Noni's Confession

Leah thought she was done writing novels until that day in May when she arrived at the remote Tuscan villa at sunset. A vista poured out in front of her like an elegant green language she knew she had to learn. The view was like none she had ever seen.

The very next morning, she sat quietly in meditation, tracing the distant blue hillside with her eyes, moving right to left, the way you read the Torah. As she reached the cluster of soft sand-colored buildings that make up Volpaia, she settled there, pushing her imagination into the small central square of the medieval village. She recalled all the long conversations she had had with Noni, and how desperate her grandmother was that she visit Volpaia.  Leah let her imagination roam to the heart of the square where the cafe known as Bar-ucci's is busy from late morning, with capuccino and croissant (cornetto) seekers, all through the afternoon and long into the evening, when drinks get stronger and owner Paola Barucci turns on a string of lights that make the bar cozy. 

Much later, when she finally learned the truth about the infant, she would return to the village again. She would decide, with Noni's encouragement, that she had no choice but to take up residence in one of the heavy stone buildings that made up Volpaia -- which is Italian for "fox pit." 

Each time she walked across the square and crossed the length of the town, it amazed her to think that the infant survived the backward village in which he had the unfortunate fate to be born.

Leah didn't know it at the time, but the story about the infant -- and the parents who bore him-- would come to occupy the next three years of her life.

******

It all started in Noni's kitchen in February of 2020, exactly a month before the pandemic set in. Leah, who was director of alumni relations for UMass, the college where she earned her undergraduate degree in journalism, had a standing date to come to dinner at Noni's once a week. Noni cooked some of Leah's favorites: pesto with homemade linguini, minestrone with crisp homemade bread, bracciole thick in parsley and garlic, and ravioli with spinach and hamburger that were so tender the pasta fell apart in your plate. 

Leah had taken her trip to Volpaia half a year ago, and ever since she'd come back, Noni had been saying she wanted to talk to Leah "cuore a cuore," heart to heart. Several times, Noni had started to talk to Leah, and then after a few minutes, she got up and said, "No, no, it's not time."

The day Noni finally divulged her secret -- it was Thursday, February 13 -- Leah had to work late getting out a rather foolish press release connected to Valentine's Day. It was so cold that morning Leah wore her quilted long underwear to the office, which was notoriously freezing.  It made for a long tiring day, so Leah was feeling spent by the time she pulled up in front of Noni's apartment -- a charcoal grey duplex in a gritty neighborhood in Holyoke. Noni was 85, but she refused all attempts to be as she called it, "strappato" -- torn away from her familiar two-bedroom flat.

As soon as Leah knocked on the door, Noni was there to open it. "Come queek, queek, no let cold air in," Noni said, and Leah pivoted around the storm door and into the apartment as swiftly as she could.

The routine: Noni would pour Leah a glass of chianti, the same wine that Noni's husband Aldo, Leah's grandfather, once made and stored in barrels in the basement of their home a few blocks away.

"Here, drink," Noni said, setting the wineglass on the kitchen table before Leah had even unwrapped the cashmere scarf from around her neck. She took off her coat and handed it to Noni who squirreled it away in the hall that connected the kitchen and living room.

Leah inhaled. The smell of the "sugo" -- Noni's spaghetti sauce -- filled her with love and comfort. No matter what Leah did making her own sauce, there was something lacking. She went to the old white stove -- the one Noni had cooked on as long as Leah could remember -- and lifted the lid on the sauce, chock full of meatballs. "Ooh, polpette, hmmmm, deliziosa," Leah whispered. Noni smiled, and clasped her hands in front of her old yellowed apron.

The table was already set for two. Leah sat down and immediately sipped from the chianti. "Noni, you don't know what it means to me to be able to come here after the day I had." They had started this routine about two years before, just after Leah broke up with her long-time boyfriend Brandon, a computer expert in UMass' registrar office. The break up was a long time coming, and Leah was better off without him, but still, she was deeply sad after he moved out.

Coming to Noni's house was something to look forward to. For one thing, Noni was so patient, so calm. Nothing ruffled her.

"Tell me, what happened today, why so hard?"  

Noni listened while Leah slowly drank half the glass of chianti. She briefly summarized what she said was a "day's worth of craziness from the President" at the University. After a while, Noni stood up and crossed the kitchen with her rolling stride. She took two plates from the cabinet and set them on the counter. Then she went to the stove where spaghetti was boiling. Taking two pot holders, she lifted the kettle and emptied it into a colander in the sink. Steam rose around her face, flushing her pink.

Leah got up. "I think it's time I helped out, isn't it Noni? Come on, I'll serve."

Noni's eyes widened and she stopped what she was doing. "NO!" she commanded in the way she always did when she meant business. "Seet down I serve!"

So Leah sat down and soon was enjoying the most exquisite Italian meal she had had since the week before.

After dinner, Noni brought out a tray of panna cota, Leah's favorite dessert. Noni set one on a plate and covered it in raspberries and blueberries and a dollop of whipped cream.

"No wonder my pants don't seem to fit like they used to," Leah said.

Armed with dessert, and a cup of mint tea, Leah led the way into the living room, where they always ended their meals.

Leah had drunk a second glass of chianti, so she was feeling very relaxed. But as she dipped into the rich custard she could see there was something on Noni's mind. Her forehead was furrowed.

"What is it Noni? You seem so upset."

Noni closed her eyes, and slowly shook her head yes.

"Something I wanting to tell you for a long long time."

Leah slowed her eating and finally set her spoon down. "Tell me," she said in a low voice. "I'm listening."

Noni set her hands, red and chapped from dishwashing, into her lap.

"It's about my father, Pasquale.  You were a baby when he died. I remember he holding you when you were only this big!" She held her hands up.  

Leah smiled. "I bet he was a wonderful man."

"Yes, oh yes, Leah, he was una gemma -- you say gem! A gentle man always there to help others."

"So tell me, why are you thinking about him Noni?"

She folded her lips into her mouth and sat with them pressed together. Then she inhaled. "Something I never tell anyone not your mother or your aunts, only my dear dear husband knew because he had to and of course all my sisters too." Noni Natalya was the youngest of six sisters.

Leah nodded. "Go ahead Noni, you can tell me."

"But now I tell you: my father your great grandfather he was born ..." She clasped her hands together and whispered, "a bastarda, bastard." She frowned deeply and looked into her lap and her shoulders folded around her.  "He was raised not by his mother, but he knew his mother. The town gave him the name, Orzo, like the macaroni. Such shame. So much shame he felt, all his life, when he married my great grandmother, Caterina, and then when they came to America. And all of my Orzo sisters, we felt the shame all our life!"

Noni is sobbing so Leah gets up and slides a chair next to her grandmother's and puts one arm around her shoulders. Leah is feeling how frail Noni is. How deeply sad.

"We had always to know that we were not so good as other people because of our father's shameful beginning."

Leah squeezed Noni's shoulders. "You know Noni that today there is no shame in having a baby without being married. So many many women today actually choose to do that."

Noni has a small pink hanky in her hand and she is wiping her eyes. "I am too old to know about this modern things," she whispers.

"I know. It's OK." Leah takes one of her grandmother's chafed hands in hers. "So tell me Noni, why do you want me to know this about your father?"

Noni sniffles. "I know how smart you are.  You know how to find things out. I want you...." here she stopped and put her other hand over Leah's. "I want you to go to Volpaia and find out the true story of my dear father."

Leah's eyes widened. She blinked. What was her grandmother thinking? How could Leah possibly find out the story of her great grandfather? He was born sometime about 1870, more than 150 years ago. And Leah's Italian was pitiful.

For a moment Leah looked at her hands clasped by her grandmother's. Then she looked up into Noni's eyes. Her grandmother was smiling. How could she possibly say no?

So she didn't. "I'll go, of course I'll go, Noni," Leah said. "Maybe my friend Nina will come with me, she speaks perfect Italian."

What Leah didn't say, what she didn't promise was that she would find out the story of her great grandfather's life.

"I knew you would do this for me," Noni said, tears erupting once again. "I knew when I told you that you would write the story of my dear father."

The word "write" hit Leah right in the center of the chest. "Oh boy," she thought. "Oh boy."

And for the rest of the evening, she busied herself washing dishes. And asking her grandmother to talk about her childhood.

As she hurried to her car in the brittle cold, Leah shuddered inside. "How could she possibly write Pasquale Orzo's story?"

 

Basking in the Birches

The woods 

are lovely

white

and wide...

Sunday's walk

to Alford Springs

brings us back to

the massive birch

grove that I love so much.

Standing there with 

the glowing white

trees to each side,

and the azure blue

sky above, does

something. The

trees have an

energy that 

sizzles between

them and through

me. I stand there

with my walking poles

in each hand

and I feel

the subtle birch buzz

touch my face

and pass through

my body. I smile

and close my eyes.

I inhale, 

and hold my

breath. 

I leave

finally 

because

Rich calls to me.

We've got miles

to go before 

we stop.

Breaking the Law and Loving It

OK, so we’re breaking the law but it’s one of the best things we’ve ever done. You see in our town of North Egremont Massachusetts, we are fortunate enough to have about 140 acres of parkland. French Park has dozens of trails through the forest and sometimes we walk there.

Well, so, recently it’s become clear that our darling little dog, Poco,

now eight years old, has slowed down. Often she refuses to go on walks with us. Sometimes it’s too cold, or rainy, or icy and sometimes she just doesn’t feel like it.

But what we’ve discovered is that Poco adores the forest in French Park. Just the other day, as we were walking up Baldwin Hill Road, with Poco on the leash, she steered us right into the park.

At the entrance to the park is a big sign in red: All dogs must be kept on a leash. Violators are subject to fines.

Well, so, it doesn't really work to keep Poco on the leash in French Park. She’s raring to go as soon as her little paws touch down on the soft leafy surface of the trails. Normally, when we walk her on the roads, she is good for no more than about a mile. In the woods, however, she doesn’t slow down, no matter how far we walk. She still stops often to sniff at fallen logs, and piles of leaves, and other distractions, but she keeps up with us. And it’s clear that she is happy, as her little body practically bounces up hills and over bridges.

The other day, as we walked in French Park under an increasingly sunny sky, I realized how heavenly it is to walk with Poco in the woods. I stopped and let her get ahead of me and then I shot a video of her following my husband up the trail. I texted it to my son, Noah, a few minutes later, and he wrote back: “Oh my God what a cute video. Poco’s butt!” Yes, the video shows her little butt wiggling back and forth up the path.

Oh I am so so happy that Poco loves to walk in the woods. And if anyone in town reads this and reports us to the French Park Authorities, I will be pleased to pay the fine.

Oh SNOW!! Oh POCO!!

In the morning, 

a few patches of icy snow

remained in the yard, 

some shaped

like white eyebrows 

speckled black.

By afternoon, though,

when she was out with the dog, 

the yard was completely

free and clear

of winter.

She found herself yelling

across the meadow

"ONLY TWELVE DAYS

TILL SPRING! YES!"

The dog wagged her tail

and the wind lifted the

black hair on her head,

and she just stood there

and listened steadily.

Now comes the next day

and the white stuff

roars down at a hard angle

and falls as intense fluff

and mixes with sleet 

to spit new piles

on the ground.

Today, she is

indoors,

looking outdoors

and telling herself

she can't tolerate

one more snowy day.

She is about to

shout "I HATE IT 
I'M SO DAMN SICK OF IT!"

when she

glances at the 

dog stretched out

in her easy chair:

her black head

wedged between

the arm and the cushion,

her little white body

gently rising and falling

with her steady breath.

Ever so softly she

snores the

afternoon away.

It hits her then.

Why is she 

labeling the snow 

black or white?

Maybe

the "YES!/NO!"

"snow/no snow"

"good day/bad day"

dichotomy is

silly and

unnecessary.

Instead, do as 

Poco does,

just be with 

it, however 

it is right now,

no matter,

the snow

like so much else

is just part of all 

the glory there is to live

and love.

We Said Goodbye Two Years Ago

By Harold Hastings

Remembering my Dearest on her second yahrzeit

We said goodbye two years ago
But in a way we didn’t
A large part of me joined you on your final journey
But you gave me your spark
And it remained a part of me
We are together when I see the world through your eyes
We said goodbye two years ago
But in a way we didn’t

This is a photo which shows my wife as an active partner as we built a
kayak in 2013. It was one of the many things we shared, and it was part
of a "memory board" in our last spring together.

Harold Hastings is a research scientist, college teacher and writer, and

is thrilled to be a member of what might be termed the Hevreh art salon.

He has lived in the Berkshires since 2012. Harold credits family,

friends and faith for sustaining him after losing his wife of more than

50 wonderful years.

Trust Your Crazy Ideas!

Leah is standing in the meadow in her heavy rubber-soled boots and her emerald green jacket. The sky is brand new, a blue like she's never seen before. Wherever she turns, there is brown stubble sticking up out of the crusty snow. Poco sticks her nose in one tuft or another and Leah keeps telling her "do not eat the grass!"

Leah sighs. She's been taking a new medication and it has the effect of dampening her emotions. The doctor says she doesn't want Leah going "manic."

"What you went through while you were writing last spring was a dangerous high, a high that's always followed by a deep depression!"

When Leah tells the doctor that she misses feeling her creative spirit, that she misses writing, the doctor says: "I don't care if you don't write for six months! I just want you to stay calm."

Leah kicks at the icy crystals. She's not so certain she likes what the doctor says. What she didn't say to the doctor was: "You may not care if I write for six months but I care, I care a lot!"

Still, as much as she doesn't like what the doctor said, she is still a bit nervous about writing. Last fall, Leah crashed; the low got so bad that she couldn't drive. She couldn't call friends. She couldn't even muster the energy to go to the grocery store!

Poco scampers across the meadow and heads toward the wetland.. The pine trees -- the same color as Leah's jacket -- tower over the house. Last week, during the ice storm, a gigantic branch crashed into the yard while she was meditating. She jumped as she saw the tree split in half. The branch lay just a few feet from her door!

After that she looked up at the other towering trees and said a quiet prayer: "Please, pines, please stay in place."

Leah wants to write again. She wants the feeling that she can sail away on her words. She wants the feeling that her heart is steering the narrative toward the place it's supposed to go. Toward healing. Toward telling the stories of her ancestors. Especially the stories that have carried negative messages down through the generations.

Leah calls to Poco. "Let's go sweetie!"

Maybe because the ice is melting. Or the wind has a certain scent, that smell of earth coming alive. She feels an upsurge. She feels sentences, or at least words, starting to flutter up in the back of her mind.

An hour later, she sits with pen and paper. Beside her is the large green notebook where she stores all the chapters she's done for the book she calls "Angels Keep Whispering in My Ears." There are three or four inches of manuscript paper in the notebooks.

She's not sure how to begin revision. So she decides to open the notebook to a random page.

She opens to the page where there's a photo of a sign that her dear friend Kellie gave her years ago:

"Trust Your Crazy Ideas," it reads. And in Italian, "Fidati Delle Tue Idee Folli!"

Folly. Yes. Writing books is certainly folly. It can be such a long arduous process. You can write thousands of pages (as she did for her first novel, Dreaming Maples) to produce a book of 425 pages.

But Leah can't help herself. The mania be damned. She wants to feel swept up in the spirit of this book again. 

"I'm not writing to be famous, or to be published, or to be on Oprah," she says. "I'm writing to heal myself."

She looks out the window. Sunlight makes the wetland grasses and the willow trees glow. Questions occur to her now: what does it mean to be healed?  And once you're healed, are you healed for good?

She smiles. She opens her laptop and begins to write.

Sky Blue Washing Through

When I sat down in meditation this morning 

and looked up at the sky, it felt brand new to me!

The blue was flawless.

I knew I had to do a painting to celebrate this blue

and of course, the sun and snow too.

Sometimes I worry that I am going 

to ruin a painting -- but that's never true.

As long as I keep pouring my heart and soul into 

the motion and let the paint flow wherever it will go

then everything turns out whole.

I peel my sky blue yoga shirt over my shoulders

and take off my coffee-colored yoga pants and 

slip on my painting clothes. Who knows

what will happen?

Forest Prayers, a Haiku

Being in the woods

is like being in a church.

Each tree, a prayer.

NOW IS THE HOW

Today is Wednesday January 12th

2022.

It is 3:02 p.m.

I have just returned from a four-mile walk

in the milky light of the sun.

Patches of ice on the black road 

looked shiny to me.

The trees were dark,

stark winter statues

that will come

alive in spring.

Now I am back

from my walk

and I am 

having

something

of 

an 

EPIPHANY.

I am feeling the NOW in the way I often do

these days

when I just stop.  And sit and breathe deeply.

And keep feeling the air filling me up

and then emptying.

I am hungry so I go to the kitchen.

I treat myself to a salad:

goat cheese crumbles, purple radishes, chunks of apple,

pumpkin and sunflower seeds.

ALL DAY LONG I HAVE BEEN 

stopping.

And stopping.

To feel my body. My breath.

It started with morning yoga,

and in particular,

Breath of Fire.

Breath of Fire is well named:

You start by 

chanting the mantra

“Om namo guru dev namo.”

It means: 

“I bow to the Divine wisdom within.”

You sing it slowly three times

before doing any Kundalini yoga practice.

Then you start the breathing by

sitting up straight and 

sucking your abdomen in against your spine. 

You keep your mouth closed, and so

air explodes out your nose. 

Afterward, the belly automatically fills up with air.

You keep repeating this in and out breathing over and over again

as rapidly as you can.

I did Breath of Fire for several minutes this morning. 

It energizes my whole body!

After Breath of Fire, I did what yoga teachers say you must do: 

lay down in corpse pose and rest for a few minutes.

******* 

Here it is now 4:15 p.m.  The sun will set in about half an hour.

I made myself a cup of turmeric tea a few minutes ago and added milk and

a teaspoon of golden honey.

I am savoring every sip.

I sit here and feel the empty time.

No thoughts.  Just breathing and observing 

the snowy view out the window

as it slowly gets darker and darker.

The emptiness is full of silence and peace. 

I breathe slowly. I close my eyes and go inside 

and I feel my breath as it fills my lungs and abdomen. 

I sit and sit and sit.

I feel the sacredness in the stillness. 

Of Oranges and Orchids

One day 

when my son was much younger, 

he was eating a sliced orange

and out of nowhere he said,

“Seeing an orange like this 

convinces me there is a God.”

I was rather shocked, 

in a pleasant way, 

by his observation. 

I told him I agreed, 

but we didn’t go on 

to have a deep 

philosophical or religious 

discussion. 

There was no need to. 

He had captured 

one of life’s little miracles 

and that was that.

I thought about that comment

this morning as I stared into 

the heart of my purple orchid, 

which finally bloomed a day ago. 

I love the very center of the flower. 

I marvel at its mysterious structure. 

To me, it looks as though the orchid 

has two curved “arms” 

reaching right out of the blossom, 

offering up the flower’s 

exotic beauty and architecture.

So here  I have written 88 words 

trying to capture the flower’s miracle 

whereas my son 

did the same thing with the orange 

in eleven.