear platform, so the front hood opened up as a trunk.  You’ve got to remember that this was before seat-belts so kids were free to roam the car.  In my ignorance of child safety, I loved the fact that the boys could roll around and play with their toys on the back platform, while their sister played with her dolls on the back seat.  If they got tired they just stretched out and fell asleep.  It seemed great at the time.

We boarded the Queen Elizabeth 2 on a sunny day.  Unfortunately, once out to sea it was cold and windy.  We spent most of the time indoors.  Our cabin was small with three children and all their paraphernalia.  There were activities for the children during the day.  Most nights there was a dining service for children followed by games and fun.  One night we put the kids to bed early  When they were asleep we crept out, locked the door and went dancing.  When I think about it now and after seeing TITANIC, it seems irresponsible!

Marie-Juliette and the intrepid Volkswagen.

Boarding the QE2. Vincent, Christopher, me, Charles and Marie-Juliette.

There she blows!

Br-r-r.  We all look miserable.

A family dinner complete with sailor hats.

Vivent Les Américains

In an earlier post I painted a rose-colored picture of our summers in La Chapelle St. Sépulcre, a tiny village south of Paris near Montargis.  My former mother-in-law, Juliette, was a strong, principled woman.  She was small with bright blue eyes and lovely creamy skin.  During the latter part of the German occupation, she moved from Paris to the village with her three little boys. The house had thick stone walls and a tiled floor.  There was a fireplace and a wood-burning stove but it must have been terribly cold during the long winters of World War II.

             In Paris it had become difficult to procure food for the children.  In the country they could obtain root vegetables and maybe some milk and an egg or two.  The children got tired of the carrots and wormy apples.  Juliette force-fed the toddlers when they refused to eat.  Among the most hated vegetables were salsify and topinambour (Jerusalem artichokes).  Along with the constant hunger and cold was the fear of the German soldiers who could suddenly arrive unannounced in the village.

            In June of 1944, the villagers learned of the Normandy invasion.  Excitement bubbled through the hamlet.   A short time later, there were rumblings that the Germans had begun to flee the approaching Allied Forces.  It was said that the soldiers would grab anything they could; shoot for a loaf of rancid bread or kill for a bicycle.

            One night Juliette put the children to bed and then locked up the house; closed the heavy metal shutters and secured the door.  She fell into a fitful sleep and then awoke in fear.  Outside she could hear footsteps on the gravel, murmurings and undefinable rustling.  She lay there in terror.  In the early light, there was a heavy knock on the wooden door.  With trepidation, she unlocked the door and peeked out.  There towering over her were two American GIs chewing gum and smiling broadly.   The meadow behind the house was sprinkled with tents. Soldiers were busy setting up camp.  In the next few days Juliette and the boys were treated to canned beans, spam, sugar and chocolate.  It was heaven on earth.

            In the weeks that followed, the road that wound through the village became a major supply line for the Allied Forces.  A continual parade of trucks, jeeps and tanks thundered by the house for days on end.  The soldiers would smile, wave and toss out chocolate.

            Until the day she died, Juliette spoke of the Americans with great warmth.  They were indeed her saviors.

The American soldiers pitched their tents in this field behind the house.

DIVERGENT DEATHS

DIVERGENT DEATHS, the third book in THE BANNER BLUFF MYSTERY SERIES is now available on Amazon as a paperback or as an eBook for your Kindle or iPad.
http://tinyurl.com/jr587el

It looks like the best one yet!  Get your copy soon!

La Chapelle St. Sépulcre

La Chapelle St.-Sépulcre is a tiny village about 80 kilometers south of Paris near Montargis in the Loiret.   Montargis is known as the Venise du Gatinais due to its many canals.  But unfortunately, la Chapelle had no creek, no lake, no stream.  This was the main complaint of my brothers-in-law and sister-in-law.  They claimed the village needed water to give it charm.  But in my memories it glows idyllic.

            As a young Mother I spent the month of August at the family country home with my three children. The house and its outbuildings were once the hunting lodge of my husband’s great grandfather.  The walls were two feet thick and kept the house warm in winter and cool in summer.  The main building was relatively near the road, but was separated by a high iron fence and tall bushes.  Behind the house, to the South was a large meadow bordered by woods. At the time of the Allied Invasion this meadow had been filled with the tents and fires of the American troops chasing down the Nazis 

            Meandering through the woods was a wide dirt path, l’allée To the East were tennis courts with orchards beyond. To the West was the “potager,” the vegetable garden.  The woods, the meadow, the garden, the orchard, all of it was surrounded by a sturdy iron fence.  This was the summer wonderland of my children.

            Each morning we would have big bowls of café au lait flavored with chicory.  The bread basket was filled with slices of day-old baguette that had been toasted on the woodstove.  There were jars of ruby-red plum jam and golden apricot preserves.  On a blue and white oblong plate was a large slab of sweet butter from a neighboring farm.  After breakfast the children would escape to the meadow until I had finished my second cup of coffee and chatted about the day with my Mother-in-law, Mère, and my sister-in-law, Laurence.  As we were chatting, Yvonne would arrive from the village.  She would sing out, “Bonjour Mesdames.” She was a, sturdy red-faced woman with a cheerful disposition.  She appeared in the morning to do the previous evening’s supper dishes as well as the breakfast dishes.  Then she aired the beds, swept the floor and prepared the vegetables for the evening soup.

            Often before her arrival, Emil could be found in the potager; weeding, watering and fussing with the vegetable plants.  He had a long white moustache and sparkling eyes.  He wore wooden shoes, tattered woolen pants and a moth-eaten sweater. Emil had worked this garden long before the war and felt a curious allegiance to my Father-in-law and the family.  Periodically, he would stop to smoke his pipe, and growl at the children as they gamboled around the garden.  Each day, before leaving he would pick the vegetables that were ready to be harvested and bring them in to Yvonne.  

            After breakfast, I would harness the children for their summer homework of reading and writing.  Then, my three darlings and their cousins would escape into the meadow and woods, safely protected by the surrounding fence.  Often they would not appear until lunch having climbed trees, built forts and ridden bikes around the allée and on the tennis court.  They seemed to be eternally entertained. 

            After a luncheon of perhaps, tomato salad, veal scallops, sautéed potatoes, cheeses and peaches in red-wine, Mère and Père, my mother and father-in-law, would rest and I would take the children off for tennis lessons or a long walk in the woods or a trip to the swimming pool in Montargis. 

            But the best moment of the day, was tea time at 4:30 or 5:00.  We would prepare the tea tray with a cheerful rustic napkin.  There would be slices of pain d’epice (spice cake),” cake”, which in France is a fruit cake; pieces of dark chocolate, Petit Beurre cookies and meringues.  We would fill the ancient pewter tea pot which was happily round and squat with an acorn for a handle.  It was accompanied by matching sugar and creamer - two roly-poly dwarf pots topped with miniature acorns.

            Mère loved tea time.  She loved sweets of all kinds and there was always an over-abundance of cookies and cakes.  She spoiled the children.  She spoiled me and she spoiled herself.  I think her delight in pastries went back to the war when there was no sugar, no cakes and little food of any kind…when a spoonful of green-tomato jam was a special treat.

            We would gather in the garden for the daily ritual.  There was a clearing in the allée with a wrought-iron table and matching chairs… painted white.  We would place the tea tray on the table and sink in the chairs.  The children would bounce around or sit on laps and we would delight in our luxurious repast.  Conversation flowed smoothly with gurgles of happy laughter.

In my mind’s eye, it was always sunny and happiness warmed our hearts and souls.

Re-invented 

I've been re-invented from French Teacher to Literary Motivator and Consultant!

I spent the last two days back at York High School.  I spoke to the Creative Writing classes about Writing Strategies, the Power of the imagination and Freedom Writing. They were interested in how I became a writer and about all my travels.  With prompts, the students wrote imaginative, creative prose.  It was exciting!  I've missed the golden age of adolescence.

 

A FIX FOR WINTER DOLDRUMS

One day last winter, I picked up my eleven year old granddaughter and three friends at 10:30 AM. It was five degrees with a sprinkling of snow.   School was out for the day and there would be no school on Friday or Monday.  The mood was beyond exuberant.  In a flash NPR was gone, replaced by B96 at ear-popping decibels.  Singing along, taking selfies, giggling,...with these girls, I suddenly felt alive.  Here’s a poem to celebrate the moment:

A car ride with four eleven year old girls

Winter doldrums?  Need a fix?

Spend some time with preteen chicks.

Effervescent, sweet delight,

Joy in action, bliss in flight

Katy Perry hear her Roar

Giggles plenty, voices soar

Long hair flipping, raspberry lips

Taking life in sparkling sips

No tomorrow, just today

On the edge of child’s play.