with this story won the National Prize ex aequo Roncio gold-language literature. For look at the little-known slang terms glossary below.
The road leading to St George's furnaces had always seemed like a way to paint. It begins near the Garden of the Count, a beautiful Italian garden, with paths of boxwood, rose bushes and century old cypress trees, connected by a bridge to a seventeenth-century castle. The first stretch of urban since the early sixties, had built residential houses, the owners took care to decorate with acacias and mimosas. When primary school the last day of school, it was customary to write the teachers were doing drills, and leads us to walk to the shrine of Madonnella of furnaces, to read in front of the icon of the Virgin Mary our solemn pledges to renounce small vanity, which in truth could last one day yes and no.
The road to St. George was also the route of our first forays of guys, when following the bardasciotti larger around the countryside, in search of treasure, which invariably ended with the kind of fruit trees.
As children me and my brothers and sisters we liked going to the furnaces of our farm and we looked like a picnic, a nice game, especially since we met our cousins \u200b\u200bSandra and George, sons of Aunt Anna, and called us the other coast the other cousin Emilia, daughter of Aunt Jolene.
Often, outbound or return, it seemed that we had arranged to meet with the cart Emilia's father, Aldo Testa, Ciocchetti the race of men quiet and peaceful, which stopped the vehicle to get us. Peppe, the elder brother of Uncle Aldo, to be easy on the donkey, the first of the climbs down and led to bridle the beast, inviting adults to do likewise.
In those days the country roads were still crowded, and always meet so many people who went fora walk, with bicycles with carts with tractors, with the bee, with the cars. All those who went on foot were older in good health, linked to an archaic world, accustomed from childhood to walk five or six miles a day.
When we were children our estate of the furnaces was still the vineyard to arboretum, with the guardians of olive trees, sour cherry, apricot. There was still a cabin for tools and the pool to draw water, which he used especially mother's uncle, Angelo Gabrielli de Romano, an old little as spry, who had the arboretum at the border.
Dad, as in the country there could be closely because of his work, it was recommended to pay attention to the pool, the truss Enel situated on the border with Uncle Angelo, and the steep coast, where it grows wild.
Uncle Angelo was a kind cute and funny, and Mom told us that in youth was so angry that one day that the donkey did not obey his commands to took his face in his hands and gave him a mozzicate that almost cut off an ear.
When Dad was with us he was off to the furnaces, with Millecento Fiat Uncle Angelo met on the street asking him to go, but he refused, because the time needed to get the thought enough to come home. And in fact, was one of those old guys who were running thin as the wind and we children we could not keep up below. One evening we were late and we are preparing to climb the Millecento, here comes out Uncle Angelo. Daddy's also offers a pass this time, just for courtesy, but this time the Roman Empire, without saying either yes or no you put in the driving seat. "Ah, nun I knew that I had taken his license" makes him dad, "Force guide you." "But I know nun 'PortAll chine" said Uncle Angelo. Perhaps it had never climbed into a car and could not distinguish between the driver's seat and the passenger.
When a few years later Uncle Angelo died and the husbands of daughters decide to remove the vines and implanting a hazelnut, but my parents were willing to replace the vineyard with his knuckles, then had a good price and need less work. Still leave all the olive trees.
At that time Dad demolished the hut and filled the pool of earth and stones, built a smaller house with wooden beams and corrugated iron tin roof, just on the border, along with our uncle Remigio Remigio, said spring, the husband of Aunt Anna. In our part we put the chickens and a small CUTTER-hand side in their uncle Remigio, as well as chickens, put a small herd of rabbits.
Dad and his brother Aldo, had a trucking company that carried goods mainly in northern Italy on behalf of a local agency. It was hard work, and every trip they needed to rest two or three days. During the summer could still find the time to eradicate from terraces of the coast scopiglia and other shrubs of the undergrowth, so as to give breath to the knuckles. Mom cut the grass with the scythe under nocchieto fienara, and a little to-day with the help of a hoe blade, severing the base of the whip, the excess suckers that suck the sap without giving fruit. To us, who prefer the game to work, invite us to give aid, because "der Have your noffink that you miss." In those years, we collected the knuckles after August, directly from plants, down the branches and putting in some mantis shrimp saccoccioni that formed by folding a sinal connected to life. When the full saccoccione was poured into the bales. On the ground were collected only in a possible second pass.
the evening brings the bales in the air - a beautiful tufa discovered - and empties them over, because the fruit not quite ripe needed to stay calm and dry in the sun. During the day it occasionally to shake up the pile with a rake, and not to burn your knuckles on the surface, both to help them break away from the mantis shrimp. With three or four days of sun burnished the fruit and you could put on Corvello and clean it completely.
Become older, having started in high school, we are ashamed to walk to the furnaces and let us see our peers on carts or tractors. The farmer, with new social models that provided television, was passed as a negative example. He pitied the old, who had not had a chance, but it was not acceptable that a boy could cultivate the land as a working majority.
few years ago, after many years I went to the farm of the furnaces with the car, one of those dog days preceding August, decided to go on foot, four in the morning, like the old one-time which started at dawn and ten were already back in the country.
I worked till about eight o'clock, until I could do more thirst and decided to go to the source of Lullurulù drum. In fact, decreased the coast to Gricciano ditch, now dry for years, and went back on the other hand, the point at which it opened the path for the source.
In correspondence with the path I found a metal fence that prevented access, and deleted the same path with Morgano.
wandered through the obstacle for the garden of his uncle Aldo. The bardasciotti that night they went to steal melons or watermelons in irrigated areas of the band, came here to eat the object of their offense. There were also brigades of adults, with everything you need for panzanella, together with their friends emigrated to Rome and back on vacation.
I found the source of Lullurulù covered with wild vegetation, the stream almost completely off, the tub all dirty, the overlaps that instead of channeling in the garden of his uncle Aldo - he flew to the trees pizzuti - dispersed in a moat. I considered that drinking from that source could be dangerous, because the disserbanti that now scattered everywhere by the ton. I put my hands still cupped and sipped a little, just to wet your lips.
In fiery afternoon in August, put on bicycles or scooters, one of our goals of boys looking for adventure, was to go to drink spring water sources in the country: a Pisciariello to Gricciano, the Piantacava. There was no country that the district did not have a water source. If today we were to do a mapping of the sources of our territory they find very little: an agriculture which are minor and no rules devastated landscape. Returning home I thought that many varieties of native plants have become extinct, like the apple asses, scùppolo plums, pears de San Matteo, grapes handset, the perzica Spaccarelli. Not to mention the herbs and flowers that bloom most of the animals and insects that do not breed anymore.
The same peasant families, which play so prevalent in the work of a farmer, you can count on the fingers of one hand. many families in the village who had found employment in industry and in services and have sold their land to foreigners, today are jobless and landless. If supermarkets were to shut down a week almost all die of hunger, since we no longer live on the earth work.
Today I continue to return to the furnaces more for a breath 'of fresh air for a profit. The proceeds of the knuckles is barely cover expenses, the olive harvest saves us the oil for one year.
Back to Furnaces for sentimental reasons. I look to the east the landscape with majestic Soratte on the bottom, despite the swarm of urban agglomerations, the purplish look to the west of that part of Mount Cimino remained wild, no houses, roads, antennas, similar to ancient times thousands of years we have preceded it. If I look to the country I can not see the forms of speculation - terraced houses in bad taste - which are expanding into the path of Madonnella, districts drawn up to meet the economic need of a house to some of the inhabitants of Rome in the capital not if you can afford.
But I can never forget the smell of furnaces, other than the second season, the smell of patches of hawthorn and mimosas growing on the sides of streets, the smell of warm summer rain, the smell of the crisp wind. I can not forget the colors, including brown and gold, the vines in autumn, the ripe persimmons against the blue sky, the fallow fields where it grew white and yellow chamomile. I will always carry in my heart the sound prosaic truss Enel announced that the rain the crowing of cocks at noon, the chorus of cicadas exhausting, occasionally broken by clumsy braying donkeys, the last songs of the peasants intent on their humble work, mingled with cries and curses, the diligent and happy voices of children and young people who forty years ago roamed these hills.
As children me and my brothers and sisters we liked going to the furnaces of our farm and we looked like a picnic, a nice game, especially since we met our cousins \u200b\u200bSandra and George, sons of Aunt Anna, and called us the other coast the other cousin Emilia, daughter of Aunt Jolene.
Often, outbound or return, it seemed that we had arranged to meet with the cart Emilia's father, Aldo Testa, Ciocchetti the race of men quiet and peaceful, which stopped the vehicle to get us. Peppe, the elder brother of Uncle Aldo, to be easy on the donkey, the first of the climbs down and led to bridle the beast, inviting adults to do likewise.
In those days the country roads were still crowded, and always meet so many people who went fora walk, with bicycles with carts with tractors, with the bee, with the cars. All those who went on foot were older in good health, linked to an archaic world, accustomed from childhood to walk five or six miles a day.
When we were children our estate of the furnaces was still the vineyard to arboretum, with the guardians of olive trees, sour cherry, apricot. There was still a cabin for tools and the pool to draw water, which he used especially mother's uncle, Angelo Gabrielli de Romano, an old little as spry, who had the arboretum at the border.
Dad, as in the country there could be closely because of his work, it was recommended to pay attention to the pool, the truss Enel situated on the border with Uncle Angelo, and the steep coast, where it grows wild.
Uncle Angelo was a kind cute and funny, and Mom told us that in youth was so angry that one day that the donkey did not obey his commands to took his face in his hands and gave him a mozzicate that almost cut off an ear.
When Dad was with us he was off to the furnaces, with Millecento Fiat Uncle Angelo met on the street asking him to go, but he refused, because the time needed to get the thought enough to come home. And in fact, was one of those old guys who were running thin as the wind and we children we could not keep up below. One evening we were late and we are preparing to climb the Millecento, here comes out Uncle Angelo. Daddy's also offers a pass this time, just for courtesy, but this time the Roman Empire, without saying either yes or no you put in the driving seat. "Ah, nun I knew that I had taken his license" makes him dad, "Force guide you." "But I know nun 'PortAll chine" said Uncle Angelo. Perhaps it had never climbed into a car and could not distinguish between the driver's seat and the passenger.
When a few years later Uncle Angelo died and the husbands of daughters decide to remove the vines and implanting a hazelnut, but my parents were willing to replace the vineyard with his knuckles, then had a good price and need less work. Still leave all the olive trees.
At that time Dad demolished the hut and filled the pool of earth and stones, built a smaller house with wooden beams and corrugated iron tin roof, just on the border, along with our uncle Remigio Remigio, said spring, the husband of Aunt Anna. In our part we put the chickens and a small CUTTER-hand side in their uncle Remigio, as well as chickens, put a small herd of rabbits.
Dad and his brother Aldo, had a trucking company that carried goods mainly in northern Italy on behalf of a local agency. It was hard work, and every trip they needed to rest two or three days. During the summer could still find the time to eradicate from terraces of the coast scopiglia and other shrubs of the undergrowth, so as to give breath to the knuckles. Mom cut the grass with the scythe under nocchieto fienara, and a little to-day with the help of a hoe blade, severing the base of the whip, the excess suckers that suck the sap without giving fruit. To us, who prefer the game to work, invite us to give aid, because "der Have your noffink that you miss." In those years, we collected the knuckles after August, directly from plants, down the branches and putting in some mantis shrimp saccoccioni that formed by folding a sinal connected to life. When the full saccoccione was poured into the bales. On the ground were collected only in a possible second pass.
the evening brings the bales in the air - a beautiful tufa discovered - and empties them over, because the fruit not quite ripe needed to stay calm and dry in the sun. During the day it occasionally to shake up the pile with a rake, and not to burn your knuckles on the surface, both to help them break away from the mantis shrimp. With three or four days of sun burnished the fruit and you could put on Corvello and clean it completely.
Become older, having started in high school, we are ashamed to walk to the furnaces and let us see our peers on carts or tractors. The farmer, with new social models that provided television, was passed as a negative example. He pitied the old, who had not had a chance, but it was not acceptable that a boy could cultivate the land as a working majority.
few years ago, after many years I went to the farm of the furnaces with the car, one of those dog days preceding August, decided to go on foot, four in the morning, like the old one-time which started at dawn and ten were already back in the country.
I worked till about eight o'clock, until I could do more thirst and decided to go to the source of Lullurulù drum. In fact, decreased the coast to Gricciano ditch, now dry for years, and went back on the other hand, the point at which it opened the path for the source.
In correspondence with the path I found a metal fence that prevented access, and deleted the same path with Morgano.
wandered through the obstacle for the garden of his uncle Aldo. The bardasciotti that night they went to steal melons or watermelons in irrigated areas of the band, came here to eat the object of their offense. There were also brigades of adults, with everything you need for panzanella, together with their friends emigrated to Rome and back on vacation.
I found the source of Lullurulù covered with wild vegetation, the stream almost completely off, the tub all dirty, the overlaps that instead of channeling in the garden of his uncle Aldo - he flew to the trees pizzuti - dispersed in a moat. I considered that drinking from that source could be dangerous, because the disserbanti that now scattered everywhere by the ton. I put my hands still cupped and sipped a little, just to wet your lips.
In fiery afternoon in August, put on bicycles or scooters, one of our goals of boys looking for adventure, was to go to drink spring water sources in the country: a Pisciariello to Gricciano, the Piantacava. There was no country that the district did not have a water source. If today we were to do a mapping of the sources of our territory they find very little: an agriculture which are minor and no rules devastated landscape. Returning home I thought that many varieties of native plants have become extinct, like the apple asses, scùppolo plums, pears de San Matteo, grapes handset, the perzica Spaccarelli. Not to mention the herbs and flowers that bloom most of the animals and insects that do not breed anymore.
The same peasant families, which play so prevalent in the work of a farmer, you can count on the fingers of one hand. many families in the village who had found employment in industry and in services and have sold their land to foreigners, today are jobless and landless. If supermarkets were to shut down a week almost all die of hunger, since we no longer live on the earth work.
Today I continue to return to the furnaces more for a breath 'of fresh air for a profit. The proceeds of the knuckles is barely cover expenses, the olive harvest saves us the oil for one year.
Back to Furnaces for sentimental reasons. I look to the east the landscape with majestic Soratte on the bottom, despite the swarm of urban agglomerations, the purplish look to the west of that part of Mount Cimino remained wild, no houses, roads, antennas, similar to ancient times thousands of years we have preceded it. If I look to the country I can not see the forms of speculation - terraced houses in bad taste - which are expanding into the path of Madonnella, districts drawn up to meet the economic need of a house to some of the inhabitants of Rome in the capital not if you can afford.
But I can never forget the smell of furnaces, other than the second season, the smell of patches of hawthorn and mimosas growing on the sides of streets, the smell of warm summer rain, the smell of the crisp wind. I can not forget the colors, including brown and gold, the vines in autumn, the ripe persimmons against the blue sky, the fallow fields where it grew white and yellow chamomile. I will always carry in my heart the sound prosaic truss Enel announced that the rain the crowing of cocks at noon, the chorus of cicadas exhausting, occasionally broken by clumsy braying donkeys, the last songs of the peasants intent on their humble work, mingled with cries and curses, the diligent and happy voices of children and young people who forty years ago roamed these hills.
Glossary
Trees pizza cemetery
Arboretum: vineyard with tutors and the rows of other plants used for sowing of wheat or legumes.
Bardasciotti: A halter
boys: taking the reins for the beast.
the serene outdoors at night
Fora: Country
Morgano: plow metal discs.
Panocchia: fruttescenza that covers the knees
to rock: Go across the fields, without roads.
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