There it was, lying quietly among the bills and spam in our mailbox on the wall of the Bindi stables: an ordinary white envelope, hand addressed. I could have asked "What could this be?" but I'd seen it before. The schedule inside has become familiar.
Lunedi 7 marzo 9.00 Bindocci Walter, Ciacci Mario ....
Martedi 8 marzo 15.45 Pinna Angela, Santa Maria, Salimbeni ....
And of course, mercoledì 9 marzo 15.45 after the farms of Carraia, Malabicci, Albiano, Valloreci, San Lorenzo, there we were - Podere Trove.
The list goes on until venerdi 11 marzo 18.00 San Girolamo, Pozzarello, Palazzina, Tena ....
Such an ordinary little envelope, a bit crumpled, a bit smudged - after all it had passed from hand to hand and bounced its way along the dirt roads, ice encrusted this late winter, in the little yellow-and-white car of the Postino who delivers mail around lunch-time after his morning at the Petroio Post Office, hours 08.30 - 10.30.
The envelope may be ordinary but the avalanche of activity after its arrival is extraordinary.
A couple of weeks before Easter each year the whole district is advised of the date and time of the local priest's visit for the BENEDIZIONE DELLE FAMIGLIE - the Blessing of Families and, in our area, also of local small businesses, terracotta factories and farms. The simple term 'Spring Cleaning' takes on another dimension and may become the only topic of conversation among the women for weeks 'when is he coming to your place?' 'have you done the ceilings and walls yet?' 'have you heard about this amazing new cleanser?'. It may occur, as a side-issue, among the men while they play cards or watch soccer in the Bar 'oh the stink of bleach I can't stand it any more' 'oh I'm sent out to sit in the piazza every morning oh oh oh'. The fact that 'their' football team has consistently lost or drawn this winter season makes the Bar more miserable, then there's the damned new Law that you can't smoke oh oh oh!
This year there were a couple of complicating factors. Firstly the WINTER. It started normally, maybe a little warm, but then turned consistently cold, literally freezing out usual activity. At Trove we've been snowed in, the only way out by tractor then after the thaw the little Citroen 2CV which churns up the hill to the main road where the bigger car sits importantly waiting. I normally, sneakily, start my clean-up a bit early: well it's a big ancient un-renovated farmhouse and the dirt is older and smarter than me. But this year I got caught out like all the others - what a bonding moment! The other complication was LA FESTA DELLE DONNE. The 8th March, no matter what, the Day of the Women is a big thing in Tuscany. A whole industry on the coast of Liguria (in Summer known as the Cinque Terre) lives off this one day of the year. They grow Mimosa, yes Wattle, locally reputed to come from 'Tasmania' just another name for 'Australia' after all. This year the trees froze. Disaster! Mimosa farms and city flower-shops went under; husbands couldn't buy the obligatory tree or at least bunch of blooms for their wives before going to the Bar; worse still restaurants couldn't festoon walls and tables with the green and yellow. That soft, gentle perfume, so transitory in any case, was missing from the dinner, the 'cena delle donne'.
I'm not sure why Tuscany has so taken to heart the celebration of the anniversary of a strike years ago of women workers in a U.S factory which ended in a tragic fire and the loss of their lives. At the time the mimosa was in bloom and has become accepted here as 'the flower of the women'. I have a tree growing at the bottom of the stairs, jealously protected from the big North wind, more from home-sickness than a sense of anniversary. It's about to bloom for me, late but right on start of Spring. This gives me kudos as most other local trees have died this winter.
Checking the schedule of the Priest's blessings we all realized that the Festa della Donna fell right in the middle of preparations for 'la Benedizione'. What to do? Well, do both of course. After all, the Festa boils down to the fact that groups of women get together for the 'Cena delle Donne', book long tables in local restaurants (this year sans mimosa), eat Pizza and yell at one another above the combined noise of their own table and a dozen others squeezed into small spaces to celebrate the day, that is the evening. The 'feeling' is great, the food often less so. Daughters are permitted, sons not. Frequently we dine next to a table of men-friends and their sons. Poor things! The women at our table tut-tut and are understanding. These men obviously haven't got it right: their women, their wives/girlfriends/daughters/daughter-in-laws/mothers haven't foreseen to their dinner (put pot marked 'A' on the fire for 2 minutes, the pan marked 'B' in the oven for 10, the bowl marked 'C' with salad on the table …. Buon appetito). The men generally seem to have a good time. Only once have I encountered a table of men, next to ours, who became angry at being left to their own devices and took their frustration out on the gentle faces and scarred hands of the women next to me. But this was 'the Day of the Woman' and these ladies confronted the anger. What a shouting match! The men left. "What if" wondered the women "they take it out on us afterwards?"
The women at my table this year had done their normal day's work. An early coffee breakfast and packed-lunch for the men; 'governare' the hens/pigs/sheep/cattle, their husbands' hunting dogs, the stray veggies surviving in the winter gardens, a poke at the soil to see if Spring could mean the start of gardens for the new season; 'fare la spesa' to ensure there's fresh food for the lunch of returning husbands and sons; 'governare' the house so everything is clean, maybe a bit of TV; a visit with candles and fresh flowers to loved ones in the walled cemetery just out of the village before preparing dinner in time for the men to go to the Bar for the 'partita' be it soccer or cards; maybe an evening stroll along the main street with a woman well-known since childhood. Better not spend up too big at the local mini-supermarket; better not stop and chat to a tourist passing through town; better not, even if you're a bit weary returning from the cemetery, accept a lift from one of the local lads on their way home from work unless he is related. Best not. A small village has long tongues.
A few of the women at the 'cena' also have jobs 'fuori casa'. They get up a bit earlier and go to bed a bit later so nothing has to change at home. They were the ones watching the clock, 6.00 am rising to do what was expected at home and be at work on time. Tuscany is accepted as being 'woman-friendly' - more freedom, more chance to work or run your own business, more child and family assistance. A recent ONU report, which had brief coverage in the national press on the 8th March, described the general picture in Italy as 'an old photo from 30 years ago': in Politics the Lower House has 11% representation by women, the Upper House 9% putting Italy 79th in the world; in the workplace there is minimum presence in the managerial strata, salaries 35% lower, less job security; culturally women are seen as mothers or sexual objects, reinforced by TV and advertising. At table the other night one of the women squeezed my hand and whispered "Is it true that you do the pruning of the vines?" Knowing that my answer to her quiet question would circle the village I replied "Well, I sometimes help".
Her question, and particularly my answer, made me stop and think. I had always accepted the convention that Tuscany was very forward-thinking in regard to women: it's famous for being 'communist'. So, as you do, I waited for my memory to provide me with a picture post-card, an ordinary event, to encapsulate my own experience. There it was! I had bought a good little second-hand tractor and some essential equipment to go with it - a harrow and a drill. On a sunny day a big truck arrived and Attilio used his smart little crane to unload the lot. So, how did it all fit together, which lever was which, what attachment was what? As buyer and user I asked these questions. Attilio explained it all carefully - to Ugo. Ugo then explained to me. I checked out the finer details, ditto. I paid. Attilio gave the receipt to Ugo. Now this was all perfectly equitable, perfectly friendly and perfectly normal. I learned a lot from it: like an old cow, chewing the cud, taking time. A few years have passed. When I call Attilio now, ordering this or that, we talk straight to the point. Likewise with other suppliers. But I accept that when Ugo is present, they will talk to him, he will 'translate' to me. I've learnt to sit on the grass nearby, listening in. Should I have a question I ask Ugo who will in turn ask and give me my answer. Well, I get my answers and after all I can always go and make the coffee.
On Saturday 12th March, four days after the Festa dell Donne, the newspaper had a full page - FOCUS: ECONOMIA IN ROSA on 'the pink economy'. It seems I hadn't been the only one to read the brief coverage of the ONU report and wonder what was happening in Tuscany. The page began brightly "Give room to the pink economy! Stories of women who due to courage, strength of will, hope and more than a little luck have 'invaded' the place reserved for men at the high end of businesses.... " There followed a number of mini-portraits of women who had 'made it'. Each story included, as per the opening editorial quoted above, the essential component: ".... women who've reached important goals in professional fields without neglecting (the precise word 'trascurare' is used) family, love, family ties...." A number of the stories quote women who say that to reach their goals they had to renounce marriage and children. The subject then disappeared from the press.
Meanwhile the North wind comes and goes, the vines and olives are pruned, the veggie gardens prepared. The big question is whether it's time to take the lemon trees from their winter protection and put them out in the sun? And the geraniums on the window sills? Best not, let's wait and see.
