July 1
Mauro, the young village muratore, arrives wearing a handkerchief bandanna on his shaved head like a pirate. He is a tall handsome man, and we'd like to get to know him better. With him is a blond man. I say a blond man, because his mane of hair is wild and curly, seemingly growing from beneath his hat like a weed. Roy tells me his name is Giovanni.

They are here to look at the little project at the back of the house. We need to have a little excavating done, and a cement pad poured as a base for the little magazino we have purchased. The storage shed will arrive on palates tomorrow. We'll store it in the parcheggio, speriamo. Mauro will give us a price and a day to start work on Monday. Stefano can't find time to do the work for months, so we're happy to give Mauro some work.

I don't see them until they are leaving, and have my arms full of laundry, fresh from the drying rack on the front terrace. My hair looks somewhat like Giovanni's, but I am not wearing a hat, so have nothing to disguise my disheveled appearance.

Felice leaves a few minutes later, and since he has been here for a while, I am sure he has been working on the tomatoes. Just before he arrived, I picked a large and ripe red tomato. Since yesterday's tomato was a bust, I have lost my enthusiasm for this one, thinking that our heirlooms will be divine as usual. They are a few weeks from being ready to pick.

So it is 9AM, and already we have all been busy. All the roses have been fed, the boxwood hedges have been fed, as have the rhododendrons, lemon and kumquat trees. The sky is overcast, and it may not be perfect weather to take a dip in Tia's pool, but it will be fun to see her anyway. I've made the batter for the zucchini fritters, which she has asked for, so around noon I'll fix them and we'll either reheat them or serve them at room temperature.

Just after noon, the fritters are done, and we pack up and drive to Tia's for pranzo and a swim. This will be Sofi's first experience with a real swimming pool. I'll watch her closely.

As we drive down the long path toward Tia's, Sofi is so excited that she jumps right out of the open window. We are all shocked, especially Sofi, who lands on the road with a thud. I pick her up and calm her down for the last few meters before we reach the cancello. Then we're inside and she's forgotten her little trauma, thinking instead how to keep out of Gioia's clutches. Gioia thinks Sofi is some kind of toy, and wraps her long legs around Sofi until she slides out and runs.

We have a cool pranzo under a gorgeous iron and wisteria pergola, then walk to the other side of the house for a swim. The water is cool and so relaxing. We all get on top of plastic rafts, and the dogs keep their distance, sniffing around the edges of the pool and chasing after lucertoles (lizards).

After a relaxing hour or two, we drive home and get ready to go out with Duccio and Giovanna for cena at the restaurant connected to the Terme in Orte.

This ends up as probably the worst place to eat in recent memory. We like the grounds, which are meticulously maintained, and the pool is constantly regenerated. If we come here during weekday mornings, we can sit under shade trees and Roy may even like that. But the food and the service...

This is a casual place, and soon there will be live music playing through giant speakers. Pizza is the thing to order here, but we order pasta instead. We finish our meal in record time, and drive back to Mugnano for a walk around the village with Sofi.

It is a lovely night, and we walk slowly all around the borgo. We stop for a kiss for Leondina and Marsiglia outside Leondina and Italo's door, where at least ten neighbors sit around on plastic chairs. There are several spots in "Mugnano Basso" where people congregate, and outside Leondina's is one and the bus stop is another at night. During the day, the benches outside Giustino's also have a fair amount of activity.

Duccio and Giovanna are ready to go home, so we agree to meet next weekend and drive to Castiglione to a restaurant we have all heard about but have not tried. Roy and Sofi and I walk up our stairs and after a few minutes on the terrace are ready to call it a day.

July 2
Did I mention that Terence and Angie and the girls will come for a visit next Spring? We are very excited about that, and perhaps they will be here for our festa. We may even go with them to Macedonia to visit Angie's relatives. So as we move through the year, we imagine them here with us, and look forward to introducing them to the village. We have been told in no uncertain terms that the nipotini (grand daughters) are to make a command performance for the women of the village. We are thrilled to oblige.

Just after 9AM, a delivery man in a small truck with a gru, or lift, arrives with our prefab storage room on a single pallet. As the driver and Roy maneuver to slide it over to an area near the stairs, I think it may fit on the terrace level right by our raised orto garden. Roy agrees. So at the last minute it is moved. It's not really in the way, and when he's ready to put it together (I'm sure Sofi and I will be part of his squadra, or team), it will be easier to move around the back of the house than if it were still a level below.

The driver gives Roy his card. We like him. He does not have an attitude and is very flexible. He is so flexible that on his business card he lists cleaning attics as well as trucking as his services. We'll surely call him for any work that requires a truck to take things away. And he can fit his camione, or truck, easily in our parking area. Those are things to think about. We are always thinking about the details.

Sofi stays at home again, tonight.

Tonight is the village dinner, held by the Festarolo committee for next year's festa. The concept of the Festarolo is very interesting to us. We don't know of its counterpart in the U S. Every one in the village is logged in some central file by their birth date. The last digit of that number is used to determine who is assigned to work on a particular year. This year, 2005, includes all residents over 18 whose birth date ends in "5".

I am not sure if that means that people born in that year begin their work on the committee or end it. Since my birth date ends in "6", we'll find out soon. And the committee's responsibility is the weekend festa of the village's saint. Ours is the first weekend of May. In some years, it is the second weekend of May.

104 adults attend this dinner, held at tables outside the school. Almost ten children run around, but are not included in the final number. And Basquia, the dog, who barks at every cat. We are pleased that we left Sofi at home, and imagine that she is, too.

The night is warm, with a breeze, and the sky is filled with stars. We arrive late, because we've just watched Madonna's appearance on the Live8 concert marathon. Before the night is through, we'll have watched the end of the concert, too.

There are two seats at Felice and Marsiglia's table, and they tell us they are for us. Also at the table are Italo and Leondina and Silvia (Ivo's daughter) and her boyfriend. Later in the evening, Fulvia arrives and joins us, too, for Mario is on the committee and does a masterful job serving the dinner.

Tonight's meal is not unusual, but is good standard fare. What is the most fun is the long plank used to serve the food. Two people carry it, and another two people follow it and distribute the dishes to the different tables. Roy tells me that inside the kitchen is equally well organized, but Alberto Cozzi tells us that it is 40 degrees in the kitchen (over 100 degrees!)

Antipasti with salami, marinated onion, olives and crostade, then pasta normale or pasta arribiata, then porchetta, then insalada, then dessert and coffee are served. At each table is a bottle of red wine and a bottle of white, as well as bottles of water.

The wine served is a cause for a kind of war. Was it three years ago that people brought their own wine, hidden under the table, so that they would not have to drink the wine on the table? We do not know whose wine it was. But this friendly village was reduced to anger on this night. And from then on it was decided that the wine should be purchased to allay any infighting or jealousy.

Tonight the wine is not very good. And Italo is not happy. So he gets up and leaves, returning a while later with a bottle of his own red. Roy opens the bottle and it almost explodes as the cap comes off. Fortissimo would be a good word to describe this wine. I am woozy after just a small amount, so don't drink much of it.

At 11PM the salad course has just been served, so we decide to leave. Tonight was a wonderful night, and we knew almost everyone at the event. Roy tells me that the number of people who address me by name, instead of "Signora" have grown this past year. We are certainly happy and proud to call this village home.

July 3
We drive up to church this morning, because we will drive to Pissignano to the monthly antiquariato right after mass. Sofi stays at home in the shade.

Somehow the subject of our patron saint comes up with Tiziano, and he tells us about the patron saint of Amelia. Her figure stands in the Duomo, holding a barca, or small boat. Some years ago, a local priest let it be known that he felt the saint was not real, but the figment of someone's imagination. He made this information public, and was ostracized by the local bishop. What is funny is that Civitavecchia, a port near Rome, also has this saint as its patron.

We drive to Pissignano, and the drive up through Spoleto takes about an hour. The day is not as hot as we imagined, and there is a breeze. Breezes are dangerous to the owners of the stands, because the breakable objects are held captive by the weather. Maggie's stand is covered and is tied down securely. But she holds onto it as we speak with her, worried that a stiff breeze could topple everything.

She contemplates selling her house and moving back to England. So we have come today with the mission of offering to help her sell it. She invites us to visit her at her home in the next few weeks and talk about it. Now we have several properties in our collection that are not on "the open market".

So we hope that we can help our friends to sell their properties in a sane way. In the next few days we'll look over Rita and Filipo's property in Lugnano. So if anyone is seriously interested in buying property in Central Italy, do get in touch with us.

We arrive back home in time to make a simple pasta for pranzo, and to watch the F-1 race in France. Roy loves these races, and follows them as a kind of hobby. I take advantage of the hot afternoon to take a nap.

When the air cools, we leave Sofi for a few hours to drive to Ann and Mario's 4th of July festa in southern Vetralla at their hot springs. We arrive there and the place is easy to reach, right off the Superstrada. There is a really great live band playing American music, and the party is certainly American in style. We see red white and blue bunting, a large American flag, and although we are late arrivals are told by Mary Jane Cryan that Fulvio just ate his first ever cheeseburger and judged it "molto buono".

The location is a thermal spa, surrounded by lawns, owned by Ann and Mario Bracci-Devoti. Later we learn from Ann that they don't really own the land. The land is owned by Mr. Balletti, the man who owns the Balletti Park hotel in Viterbo. The underground spring, which is by law not possible to be owned by a private party, is on the land. Mario is an architect, and suggested to Sr. Balletti some time ago that they put in a thermal spa there around the spring, with a nonprofit group of members to protect the location.

Next door, the previous owner of Unopiu, the very upscale furniture company near us, owns a piece of land and wants to build a hotel there. He states publicly that his plan is to siphon off the sulfur springs from Sr. Balletti with underground pipes. He and Balletti have a nose-to-nose confrontation and Balletti tells him that if anyone is to build a hotel, it will be Balletti.

So someone is always on the land, ever watchful. In Italia, it is important to be ever vigilant of one's neighbors. Ann tells us that the famous Terme di Papi nearby is a case of people siphoning off thermal springs that did not belong to them. The springs at Balletti's are original sources. We notice in a walk around that there are some really beautiful Etruscan remnants of buildings. Perhaps it has been a spa for two thousand years or more.

So the next time we arrive we will pay an entry fee and will become members. Although we don't like the sulfur smell, we think it is an acquired "taste", meaning that once we are there for a while and get into the pond, we'll change our minds.

The pond is drained and cleaned twice a week. This is such a new experience for us. Today we do not go in. I am still having pains, so we don't stay more than an hour. But we will return. And with this our second visit to a thermal bath in three days, it is a sign that we need to experience it soon.

So while we're there, I'm not concerned with the big display of Americana with the flags and music and buntings, but we notice two Carabinieri vehicles and after awhile see the men outside their vehicles standing at attention with their hands crossed in front of them. It is then that Ann tells us that Mario called a friend who is the Mayor of Viterbo, to tell him that there is an American gathering taking place outside at their terme.

The Mayor sent police as protection for all of us. Ann tells us that we are somewhat targets, and I suppose I don't really pay attention to that. Or I did not before that moment. Now I am worried. I don't want to be there. And soon we bid goodbye to Ann and Mario and are on our way home. After dark, there will be fireworks, but we see so many fireworks in Italia that we've agreed to pass on these. It was a wonderful party, nonetheless.

July 4
Felice is already here, weeding and tending the two tomato patches, when I get up just after 7AM. It certainly does not feel like a holiday. There are a number of tomatoes to pick, and I make a fresh tomato pasta sauce for pranzo with sun-dried olives. We are back eating pasta at mid-day. We rather missed it.

The tomato plants look very good, and although the heirlooms are weeks away from tasting, the Italians are standing up quite well in a taste test.

I spend whatever time I can in the studio, painting. There is a fan, but when the sun is high it is very hot in there. After pranzo I spend a little more time, but return to the shade of the house after about twenty minutes, dripping. By the time I have my next lesson on Monday, I hope to have several more plates finished. It is heavenly work, at once relaxing and satisfying.

We change an appointment to look at Rita and Fillipo's house in Lugnano that they want us to help them sell. Wednesday night will be the night that we look it over and take photos for the site.

Tia calls, asking if I want to make apricot jam with her. She has just picked the apricots from her trees and will arrive on Wednesday morning early to cook up a storm with me in our loggia. We have a special large burner and large pot for just such adventures. In the meantime, I check out recipes on the internet and will call her tomorrow with a shopping list. I'd really like to make apricot ginger jam, but find no recipes, so perhaps we'll also stir up some in case it's a good idea, with some finely grated ginger. The fig jam I made last year with ginger was a great hit. Recipes will post soon...

I work for three hours tonight in the studio. I am painting eight salad plates, each with a different design, but all with a similar motif in the center. The designs are mine, but are patterned after Renaissance designs I've seen in books. Perhaps my passion for the grotesque and arabesque designs will be left to my imagination. They are extremely difficult to execute.

July 5
It rained a short rain last night, and this morning Giovanni calls up from the street to tell me it will rain today. He warns me because he sees me putting out clothes on the drying rack on the terrace. He's using his cane, and wearing slip-on shoes, so I ask him about his foot. It's not doing well. So I tell him, "Sempre avanti!" (always forward!) and he likes that very much, raising his bastone (cane) and shouting out the words.

Tia and I speak and she'll be here early tomorrow morning to make apricot jam together. Roy gets out the special burners and pots for the loggia, and sets everything up. We are not sure how many apricots Tia will bring, but think it will be a lot.

I am addicted, yes, addicted, to painting ceramics in the studio, so paint there early and late and also in-between as long as I can stand the heat. By the time it is too dark to paint, I've finished five of the eight dessert plates. I am, as they say, "on a roll!" Sofi lays nearby, and I think she likes the studio, too. There is a short shower, but it does not deter me.

What deters me is pranzo and more laundry. Nothing I eat agrees with me these days, so I look forward to the specialist later today.

When we arrive at the hospital in Orvieto, where her office is located, we realize that she is the same Dottoressa who performed Roy's colonscopia a few months ago. We both like her a lot, and although she speaks no English, Roy and I figure out most of what she is saying. She gives me a list of things to eat and not to eat, and tells me to have more tests, which Dottoressa Ofelia will prescribe for me tomorrow in Mugnano.

We are both relieved that it is not serious enough for her to recommend any emergency treatment. But tomorrow we'll see if we can get the tests without waiting a long time. Since the medical system is pretty much managed care, we'll spend some time researching gastroenterological (whew!) maladies and diets. I was hoping it would just go away, but I'm not so lucky. Tomorrow. I don't have the energy to research it tonight. Unfortunately, I had to see her as a private patient because there are no appointments available till September in the public system. So we pay €60 for the visit. Usually the visits to specialist are less than €20.

July 6
Tia arrives early, with ten kilos of sugar and tanti albicocchi (apricots), which have already been pitted and soaked overnight. Our outside kitchen is set up in the loggia with a special burner, and the production line is ready soon after she arrives. We are soldiers gearing up for battle.

Roy reminds me to walk up to see Dottoressa about the tests I need to have done, so I leave Tia and Roy after chopping up some of the fruit. The lusciousness of the fruit taunts us to plop a few in our mouths as we cut, its stickiness clinging to our hands and wrists and yes, even trickling down our arms. This is serious business, and we're into the adventure of it all.

A few minutes later, up in the borgo, Dottoressa gives me A mountain of prescriptions. Early tomorrow, we'll drive up to the hospital in Orvieto for a blood test and to make an appointment for an ecocardiogram. In the meantime, there are medicines to take and as she writes out the instructions for me, I am surprised at how much I understand.

While I waited for her with Terzo and Ennio and later Rina, I was struck by the ease with which I spoke with the two men, my arm resting on the back of the chair between Terzo and me as if we had lived in this village for decades. It is as though I have just woken from a long sleep, and step back onto the dance floor, ready to finish a dance begun and interrupted so long ago.

We speak about the beauty of the tiles outside the window, laid in spina di pesche (spine of the fish, or herringbone) fashion, as well as the change in the appearance of the little piazza. Ennio tells me he was born in Rome, proudly adding that his hospital is the one near the Vatican.

Terzo tells me he was not born in Mugnano, but in nearby Soriano. By this time, Ennio meets with Dottoressa and Rina confirms with a nod that yes, Terzo has lived here since 'forty eight. So of course Rina was born in Mugnano. She's like a sentry, quietly and assuredly nodding her head while Terzo speaks.

When I return to the house and loggia where Tia and Roy have been waiting, they show me evidence that the burners have been working overtime. The golden liquid has boiled over several times in my absence, and the burners are surrounded in black residue like the craters of a volcano. Very soon we are spooning the thick jam into sterilized jars.

There is so much jam that we run out of jars, so Roy drives to Attigliano to pick up new tops, and we sterilize the tops and jars. With the last amount still in the pan, I want to try adding ginger. We have no fresh ginger, so I put in about a tablespoon of dried ginger, and the taste is quite wonderful.

Tia packs up and leaves at noon, wanting to be back at home with the dogs for pranzo. We clean up here and the jars will sit upside down in the shade for a day or so. Then we'll take hers to her. She makes a big deal about us keeping half, so we will have lots for crostadas and jams.

All the jam is from one old tree, so we expect as her other trees come into fruit, we'll be repeating this exercise. The loggia is a perfect room for these projects, especially with a breeze, and we love to do it. Soon we will begin to bottle our tomatoes.

Duccio calls in the early afternoon with sad news. Clara fell yesterday in her garden in Bomarzo and suffered a stroke. A friend found her and she was taken to Belle Colle Hospital in Viterbo. He visited with her this morning. We will surely go to see her tomorrow.

A few years ago, Clara's husband of many years died, and she has been very lonely. We are sad for her, and for her loneliness, but hope that a little visit will cheer her. Duccio tells us she will return to Rome as soon as she leaves the hospital. Our prayers are with her.

It is difficult not to think of one's self as we get older and something like this happens to a friend. No matter, for Roy and for me, we will continue to live in dear Mugnano until they take us down the road to the little cemetery.

The phone rings and it is Tia. "How do you get rid of a viper?" Bruce is still out of town, and she spotted a very dangerous viper this afternoon. The viper slid into a hole in a wall. Her afternoon garden worker tried to shoot water from a hose at it, but it did not surface.

We all worry, not knowing where it is. Her youngest dog, Gioia, wants to chase it. So both dogs are confined to the house, and now Tia, who adores her garden, does not want to be outside until there is news.

Vipers are about the most dangerous things one can encounter in Italia. A viper is different from a simple snake, as they are shorter and fatter and have big triangular heads. I don't think I have ever seen one, but am frightened at the thought of it. Men take shovels and whack the heads off them, but I am fearful that they will jump before the shovel comes down upon them.

Some men chase them with sticks or poles. We are sorry but we do not have an answer, except to recommend that she bring in her neighbors. Some Italian men are so macho that they consider it a badge of courage to kill a viper. Stay tuned.

We meet with Rita and Fillippo in the early evening to view their property in Lugnano in Teverina. We have agreed to list the property on our website and to try to help them to sell it. It is a wonderful property, but the house needs to be completely rebuilt, on the existing footprint. We learned an interesting bit of real estate trivia in Umbria tonight. Apparently, for new construction, a piece of land would have to be 92 hectares or 227 acres in order to build a 550 square meter house, which is 5920 square feet, which would be 1, 375 cubic meters (22 meters by 25 meters by 2.5 meters high). This property consists of a large house, a guest house and a basement.

One can build 15 cubic meters, equating to a room size of: 3 meters by two meters by 2.5 meters high of structure to each hectare of land. So to build a house the size of their approved architectural drawings, on a new piece of land, the land would have to be 92 hectares or 227 acres! This makes their property all the more valuable.

"Umbria is dead!" Rita exclaims. It is very difficult to find a contiguous piece of land the required size these days in that province. So for someone wanting a good size house (this one is three bedrooms, three bathrooms, with a separate studio apartment unit) this is an unusual find. Look at our site under properties for sale for photos and email us for more detailed information.

We think the property is very special, and will probably try to post notices in California at editing and other production houses. In the plan is a good size screening room. Of course the drawings do not have to be followed, but this house was originally designed to their specifications, and a screening room was important to them at the time.

Since then, they have purchased a property in Attigliano, near where they live now, where they built a wonderful screening room. Their priorities have changed, and so now this property can be a place where someone else can realize their dream.

The piece of property and casale that Rita and Filipo want to sell is a gem. We look forward to working with them on this.

July 7
We leave early for Orvieto, and the experience waiting and waiting is what we expect at a public hospital. But the hospital is clean and the colors are unusual: floors in a peach color and walls in a kind of pale teal blue. The people who come in to the hospital seem to all know each other. We like this hospital. It feels like family.

When it is my time for a blood test, I guide the woman to the best vein in my inner elbow. Drawing blood from me is not easy. But she is such an expert, that there is not even a pinprick scar left when she's through. And I look over to see several vials of blood. There is a lot to test for this time, per the gastroenterologist.

We have a prescription for an endoscopy, but cannot get an appointment until the end of July. That is the bad news about the public health system in Italia. Later we drive to Vezio, our pharmacist, in Bomarzo to see if he can get an earlier appointment in Lazio. (Orvieto is in Umbria.) He cannot.

We drive from Orvieto to Bel Colle hospital in Viterbo, to see Clara, arriving mid-morning. But when we get off the elevator, we come upon three of her nieces, who are waiting in the corridor. Doctors are with her, and we wind up leaving. The wait will be at least an hour.

We return in the afternoon, and when I hand Clara a special sachet of fresh lavender and roses from the garden, she scrunches it up and puts it to her face. Although her left side is paralyzed, she looks quite beautiful, her silver hair against the pillow and a pale blue blanket matching her eyes. She does not speak much, but we think she looks quite good. Tomorrow she will be moved to a private clinic in Rome. We will go to visit her there in a week or two.

Back at home, I'm in the studio, painting away, and Roy does a turn with a tall ladder, deadheading roses on the path. Sofi sits at the top step, just watching.

While Roy works on the path, Mauro drives up and stops. They speak about the project at the back of the house, and although it will cost more than we'd like, we know it's important to do. By this time next week, we should have the project finished, including a cement pour from a big cement truck. If we're lucky and the cement dries, we will put the magazzino together at the back of the house next weekend. Speriamo.

The power goes off after ten PM, and one circuit will not work. After much testing and gnashing of teeth, Roy determines that it is the front gate and the septic pump. Tomorrow he'll see if we need to bring someone in. I don't know what I would have done if I were alone. Roy kept clicking the circuit breakers, and finally was able to keep the lights on. There is something about being comfortable with electrical projects. I suppose I just don't know enough about the concept, although I am able to wire a lamp by myself.

Clara tells us that she thinks the stroke took place as a result of specific medicine she was taking for her cancer. She is in remission, but recalls that there was a disclaimer on one of the medicines. So who's to know if it's important to heed these warnings about possible side effects or not...

I try to reach Lore and Alberto to let them know about Clara, but they are still in Ischia. The best I can do is to leave A message on their phone in Rome.

Tonight is cool, with plenty of wind. We look forward to a good night's sleep. I get into bed thinking about tomorrow afternoon, when we'll drive to see Maria Antonietta in Guardea to pick up some more smalto, or base paint for the ceramics. I have used every drop she gave me before she went on vacation, and want to finish painting more items before my next lesson on Monday. I will definitely have an entire kiln full to fire.

July 8
Felice arrives again this morning, and it seems to be part of his routine at least a couple of times a week. He walks down the hill from the borgo and stops at our house, sometimes only to walk over to the tomatoes or bid "buon giorno" to Vito. Then he continues his walk on the loop below us, returning up past his cantina to the borgo again.

This morning, he tells me that Marsiglia has arthritis in her lower back. I tell him the solution is plenty of hugs, and he smiles a big smile. He loves her so.

I encounter him while he's in the cava near the studio, so walk inside and turn on the music, and sit down at the stool and begin to draw designs on another plate. He walks over to the door and peers in. I can tell that he loves the soothing violin music, and silently watches as I draw freehand with my pencil after making a circle in the middle of the plate. I think I don't like to be watched while I work, but Felice is silent and respectful. I find myself enjoying the silent company.

I show him the other plates ready to be fired, and there are many of them. I wonder what he thinks of my new obsession. I say obsession, because even the roses are getting neglected, until Roy does a sweep late in the afternoon and deadheads many of them. It has been almost a week since I've done my regular manicure of each rose bush.

We are scheduled to drive to Guardea to see Maria Antonietta at 4PM, so I spend the day painting the last two plates of the set of eight. We find containers to transport them in so that they won't get damaged, and Sofi stays at home while we drive up through Attigliano.

Maria Antonietta's studio is very small, so she has to do some maneuvering to fit all the plates inside. I gather she is pleased with the quality of the work, and my next lesson will be on Wednesday, when I think she'll have fired all my ceramics now in her studio.

Should I sell them? It's up to Roy. I tell him he can set a price, tell me what kinds of things to paint, and then determine if he wants to approach shops with them, or take orders. Otherwise, we'll just have lots of plates. And since they will be dishwasher safe, that's fine with me.

We pick up a bottle of smalto, the underglaze, from her, and back at home I coat the one remaining plate without smalto and begin to paint the one pitcher I have with grotesques, the motif made famous by Rafaello. His designs are very elaborate and delicate at the same time. The brush strokes are extremely fine. So this pitcher will take many hours to complete. After two hours, I have finished the design in pencil, and have outlined about 25% of the design.

Silvano Spaccese arrives after 6PM, and cannot find anything wrong with the circuit breaker for the cancello and septic pump. Last night after 10PM the power went out, and we had a devil of a time getting it back on. The circuit for the cancello and septic tank would not work. So Roy called Silvano this morning and the two of them tried different approaches to the problem. We'll have to wait and see.

We agreed to give Mauro the job for the back of the house, and he and Giovanni will be here on Tuesday or Wednesday to do the work. Then the cement will take a few days to dry, during which time Roy and I will unpack the prefab. wooden storage room and paint it, piece by piece. By next weekend, we should have the project finished.

July 9
I'm able to spend time in the studio, because the air is cool again, and I really love working there. Today, I'm working on a small pitcher. I have found several grotesque designs from the 16th century, and before I'm through for the morning, have penciled in the entire complex design and have outlined most of it, in preparation for the actual painting.

We drive to the hospital in Orvieto for results of this week's blood tests, and I don't see anything out of the ordinary when I look at the report. But the results are difficult to read. Sofi is at home. We took her with us at first, but she was so excited in the car that we turned around and took her home. So we drive up to Oriveto to see if we can find Maria Antonietta's son's shop and also do some ceramics comparisons with the things I have painted, in case we decide to sell them.

His shop is a sweet one, located on the walk up from the Funicular. I hope he does well. For now, he is well stocked with Indian shawls, some purses and a few clothes. We purchase a lovely little beaded shoulder bag for the incredible price of €7, and it is just large enough to hold my sunglasses. I no longer take a purse, and find it very liberating. This bag is all I'll need.

We stop at Orvieto Scalo to pick up marvelous cherries and grapes and figs before driving home to Sofi. For the rest of the afternoon, we work in the garden and the studio. Roy finishes cutting the small wood behind the house, and rethinks where the magazzino will go. I agree with him, and look forward to seeing it in place next week.

Roy calls out from the lower planting area that many tomatoes are ready to pick. I join him with a handcrafted basket, and fill it up with an assortment of red tomatoes of all sizes and hues. We agree that tomorrow we'll do our first batch of canning tomatoes. For the foreseeable future, the burner and big pot will live in the loggia.

Every week, we'll do a round of boiling and canning. Even if it's just five or six jars, we'll be able to have a good crop by the end of the summer. Roy tells me that the heirlooms in the planting area up above are growing, too, although we don't expect to see the first ones until August. We have plenty of jars, and learned last summer that all we need to do is buy new lids for the old jars and they'll work perfectly well. Roy takes a sample jar to the ferramenta in Giove when we need new lids and comes home with plenty at a very low price.

Tony and Pat arrive for a short visit with their son, Chris, and his family. When they leave, I set the pitcher aside in the studio that I worked on this morning, and paint the one remaining plate we have with elaborate vines and flowers. It is a dinner plate, and now I want to paint a set of them with the same design. We'll return to Deruta soon for more plates. I am certainly enthusiastic about this new hobby.

July 10
The air is cool at night, and we hear the neighbors outside out windows until quite late. They love to walk down the hill and back below our house, and can be heard laughing and chatting until midnight during the summer. The sounds are so faint that we have to pay attention to hear them. But the sounds are joyous. The people who live in this village surely love it as we do.

Earlier tonight we took a walk up to the borgo, and Vincenzo stood by the mother church as we walked toward him. We asked him when the restoration would begin, and he hopes this fall. The front of the church is full of pots of gorgeous flowers in hues of purples and pinks and whites. He tells us there are three hundred (!) plants. What a labor of love to take care of them all.

Since we first descended upon this little village eight years ago, we have seen many valiant attempts to clean up and add flowers to even the littlest corners of the village. Tonight we see that certain corners seem to compete with others. Hydrangeas aplenty, and cascading petunias and plumbagos are everywhere we look. We admit we have all three in our garden: white petunias (about eight plants) cascading down from the balcony, six hydrangeas in the herb bed in front of the loggia and also inside the loggia, and a wall of plumbago on the far side of the front terrace.

This morning, after mass, Tiziano told us that the Bernardini sisters have been hard at work restoring the Orsini palazzo across from our little church. There were important frescoes to be restored, so they wisely contacted the university in Viterbo, and this fall the restoration will begin. We believe they were even able to get funding for it. Several weeks ago, we watched Tiziano enter the palazzo after mass with one of the sisters, so he is very familiar with the work to be done. We hope to see it one day. Regardless, we are pleased that they care enough to have the work done correctly.

Lore calls, and they are home from Ischia. We will see them in a week or so. The talk was all about Clara, and she has been transferred to a clinic in Rome. We don't think we'll get to see her very soon, so are glad that we could see her while she was still in Viterbo. Our prayers are with her for a quick and painless recovery from her stroke.

My obsession with painting ceramics continues, and I have finished my first pitcher, as well as a small plate, both in grotesque designs. They are quite wonderful. With one dinner plate left, I painted it in the same leaf motif I worked on before starting on the grotesques. Tomorrow we'll drive to Deruta to replenish our stock.

Earlier today, Shelly called to invite us for pranzo. Claudio very kindly made me a pasta with plain tomato sauce and I ate some wonderful vegetables in a vinaigrette. So my doctor supervised diet continues. Roy was able to eat homemade pasta and vitello tomato, as well as a rich dried fruit cake and plenty of wine. Vic and Adie were there, and we have not seen them in years, so it was good to catch up. She is one delightful woman. And Vic is a walking encyclopedia, so always has something to say or explain.

We picked over a dozen tomatoes today, and will do our first canning tomorrow afternoon. There will probably be more tomatoes to pick in the morning. Up above, the heirlooms are not anywhere near ready to eat, but we are not in a hurry. Tomorrow Roy will spray the tomatoes and the peach tree with rame sulfato (copper sulfate). For years, I worried that that was not biologic, but understand now that it is. The solution really protects the plants. And we have just under fifty peaches on the tree, so don't' want to lose a single one to blight.

While walking around the upper garden, we speak about the fig tree. Last winter we cut it back severely. And this summer there is more fruit than we have ever seen on it before, with a few tiny dry figs already fallen on the ground. So we'll have lots of figs to make our famous fig marmellata piccante to serve with cheese. Check the food part of the site for the recipe. We're weeks away from figs, and will enjoy watching them grow.

So much to love in the garden! And next year, we'll definitely plant sweet white corn, with seeds from the U S. Once the potatoes and favas are pulled up, we have lots of room for something. Corn will be perfect. And in Italia corn is fed to the animals. They don't eat corn on the cob. We love eating it typewriter style....don't you?

July 11
A short bout of temporales, or thunderstorm, during the night sent Sofi scampering under the bed. But by the time we got up in the morning everything was fresh and clear. A short rain in the late morning covered little Mugnano, but otherwise we had a sweet and cool day.

Our inventory of ceramics is down to nil, so we drive to Deruta for a fresh supply after stopping in Attigliano to sign up for the annual private ambulace service. They will take us to; Bel Colle in Viterbo, Orvieto, Narni or Terni hospitals, depending on the situation. The cost is €10 per family per year. Sounds good to me.

Sofi is with us, but spends the whole time in the car. Once in Deruta, we pick up some dry paint and then dishes, called "green", although they are terra cotta in color. We pick up a variety of things, and I'm going to be doing two different designs: one is a flower and vine motif of my invention, and the second is a variation of Rafaello's grotesques.

On the way back, we stop at the vet in Terni for Sofi's annual rabies shot and a checkup. She's doing fine, and behaves like an angel.

We stop at an Autogrille on the E45 on the way home. Their simple pasta with tomato sauce is really excellent, and Roy also has a thinly sliced cold roast beef with rugghetta and lemon.

Once at home, I'm back at work in the studio, and finish a small plate started last night and design and finish a complete dinner plate with a complex grotesque motif. I hope to have several things finished before my next lesson on Wednesday. Roy thinks that we need to start looking for a second-hand kiln. We can both see me doing this seriously if we can find a market for my work.

Roy wants me to participate in the medieval festa on August 15th in costume, painting ceramic plates. If we get the ok, I'll have to make a costume first. I'm not thrilled with the idea, but love getting involved with the village. Perhaps instead of the two types of designs I'm working on, I'll come up with a simple design of the tower on a little plate. Whatever is it about us that gets us so involved in the very fabric of where we live, no matter where it is? Thank heaven there is no Mountain Play in Lazio!

July 12
With a goal of tomorrow morning to finish designing and painting five plates, one pitcher, and two small plates, I'm almost finished at the end of the day. At first light, I'll finish the last pieces, and hope to get everything fired at Maria Antonietta's in the next day or two.

Tiziano comes by and tells us that on Thursday there will be a meeting regarding the August medieval festa. He and Roy want me to paint some little plates with the tower on them and the word Mugnano at the bottom. Tiziano also thinks I should do plates with the Orsini rose on them. Then they both want me to dress up in medieval garb and sit and paint while people walk around. We will see. First, I'll have to see if I can come up with a proper design that will include the tower and a kind of scroll at the bottom for the name of the village. Whatever do I get myself into?

I admit I love the designing and painting of ceramics. I have two styles right now, and think that's enough for now. Perhaps each season I'll a new design or two. But right now I have my hands full.

There is a short rain shower, but that's about it. Lovely clouds keep the hot sun from turning the serra into a sauna. I spend several hours painting and Sofi stays right near me most of the time.

Roy is working on the woodpile, cutting and stacking wood from the parcheggio. When we have this year's wood delivered, Roy hopes last year's wood will all have been moved in advance. This year's wood is always "green". So we have about two years worth of wood at a time. That feels about right.

There is time for a pedicure with Giusy in Orte, and each time I go in to her shop I feel more comfortable speaking with her. She speaks no English.

Tonight we agree to help Tiziano with some research in the valley next Monday on his Etruscan kilns. We both look forward to that. We like Tiziano a lot and it is always fun to spend time with him.

Tiziano has good news. His parents found a woman from the Ukraine to take care of his grandparents. The grandfather likes her, the grandmother is not so sure. So we are hopeful that the situation will work out. Sadly, she is available because another person died last week who she took care of. Tiziano tells us that the woman is almost as tall as Roy but very, very strong. We hope the relationship works out.

Mauro calls late to say that they won't work tomorrow, but will start early on Thursday. Let's hope this is not the start of more delays. Roy wants to get the prefab pieces set up and painted, and we don't want to begin until the workers start to move the earth from behind the house. Meanwhile, I have a ceramics lesson tomorrow and we 'll definitely put up tomatoes. By now we have almost 40, sitting in a big low basket on the terrace.

July 13
Is it strange that a woman can feel safe walking around Mugnano, even on the loop below our house, at 11PM in the summertime? Yes, we lock our windows and doors and the gates when we are not at home, but for personal safety we are not concerned when walking around our neighborhood. I think of this when sitting at the desk by the open window just before turning in for the night. The sounds of the people of the village taking their stroll down the hill after dark fills me with joy.

Early today, I finished painting the last two dinner plates for Maria Antonietta. Mauro called last night to say that he will do our little project tomorrow, so Roy agrees to take me to Guardea to my lesson this morning. He packs everything up so very delicately for the trip. Although the plates and pitcher are finished, the paint is like dried paint dust; a jostle will destroy the design. As it is, I need to touch up several of the plates after we've safely arrived at her studio.

There are many plates finished, and it appears that she did not check them before putting the last set in the kiln. So there are imperfections where I did not expect, but overall I am pleased with the results and Roy is pleased.

I am given homework of designing a plate from scratch with a large figure in the center, and a rim around it of grotesques. My next lesson will take place on Sunday afternoon, and in the meantime she will fire all the plates and pitchers we delivered to her today.

Roy suggested a few days ago that we consider buying a used kiln. But after my lesson is finished, I realize the whole process is so elaborate that I don't want to consider the expense or the complications yet.

I meet my teacher's daughter, who will open her own ceramics studio in Orvieto for the making and selling of her own ceramics this Saturday. Roy and I will definitely drive up there for a visit on that day. I ask my teacher what the possibilities are of selling my ceramics and it is as I thought: too many artists selling ceramics and not enough good places in which to sell the finished product. So for now I'll paint for joy, and to have the plates around. If I can sell some, so much the better.

The entire lesson is taken up with learning how to spray cristallina over the top, or dipping smalto over the top and making minor repairs of each piece before placing it in the kiln. Although she praises me for the quality of my work, I am not ready to stop my lessons.

We work outside her little studio in the shade of giant oak (quercia) trees, and the scene is as if we are transported back in time hundreds of years. She dips some of her own handpainted tiles in the smalto, and the designs are definitely medieval. I wonder if we will see them at her daughter's shop.

We leave and drive to Orvieto to pick up the results of my tests. All are in, and there is nothing remarkable to reveal. So I'll continue taking medicine and will see Dottoressa tomorrow.

We are met with a little rain on the way home from Orvieto just before pranzo, and each day this past week we've had a partly overcast sky and a little rain. It has not been a typical summer at all. Each day has been blessed by clouds, a smattering of rain, and today a strong breeze. Lovely.

Today is the day we start to put up the tomatoes, and late in the afternoon we finish putting up nine good-sized jars. This year, we have the loggia set up to do everything there, and with two folding tables we're able to work through the process quite rapidly. And then the bombola stops. So the canned tomatoes did not hold a boil for 40 minutes. So we drive up to Giove to get a new one, and then back to reprocess the tomatoes.

This year, we used the pulverizer to process the tomatoes before putting them in sterilized jars. This contraption operates with a crank and takes out the skin and most of the seeds. What is left is mostly a puree, which means that we won't have to use the food mill each time I want to use tomatoes.

But the results are strange. We use no water, and fill the jars up to the bottom line, which is about 1/2 inch from the top. But after the jars are out of the bath, the mixture separates and it looks like one part tomatoes to two part pinky water.

We have a bunch more tomatoes almost ready to process from our lower tomato orto, so in a few days will make up another batch. In the meantime, we'll check to see if the tomatoes settle down. If not, we'll change our process.

I have an idea for the Mugnano festa plate, but first we want to walk around the village to take photos of the tower from every vantage point. About twenty photos later, including a fun walk all around the borgo and a drive down the Mugnano hill and back again, we've completed our photo research.

I enter the studio, decide to play around with a design, and before I know it, have painted a design on a small plate that we can use at the Medieval festa on August 15th. I have produced a design without referring to the photos after all, conjuring up a scene of a simpler time some five hundred years ago. In it, the Tiber River flows behind the little hill that is Mugnano, and the tower rises up tall as its focal point.

While in the borgo, we dropped in to Ernesta's shop and found out that the meeting about the festa will take place tomorrow night at 9PM. So Roy calls Tiziano to see if he'll go with us to make sure we understand what is going on. If they will allow me to put on a simple medieval costume (which I'll sew up in the next week or so) and sit with my little Mugnano plates and paint while I'm sitting there, with Roy by my side, we will have a public introduction to my new craft. Roy agrees to wear a costume as well. Stay tuned for the results of tomorrow's meeting.

When we walk up the stairs past the credenza in the hallway where the little Mugnano plate sits, I look down at it and I am not so sure that I like the little plate that I attempted. On Sunday, I'll take it to Maria Antonietta and see if she has any ideas to make it less kitschy.

The posters are all up about the Guardea gnocchi and cinghiale sagras, and we'll eat there several times before the middle of August. Also, next week is the Mexican festa at Oktoberfest Pub. Roy can't wait. It's almost unheard of in Italia for a restaurant to serve food that is not Italian. So Roy is starved for Mexican food. I don't care either way, but he's very happy about it and that pleases me so.

July 14
So they said they'd start work today, but Roy walks down the hill and gets an excuse from Mauro. A while later, Manuele arrives late in the morning to start excavating. He is a sweet young man, but quite slow. We later learn that he is the son of Marcello, our mailman. Wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow he takes dirt to the selvatico area near the church.

Mauro and Giuseppe arrive around 1PM and they work for under an hour. Then they are all gone, vowing to return tomorrow at 7AM. Perhaps it is the heat. One man does not accomplish very much by himself. But the three of them should be able to finish moving all the earth and get the cement poured by the end of tomorrow. Speriamo!

Roy gives me the keys to the car, and I drive to Guardea, after calling Maria Antonietta to see if she can fit one more plate in her forno before she fires it. This is the sample Mugnano plate for what I think will be the Medieval festa on August 15th. Yes, she will fire it if we will deliver it to her before pranzo. So I drive off with it nestled in a box on the floor. She gracefully takes me to her studio when I arrive, dipping the plate in smalto and telling me it does not need any other touches, other than my chop on the back.

She turns the oven on, and tells me that by the time eight or nine hours have passed, the heat will turn off at a temperature of around 900 degrees. The computer timer starts the process at 21 degrees. Once it is turned off, the ceramics stay in the oven for at least a day, I think. We'll have all the finished plates on Sunday afternoon.

Before I leave, she looks at the new little plate of the tower of Mugnano and tells me that she cannot believe that I am not an experienced painter. She is very complimentary, and I do wish I could understand everything she is saying.

I'm the first to thrash myself, and kind words go a long way with me. I still remember her first guiding hand to me, "Coraggio, Evanne!" It has been with those words that I take a deep breath and relax before attempting a new design. What will come of all this? I have no idea.

From Guardea, I drive to Dottoressa, who has office hours in Chia this morning before noon. She tells me that I have had an infection in my colon that has been cleared up, but I need to return to the gastroenterologist in Orvieto for her prognosis. So my endoscopy is scheduled in two weeks, and we'll try to schedule an appointment with her right after that. Speriamo.

I'm missing painting, and since the Mugnano plate won't be ready until Sunday, I come up with a design and paint a tile for possible use around the outdoor sink. Roy likes it. It has the leaf and vine motif that I have used a lot recently. So now I'll work out a template. We'll need about twenty of them, placed in a definite pattern. And they'll be fired and installed later this summer. It will be an interesting project. There is so much to think about.

Tonight we think Tiziano will go with us to the festa meeting at the school at 9PM. But he cannot attend. So Roy puts a printed copy of a photo of my Mugnano plate in a folder and we walk up to the borgo just before the appointed hour. But it is like a ghost town up there. We sit on a green metal bench facing the valley, under a tree loaded with cackling cicadas, and wonder why we bothered coming at all.

Twenty minutes later, Livio arrives to ask where everyone is. There is something remarkable about the Italians. They never appear on time for anything. But in a period of about three minutes, everyone arrives as if they are all right on time. Tonight they arrive at 9:45. And just as Francesco starts to tell us that the meeting is to begin, his little son, Andrea, has to go to the potty. So he excuses himself and takes Andrea home.

The meeting starts at 10PM, and the notice at Ernesta said that it was a reunion meeting of the festa committee. We later learn that it is a meeting to decide what to do with the €2,500 in the bank left after the last festa. One hour after it began, it ended with €1,500 going to the church and €1,000 to buy benches for the plaza. I lean over to Antonio and tell him I think the entire money should go to buy a defibrillator for Mugnano. Bomarzo has one, but there are enough old people in Mugnano that it could save a life or two. He thinks it is a good idea, but I'm not about to bring up the subject. As it is, we have no idea what we are asked to vote for.

Later, we realize we should not really have gone to the meeting, as we did not participate in the last medieval festa. But as we get up to leave, Roy wants to show my plate, so shows it to Antonio, who likes it a lot and wants Francesco to see it. I stand in the hallway, not wanting to be involved, and hear that Francesco likes the plate but thinks we can use it next year.

So let's talk about the meeting. Francesco is the first to come into the room. There are many chairs against the walls, but Francesco just sits down at the head of the table. Roy starts to put chairs around the table, and Francesco nods his approval. For more than an hour, spirited discussion takes place about what should be done with the money earned from the last Medieval festa. No one takes a lead. There are no Robert's Rules of Order. No one sums up what is being said. We are both thinking of Mountain Play Board Meetings and wish Marilyn Smith could be a fly on the wall.

Everyone in the room has something to say, and everyone is very spirited about their opinion. There is no fighting, but there is a definite dance and rhythm to the cadence. Somehow there is a vote. But just before something is decided, the discussion starts all over again. I tell Roy it is like snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory.

We arrive home around 10:30 and an hour later, Giuliola calls up to Roy. He walks outside to let Livio in the front gate, who wants to speak with Roy about the vote. Livio thinks all the money should have gone to the church. We think he wants Roy to understand what the context of the meeting was all about. But when Roy tells me what Livio told him, I reply that the money is being spent wisely. Not everyone in Mugnano goes to church. But the benches will be there for everyone, and they are needed. A fair amount of the money is still going to the church, probably to go toward the new roof for the Duomo.

This has been an interesting night. I'm thinking that we can take orders for the plate. They'd make nice Christmas presents for people of Mugnano. But that's Roy's gig. I only do the painting. Perhaps next year I'll paint something else with a Mugnano scene. Perhaps it will be a little dish, or a spoon rest, or something small that won't cost too much money.

July 15
Several days ago the cicadas arrived for their summer holiday, and since then they have chatter, chattered all the day long. I tell myself I like the sound, and that is the only way I can deal with them. Such a loud cranking sound from such little creatures!

Mauro told us last night that his team would arrive at 7AM to finish their little project. At 6, they would be at Gino's cantina down the hill, taking off the molds for the cement. At 8AM, there is still no sign of them, and the sky is so clear we know the temperatures are starting their steady climb. It will be a very hot day to do much of anything.

They finally arrive after nine, and leave at 12:30. Although we are sure we do not need a permit for their work, they do not want to bring in a cement truck. So they'll do the cement work by hand on Monday morning, possibly with the help of our handy paranco. We'll have to cancel our plans to do an archaeological walk and dig with Tiziano. Hopefully we can schedule that for a morning later in the week.

When they leave, we take a look at the area where they have been working, and it will be quite wonderful. All the rebar is in place.

Roy works on his irrigation project under the shade of the pergola next to the outdoor sink while it is still cool. He wrestles with a big red snakelike coil and although I know he is silently cursing, he proceeds in a piano, piano fashion. "Sempre avanti!" (always forward) as the Mugnanese reply when we ask the oldest ones how they are doing.

He realizes that he has run a water line above ground at about six feet above ground from below the bathroom across the back of the property to the next garden. Now that Mauro's crew has set up rebar for cement, he realizes that this line can now be run under ground. So it is good that they will not work until Monday. Now Roy can run the pipe under where the cement will be poured.

We were not so smart two years ago, when we did all the work on the front of the property. At that time, when so much earth was taken out, we could have put in a cantina underneath the terrace. Now if we want to put one in, it will be more costly. So we're not planning one for now.

I begin preparing my first of the summer batch of cocomero (watermelon) granita, and take apart an entire watermelon with a huge knife. In my mind, thoughts rise up of camp royanee watermelon seed spitting contests and friends laughing and goading each other in another country years ago. What fun we had!

Noreen arrives for pranzo after her trip to the Monster Park in Bomarzo, and pronounces the park a success. She loves Mannerist art (16th century odd changes in Renaissance art forms) and this park is certainly a good example. We talk about the zany park and gardens at Scarzuola, in Umbria, and that we want to try to put a small group together at the end of September for a tour there. We have been there several times, but another visit would be fun.

She warns me about working with paints, even though the ones I use do not contain lead. She also warns me about cadmium ( I am thinking batteries when I hear the word), and I'll ask Maria Antonietta about that. We agree to hand wash my painted plates, but it would be good if I could put on a thicker finish to make them dishwasher safe. So I'll research that. Form and function. Let's make them both work in concert with each other.

No wonder the men did not want to work this afternoon. It is so hot that we eat pranzo inside. Sofi definitely likes Noreen. I can tell because she puts her head back and her big ears stick out like artichoke leaves when she looks at her. Noreen is not particularly taken by her, so Sofi settles down, and we have a long pranzo finished with our first of the season cocomero granita.

After Noreen leaves, we take an afternoon nap with the shutters closed and the fan blowing cool breezes as we sleep. This is known as "dolce fa niente" or sweet nothing, referring to an afternoon nap after pranzo.

When the weather cools off, I walk out to the studio, intent on doing a special platter for my homework, called "competi". My teacher wants me to do a big design in the middle of the plate with a figure or a face, surrounded by sectioned off grotesque designs. I have a thought that I want to draw a chubby angel in the middle, and play around with a pencil over the white chalky undercoat of the platter.

Remarkably, the figure comes out. I use a Q-tip to rub in pale grey wings, and mix a couple of colors for skin tone. I have no idea how I am able to paint it, but like the finished product quite a bit. I have no idea I could draw an actual lifelike form. Then I draw a border and section the plate off. Tomorrow I will plan and orchestrate the grotesques on the four sections of the border of the plate. I am "over the moon" with excitement about painting.

Wendy calls with an invitation for pranzo on Sunday, and it will be wonderful to see her and also their wonderful property. Michael has done a remarkable job with the landscaping, and Wendy's meditation room must be completed by now. We look forward to seeing it, and to seeing them.

The air cools off, and when I walk upstairs to bed and open the shutters, I reach way out to lock them open. Turning my head so that my body is literally looking up at the sky, I am delighted at the sight of all the stars on this clear night. Lights on a plane far above me, probably on its way to Rome, tease me into thinking for a moment that I am looking at a shooting star. I am tempted to go outside and lay back and watch the stars, but it is almost midnight, and I am tired.

July 16
It's too hot to take Sofi with us this morning, so she stays on the front terrace while we drive to the Orvieto hospital to make a follow up appointment with the gastroenterologist and then visit Maria Antonietta's daughter's new studio. We are not able to schedule an appointment for six weeks with Dottoressa, but I am feeling better so we are not concerned.

We drive up to Orvieto, and the back parking lot is closed off, because today is a market day. We finally find a place to park and take back streets to get to the new studio and shop. Chiara is the daughter's name, and Tara Chiara is the name of her shop. Inside, we meet her husband, Nicholas, and Maria Antonietta is also there. So we take a photo of all of them in front of the shop.

Chiara's paintings are modern, in a very interesting style. Her husband's paintings are representational, and quite remarkable. He also paints copies of masters. There is a still life that Roy likes quite a bit, and I also like his landscapes. But we're only looking. The shop is on Via dei Loggia di Mercanti, off of Piazza Della Republica.

We arrive home for pranzo and the rest of the afternoon. I take my homework seriously, and since I have a lesson tomorrow, I need to get working on the large border very soon. But it is too hot to work in the studio. So after a delicious cold pranzo of leftovers, I bring in the plate and pencil and stand and then the stool, because it is too high to draw at the kitchen table sitting on a chair.

Roy calls Lore, who is back in town, and asks if we can bring their folding chairs back at 7PM. She invites us for a drink when we bring the last bunch. This exercise is a major one, because cars are not allowed on the new mattone in the piazza.

Roy brings everything up with a hand truck, backing in the car and maneuvering its hatchback right up to the cordoned off iron cord. When we sit down with Lore and Alberto, she continues to speak about how unfair the decision is of not allowing cars into the piazza. I see her side. And I also see the sindaco's side.

We arrive back home and I am anxious to get back to painting. In a few minutes, I am able to work in the studio. So I sit out there until it is too dark to work anymore. I have finished the basics, just needing to tweak the design. I am pretty sure we will want to keep the plate. It has been so much work that I cannot imagine parting with it.

Sorry! We are way behind in posting our photos. We will post quite a few new photos, including a new property or two for sale or rent, this week.

July 17
Sofi is not happy, and she hides under the bench in front of the kitchen window while we walk up to mass. Lore and Alberto and Elena and Tiziano and Rosita and Enzo and all the regulars are here. The little church is full on this summer morning.

Outside, Roy asks the lovely Elena, dressed in a long red skirt and black blouse with turned up collar, unbuttoned bravely "down to there" about the jeweled key she wears around her neck. "The key to paradise!" she exclaims, and we all laugh." Lucky Valerio!" Roy leers. She is quite beautiful and so full of life. We like her very much.

She and I speak about her youngest grandson, also named Valerio, and he is about the same age as our grand daughters, so tell her that we hope the girls will be here next May. What a festa we will have!

At home, I have finished the ceramic plate. I can't remember ever looking forward to doing homework, or competiti, before. But this plate, with my version of an angel in the middle and grotesques around the edge, has taken many happy hours to complete.

Sofi knows something is going on, and is very excited when we let her know that we will take her with us to pranzo in Penna at Alan and Wendy's. But it is very hot, and she jumps back up several stairs to the landing to hide in the shade, afraid of the heat. I pick her up and she does pretty well in the air conditioned car.

While driving up the road to Penna, we see big pillows of smoke in the distance. It is against the law to light fires in the summertime. Fire hazards abound in the countryside on these hot days, and if one is to have a fire on their property, one hopes it does not happen on a Sunday. No one wants to work on a Sunday.

The closer we get to Alan's the more we think the fire is on his property. And when we arrive at the gate, we are sure it is right there. The smoke rises high over his extensive grounds, and when Wendy walks out to meet us, she tells us the fire is on the land next door, where a couple of Romans arrive on weekends to work the land.

Roy and Wendy walk right up the fence, but Sofi and I and the other dogs stay by the pool. On the other side of the fence, three goats run with fear in their eyes toward the fence, and Alan rushes forward, topless, sweating and moving like a man on a mission.

We know if there is a calamity, Alan is the best man to handle it. He is an Australian, and a no-nonsense kind of guy, unless you put a beer in front of him and get him telling stories.

On this day, he has been on the property, which he can reach through a small opening, and thinks a dog has died, tied with a rope to an out-building. Wendy and Roy and I are outraged at the possible death of the dog, hoping the owners of the property are arrested. But then we remember that Italians think of dogs as regular farm animals, acting as though losing an animal is just part of life going on. Whatever moved them to tie a dog up for days?

A solitary fire truck is there, but there is not enough water in the truck to put out the whole fire. So it is determined that the outbuilding will be left to burn itself out, and the fireman, who hollers at the top of his lungs to Alan as if the fire is his fault, is obviously miffed that someone has spoiled his tranquil Sunday. In Italia, it is not a good idea to have a fire on a Sunday...

Alan calls Carlo, his workman, to ask him to come right away, and when Carlo arrives, he finds us are all seated by the pool. He tells us the dog is not dead, and we are hopeful someone has taken it to the vet. We are all too afraid to ask, in the event he is left there, for it is not our business, nor can we safely get involved.

Sofi is not thrilled by the dogs. They are all big German Shepherds and Maremannas, except for the little machismo dog, Pagliacci, or Short Stop. All are male dogs, and sniff around poor Sofi, who curls up like a croissant and shivers.

Later in the day, she and the Maremanna puppy, Lagghi, chase each other around and do some nose kissing. Sofi rolls around in the clover, but mostly stays in the shade. When we leave, she hides under the shade of a potted tree, not wanting to get into the hot car.

Pranzo is a beautifully presented feast, and Wendy has worked for hours making this festive meal; a kind of lasagna, veal chops, beans from the garden, salad, fresh fruit and giant pastries. Of course there are many bottles of wine. Alicia and Justin are there as well, and the six of us sit around a large oval ceramic table facing the beautifully landscaped grounds.

After pranzo, we walk up to Wendy's new meditation room, which Alan planned over a year ago. Its position on the top of a rise above the house frames a magnificent view of the rolling Penna countryside. Behind it and to the side of it are shade trees, and Wendy has already experienced a weeklong inauguration of it, letting us know that its functionality as a meditation room is quite good.

It is time to drive to Guardea to my ceramics lesson, and Wendy wants me to remember what Maria Antonietta's response is to seeing the plate. She and Alan take a look at it just before we leave. We will see them tomorrow. Roy asks me if I mind driving to my lesson alone. I do not, understanding that it will be too hot for him to wait for me. Once Roy drives home and he and Sofi get out of the car, I drive on to Guardea.

I like driving the car, and having a little time to myself. I turn on RAI 3, and listen to classical music as well as some conversation. It is important to spend time just listening to Italian conversation. The more I hear, the more words float up into my subconscious.

In Guardea, my teacher's response is quite good. She makes a few minor suggestions, which I agree with, but it is ready to be fired. The plate is set aside for the next firing of the oven. Depending on how prolific I am this next week, we may have another firing soon. Speriamo.

While working on a new design, the pattern from an old book of hers of a horse in a forest, I look up at the sky outside the little studio and thank God for Maria Antonietta. She and I both shed a tear and a hug. We have formed a kind of unspoken bond. Before I know it, the lesson is over, and I take the plate with me to work on at home.

I drive home silently, taking in the sounds of the birds on this hot and happy afternoon as the sun descends behind me and the wind ushers in a cooler evening.

July 18
By 7am, four muratores, Roy and Felice are all busy on the property, the muratores figuring out how to take the wet cement behind the house and Roy following their every move. Felice arrives to check on things, and Sofi and I are still getting our morning bearings. But in a few minutes we'll put up more tomatoes, for in this hot weather there is no time to lose.

An hour and a half later, Mauro's crew is still working with the paranco, in order to hoist up wheelbarrows of gooey wet cement. During this time, they installed their larger motor and now can begin to make progress on this little job. Three of them worked on Roy's aluminum ladder hoisting up the motor like the flag at Iwo Jima, while Emanuele looked on.

Later, on the path right outside the parcheggio gate, Roy shows the young man how to use the nozzle on the hose. It has eight settings like a shower nozzie, and Emanuele has never seen anything like it. He tests it and turns each setting on and off as if he is playing with a Game Boy.

It is a good thing we have agreed on a fixed price for the work.

I cut a few Jude the Obscure roses, and place them in the little pitcher I have painted for Marissa to take a photo for her. Soon I will paint a similar pitcher for Nicole. These roses are so much happier on the front terrace. Two in one pot thrive, and one in the second pot does fine. The fourth rose has some kind of blight and we'll take it out today to see what the cause of it is.

Here is Marissa's pitcher, with her initial carved into the front. I look forward to continuing to make ceramic keepsakes for them.

Meanwhile, inside the loggia, the pot boils for the jars and Sofi and I take a basket to pick a kilo or so of fresh tomatoes from the lower garden. After washing them off in the kitchen, I bring them out with containers of salt and lemon juice to prepare for our second pomodori bottling of the summer.

We think we are doing a very Italian job, separating the skins and seeds from the pulp with an Italian metal tomato strainer equipped with a crank, until Giovanni sees Roy taking the boiled tomatoes in jars out of their bath and tells him he does not approve of all the water remaining inside the jars. Roy tells him the solution is just to cook the tomatoes longer, but what are we doing wrong?

I am horrified at the lack of respect this group will now have for us, but Roy takes it in stride. Bella figura; go figure. Dumb Americans, they probably will call us. And we were doing so well! Later in the day Roy has a good solution: when Giovanni is here tomorrow morning to work on our project, Roy will ask his advice on how to put up tomatoes without so much water. Giovanni will like the fact that we are trying to learn and respect his advice. Perhaps we will be forgiven. Speriamo, forte!

The cement mixer droans on and Mauro tells Roy that they'll stop at l'una and return tomorrow at 6:30 AM, so we can meet Tia and Bruce and Alan and Wendy at NonnaPappa for pranzo after all, even if we arrive late. But at l'una, they are nowhere near finished, so we agree to leave Sofi in their care and they will be sure to lock her inside the terrace gate when they leave. As we walk out the parcheggio, Sofi cries, and Mauro gently hugs her and tells her everything will be all right. Mauro calls us an hour later to tell him everything is all right.

It reaches 40 degrees (well over 100 degrees) when we arrive at the restaurant, and for the next hour and a half we are the only six people in the place. Fidelia, the chef, is in Sardinia with her daughter, Carlotta. Pepe, the owner, greets us in his usual gentle fashion, and despite mixing up our orders, we have a good meal and a good time.

Alan reports that the dog next door is walking around, apparently not badly hurt after yesterday's trauma. We are all thankful that the winds did not pick up and carry the fire along the ridge.

Pranzo today is a mellow meal, and we all get up to leave at the same moment: Tia to pick up Monique at the Orte train station, arriving from Paris, Bruce to return to the house to go back to work, and Alan and Wendy have somewhere to go. So Roy gives Tia her apricot jams that we processed a couple of weeks ago at our house, and picks up his Umbria Jazz t-shirt.

We arrive back home to find Sofi waiting at her usual spot at the gate, and a heat so oppressive we can't wait to sit inside. Roy stops to hose off the new cement, and reports that the muratores have done a fine job. Tomorrow they'll probably put up the little retaining wall and the job will be finished.

We want to stain the wood for the prefab room, and Roy takes the instructions with him to Viterbo, to make sure he buys the correct stain. I'm counting the hours before I can go back out in the studio to paint. I think the design for the plate is one I can almost finish tonight.

A dark shade leans across the terrace, bringing with it welcome breezes, and Sofi and I can return to the studio. So we are there when Roy returns, but it is still too hot for him to water. So he waits inside and relaxes for a while. I work more on the plate with the horse in the center and a background of forest, and then think I'll save the rest of it for my next lesson. I want some guidance on adding more perspective to the background.

Instead, I take out a long ceramic tray, and put one of my grotesque designs on it. It does not take too long, so I finish most of it before it becomes too dark to paint. I will finish it in the morning, and then paint four more dinner plates with a different but complimentary grotesque design to the original four. I will probably have them all ready for the forno by Saturday morning, the time of my next lesson.

I am troubled by something that Roy overheard Giovanni say to Emanuele earlier today. When looking at the hose nozzle that fascinates Emanuele, Giovanni refers to the price we agreed on with Mauro for the job. He makes sure that Roy hears him. So what is his problem?

Before the day is out tomorrow, I want to resolve whatever is bothering him about us. Roy and I are both people who are bothered by discord. We see no reason to justify it. In the meantime, I will have a restless night. Both Roy and Sofi are conked out at just after 11PM, so I know they don't share my concern. And I am happy for that.

July 19
Soon after midnight, skies open and a Shostakovich symphony plays outside our window, chaos reining in the night sky with its thunder and lightening. I bolt out of bed to shut down and unplug the computer. A few hours later, bursts of rain hit our front windows, meaning that the rain must be coming from the South. That probably means a scirocco, the gritty rain rising from Africa. Usually, after a scirocco, a layer of fine brown sand covers everything. We'll see in a few minutes.

Right now, the sky looks like the backdrop of an Italian religious painting, the bright purply-pink reflection off swirling clouds stirring up memories of Saturday afternoons and walks to St. Agatha's with Pam DiRico. She attended Confession every Saturday, while I sat and studied the paintings and statues on the walls. The paintings inside St. Agatha's were among the first paintings I can ever recall.

Come to think of it, I think of paintings I have seen in my childhood often. Is it a wonder that some out-of-the-mainstream influences of childhood have such an enduring impact? I recall photos of paintings by Breugel that Miss Munch brought to art class at Derby Academy. That would have been during the 4th to 6th grades.

And at around the same time, I first came upon those paintings at St. Agatha's. There were no paintings at the church I attended on Sundays, the First Parish Church in Quincy Square. That was an austere building surrounded in enormously tall pained glass windows, with John and John Quincy Adams buried in vaults below.

But next door to our house, the best paintings were enormous framed canvases at Ed and Kay Delaney's house. Those paintings reached all the way to the ceilings, and there were four of them, I think, in their long living room. I recall figures of tall, languorous women wrapped in filmy cloths. The whole room seemed to move with these lovely creatures.

But the paintings my mother painted, the oily brush strokes learned at a local art teacher's and refined on local landscapes, remain as the most precious to me. They are a legacy of her unfulfilled talent. I wonder what she is thinking now, and if she is painting that purply-pink sky overhead.

The one painting I have of hers hangs in the guest bedroom window, a scene at The Cape, with a little shack on a hill overlooking the beach. She always wanted to live in a shack at the beach, and about a year after she died, we buried her ashes in a hillock on Stinson Beach, California, surrounded by French tulips and facing West. She loved to sing, "I'm gonna get you on a slow boat to China..."

I am deep in thought about my family and my childhood today.

Outside the bedroom window, the muratores have come to work after all. The little retaining wall is the last part of their project to complete, and we hear nails pounding and wood sawing, before 7AM. And then the twice-a-day Viterbo bus can't get past our house, so there must be a truck to be moved. And the noise of the work is brought to a standstill.

A huge cement truck arrives for a pour at Gino's cantina down the hill, and since Mauro is doing Gino's work as well, his entire crew rushes down there as though they are running from a fire.

A few hours later they return, and this time are followed by the truck. Mauro wisely has the truck drop off the remainder of the wet cement that is not used at Gino's. So they unwrap the paranco, which was covered over night, and return to the hoisting of the wheelbarrows. This time, no cement mixer is needed.

When Roy and the boys are having coffee in the requisite tiny cups and morning biscotti, Mauro tells Roy that Sofi cried and cried after we left for pranzo yesterday, until he went over to her and hugged her. Then she followed them behind the house and her little paws pranced over the wet cement. Mauro was able to show us a few remaining paw prints.

Today, everything seems all right with Giovanni. Roy asks him what he thinks we should do with the tomatoes, and he tells him that what is wrong with the tomatoes is that they have too much water content. But when Roy tells him that it's not possible to hold back on watering them if they're not all ready at the same time, he agrees. So he suggests that we use a kind of tamper when we pour the pulp into the jars, to keep the pulpa closer to the bottom and take out some of the water. He reacts as though it's no big deal.

This morning is quite hot, and Roy decides to tackle putting in the little ceramic sink in my studio. But as Stefano suggested, the little room is more like a sauna in the heat, with all the steel and windows. So we keep the fan going while he works, and I help when he needs it, but mostly paint.

When I leave the studio to hang up the laundry, Giovanni and Mauro are at the paranco. Giovanni, always with the better ideas I suppose, tells me that I should move my studio to the nearby tufa grotto, which is cool, during the summer months. Most Italian muratores want to give their opinion, of anything. Mauro, the boss, is more reserved, just watches and smiles. He is a wonderful boss, and treats his men with respect and a sense of joviality. I like him very much and am pleased we are using him for this work.

While I am hanging the laundry on a folding clothes rack on the terrace, and Mauro stands nearby at the paranco, he kindly tells me that this is their last day, and tomorrow we won't be disturbed any more.

I respond with Rosanna Rosannadanna's favorite expression. "It's always something," after "It is nothing". or "Don't worry about it" The words I use are "Fa niente. Sempre qualcuno." He looks closely at my face to try to understand my pronunciation, and nods his head.

I have done some editing of the food section of the web site, trying to organize some of the recipes. Our site does need some work, especially new photos, and I'll try to get Roy to sit down and do them later this week. Because of the heat, the timing is probably very good.

Tomorrow we drive to Bracciano, to take Sofi for her summer haircut and a few hours with her family of basottos, and drive on to Rome for a quick visit at Piazza Venezia to see the Fernando Botero exhibit and also visit the famous ceramics museum. Tiziano will go with us, if he does not have to take care of his grand father.

Tonight, Roy will feast on Mexican food at Oktoberfest Pub in Attigliano. I have chosen to stay home with Sofi. Late tonight I have a conference call meeting with other stockholders of the Boston building, and want to take a nap first. Roy has arranged to meet with Tony and Pat and their family. In a phone call from Tiziano, he is unable to join us tomorrow. Our adventures with Tiziano will have to continue on another day.

July 20
This morning we rise early and drop Sofi off at Marielisa's, near Lake Bracciano, for her summer haircut. We then drive on into Rome for pranzo and a visit to Palazzo Venezia. The ceramics museum is our goal, but if we have enough time, we'll also visit the Fernando Botero exhibit in the same building.

Museums are interesting places. Each one has its own distinct character. I think my favorite is the little one-room diocesan museum in Orte, reached just before the main piazza, where exquisitely portrayed characters are displayed like a theatre in the round at the edges of the room.

A few days ago, I read in the New York Times that museums are now finding new ways to make money by renting out their treasured pieces and even selling off some that will never be displayed. There is much controversy about the subject now.

Here is what one skeptic had to say, "With faith goes the delicate ecosystem of charitable contributions and tax-free privileges. Why, the public will ask, do institutions like these reap the benefits of nonprofit status if they service private interests who shape the content of what's on view and/or reap cash rewards?"

My mother always wanted a sculpture of a museum quality horse from the Tang Dynasty. Decades ago, while on a special visit behind the scenes at Boston's Museum of Fine Arts in honor of my parents 30th wedding anniversary, she stood in front of a display case, her arms folded in childlike envy as the horse inside ignored her.

In honor of their anniversary, I conspired with the Director of Development to come up with a novel idea at the time. Knowing that both parents loved art, I thought that a private visit would be an unusual way to celebrate the occasion. My brother and I made a donation that we were told would be used to restore a painting of a little bird, and on the tour were shown the painting as well as the room where the restorations took place. The whole tour ended with a photo session and a glass of sherry with the Director of the Museum.

Everyone won. I don't think the concept "took", but what an idea it was! After the day, I felt even more strongly that art needed to be seen. Closeting it away, or losing it to private collectors who hoard it, not letting the masses see it, is a travesty. Why do I think art needs to be viewed by the masses?

I believe it encourages daydreams and fantasies. I lived in my daydreams and fantasies for most of my life. And now I can say that my dreams have come true. Even my love of tactile pieces of painted clay has found its way literally right into my hands. I now hold a brush and attempt to recreate ancient pieces that in some cases no longer exist. The exercise is heavenly for me. And if I'm able to execute the design well, we'll have a treasure to appreciate for years to come and a sense of accomplishment that thrills me.

Where would I be without Miss Munch's copies of Breugel scenes brought to art class, or Durer's wood cuts viewed at the same museum years before with my father, where we peered into the drawings to find the artist's initials, hidden in the designs?

On the drive to Bracciano this morning, I muse about all this with Roy. Art has had such a profound influence on me, and only now do I realize that each experience, each introduction to another form or image, left its mark by painting another stroke on the canvas that has become my consciousness.

Sofi shakes as Irina picks her up. She is chased by so many dogs. Some are her relatives, the perky little Basottos, while others include Bernese Mountain Dogs, Norwich Terriers and Scotties, with a few Jack Russels thrown in. I know she hates this visit, but loves how she feels and looks after we pick her up.

We take the Aurelia, Highway 1, to Rome. Remember the famous quote, "All roads lead to Rome?" The Aurelia is the first of the major consular roads, followed by the Cassia, then the Flaminia, the Salaria, the Nomentana, the Tibertina, and the Appia.

The Appia, known then as The Appian Way, went from Rome to Puglia, the Aurelia from Rome to France, the Cassia from Rome to Tuscany, the Flaminia from Rome to Rimini, the Aemilia from Rimini to Piacenza, and the Salaria from Rome to the Adriatic Sea (in Le Marche).

The first network of this type of roads was set up by the Romans more than two thousand years ago to manage their provinces and to hinder the ability of the provinces to organize any resistance against their Empire. But a little more Roman trivia:

The Roman Empire, in case you don't remember your Roman history, lasted from 753 B C to the downfall of Rome, during which Nero played his violin, in 476 A D. The Empire was founded by Romulus, the first of the seven Kings of Rome in 753 B C, but the last king was named Tarquin the Proud (Tarquinus Superbus), who was deposed in 510 B C when the Roman Republic was established.

Just a little more:

Every mile on every road was marked with a milestone to tell the distance to the center of this network: Rome. The markers still exist. But they are not what we would call miles.

Here's the difference, according to wikipedia.org:

Throughout history many units of length named mile have been used, with widely differing definitions, originating with the Roman mile of approximately 1479 meters. A Roman mile consisted of 1000 "double steps", or two strides by a Roman soldier. The Latin term for each such double stride is a passus having a length of 5 Roman feet or approximately 4.83 English feet. The word mile itself has been derived from the words mille passus (plural milia passuum), a thousand paces.

Along the roads built by the Romans throughout Europe, it was common to erect a stone every mile to announce the distance to Rome, the so-called milestones. The noun milliarium (plural milliaria), designating a milestone, was also used as a figurative alternative for mile.

The name statute mile goes back to Queen Elizabeth I of England who redefined the mile from 5000 feet to 8 furlongs (5280 feet) by statute in 1593.

Basta...for now.

We drive close to St Peter's, and park at an underground garage at the Baldo degli Ubaldi Metro stop.

Once we're inside the Metro, it takes us several stops before we reach the Spanish Steps. After we reach daylight, we decide to take a leisurely stroll down shady side streets, leaving the masses on the Corso to swelter in the sun. It is close to 100 degrees.

We cross back to the Corso through an exquisite galleria, the Galleria Alberto Sordi, and upon reaching the other side are just around the corner from Palazzo Venezia. A huge Botero poster hangs outside. Inside, we take a look at the bookstore, but there aren't many books on grotesques, the focus of my quest.

At the reception area, however, an exquisite young woman presents herself as a Botero, and does not see her name on the list to be admitted. She is far too lovely to be characterized by this famous zany artist, whose figures appear blown up by bicycle pumps.

Inside the main museum, my eyes are drawn to panels of grotesques that just knock my eyes out. They frame the paintings on the walls, but the paintings take second place in my mind. Unfortunately, just as we enter, is a large framed notice informing us in no uncertain terms that taking photos is forbidden.

We walk through the rooms, enjoying the painted walls and ceilings as well as the paintings, and come upon a huge exhibit of ceramics, all from Orvieto, dating from the 13th and `14th centuries. We walk past Japanese art and porcelains, but see no grotesques to speak of. Hardly any Renaissance plates are seen at all.

A woman sits by a window, and we ask her if we've seen it all. "No, there is an entire wing closed to visitors." I tell her I am a student of art, learning how to paint grotesques, and want to know how I can learn more. She asks us to follow her around the corner and down some steep circular stairs to the Director of the Museum's office!

We wait outside on an elaborately carved and upholstered banquette, the inlaid marquetry on its wooden collar so beautifully executed that I follow the design for a few minutes until I am drawn to the hand made colored tile patchwork floor.

I start to shiver, realizing that in this building more than sixty years ago, Benito Mussolini held court, causing death and destruction to thousands of Italians and changing the course of history. The walls and ceilings do not appear to have been painted in all this time. I focus on a wonderful clock leaning back against a wall, and witness several people attempting to get Dottoressa's attention through her open doorway.

She is clearly busy, with three people also inside her office, but in another twenty minutes she ushers us inside. Dottoressa Sconci is a tall, grand looking woman with a Patrician profile and long auburn hair, dressed casually but elegantly in brown linen shirt and pants. She looks at me with an expression of intense concentration and wants to know how she can help.

Once I tell her I am a student of grotesque art, having difficulty finding examples to study, she gives us her complete attention. She picks up her telephone and dials, directing the woman who led us downstairs to give us a tour of the rest of the museum, and to stand near us in the event we have any questions. She is also to allow us to take photographs. We are floored by our good fortune.

She and her assistant also offer to email me information about grotesques.

Back on the tour of the ceramics, we follow the woman into darkly draped windowed rooms, where she deftly turns off the alarms and turns on the lights. I am reminded of the opening scene of Angels and Demons, and wonder if a crime will be committed this afternoon...

Before we are through, we have seen at least a dozen more rooms, and have taken photos of at least twenty pieces. The same woman also gains us permission to photograph the wall panels at the front of the museum.

Now it is time to view the Botero exhibit. We have seen many of his fine paintings over the years, and this exhibit claims to consist of paintings of his last 15 years. Does this mean he has stopped painting, or is there more left in that paintbrush he uses to reflect his moods?

Later Roy tells me that he is sure that Botero only painted one face, and when viewed in the context in an exhibit, his work seems, well, redundant. Some of the pieces are wonderful, but some are not well executed at all.

Shelly saw this exhibit a week or so ago and reminded us to go because she was so moved by the Abu Ghraid paintings of tortured prisoners. There is a room full. Botero must have traveled there personally, the figures look so lifelike and hideous. Botero's bold use of color predominates many of them, in a Central American palette of vivid rosey red, bright green, orange and yellow. The browns become pinky, the blacks become grey.

Whatever took him from his scenes of the ludicrous to the scenes of the hideous? I have not read any political statements of his, but these paintings tell far more than any written word could. I don't dally over these paintings. Black and white drawings also exist in the exhibit, mostly with splashes of red to indicate, well, blood.

We are brought back to the present at the display of t-shirts and fat commemorative pencils, and pick up a couple of shirts. The designs and colors are delicious.

Speaking of delicious, we are now hungry. We decide to eat right at the museum, outside on the balcony at a café overlooking palm trees and a garden. The wait people set the table for us "just so", with each paper napkin folded in a triangle, and the fork and knife placed touching each other, with the tines of the fork cradling the edge of the knife. Who says the junior employees don't have a design style?

I eat a simple cooked pizzetta, topped after baking with fresh buffala mozzarella, fresh tomatoes and rugghetta. The pizza is hot, the toppings freshly adorned. Roy eats a coppa salad on a huge white plate. The prices are also high, but we're cool and it's quiet here, and we know our choice is worth the extra cost.

The walk back to the Metro is long and hilly and hot, so we walk slowly and I think I remember stepping on every rough cobblestone. Once in the Metro, it takes no time to reach our stop, and the garage greets us just as we exit. The car is cool. Again, this was a fortuitous choice.

We exit by way of the Aurelia again, and before we know it we're picking up Sofia and driving back through the winding Lazio countryside. Once we reach home, there's just enough time to paint a second Mugnano plate before leaving for cena. I want to present Mauro with the first commemorative Mugnano plate tomorrow morning as a thank you for doing such fine work.

Roy really loves Mexican food, and tonight is the second Mexican fiesta at Oktoberfest Pub. I do not like the noise there when there is a live band, but agree to go anyway.

We're greeted by loud noise, with the band tuning up, and it drives us inside the pub, where Roy eats his chili con carne and Sofi and I sit patiently.

Driving home, we're treated to a full moon and a lovely cool night. We all sleep well, with each of our heads full of visions of our own sugarplums.

July 21
Mauro and his crew will arrive soon. Mauro told Roy on Tuesday to whistle when he's up and dressed, and they will walk up the hill from their other project to take down the wooden supports holding up the low cement walls to end the project.

I hear Mauro coming up the hill. "Sofia!" he calls out, and then, "Bella!" as Roy opens the gate for her and she flies down the stairs into his arms to greet him.

I'm out on the balcony, watering and deadheading the white petunias when they return one by one and walk below me around the back of the house. They call up to me and I greet them and wave. I missed them, missed Giovanni's gutteral slang, missed the friendly noise that groups of Italian men make when they are working together.

Owen Edwards, writing in Smithsonian magazine about a project to preserve distinctive sounds, tells us:

"Much of the richness of life is absorbed through the ear. And much of the clash and chaos, too. From a mother's lullaby to the drum roll of thunder from an approaching storm to the cacophony of car horns in a traffic jam, the sounds of our lives help define our lives. In a sense... we are what we hear, and at least part of the sum of ourselves resides in the recollections of the summer hum of cicadas or the distant lament of a train whistle at midnight. ... But sounds once taken for granted can also fade away, never to be heard again."

I can't imagine taking the sounds around us for granted. Countless times during the day I find myself stopping in mid thought and listening...to the wind, to the trees, to the cicadas, to the birds, to the neighbors talking with each other.

We make coffee for the men, and before they leave I present Mauro with a personal gift, my first little commemorative Mugnano plate. What a good idea it was to have his crew work for us.

Later, when I recount giving Mauro the plate, Roy asks me how Mauro responded. "He kissed me."

"On both cheeks?"

"No. One cheek."

"Did he ask you for coffee?"

"No, he just finished his coffee."

"That kiss was a sincere thank you."

Don Francis calls, and he's now in Isernia, having arrived from the U S a day ago. He and Cornelio, his Italian house partner, will arrive on Monday for a few days. We ask Tiziano if he'll call Don Luca to invite him for cena on Monday or Tuesday.

Tia calls, and she's invited us for pranzo on Saturday. Today is so humid that I'm looking forward to a swim in their pool. Just when I think we'll have a quiet summer with no activity, the phone rings and our social life picks up markedly.

Don Luca has accepted our invitation for Monday night's dinner here. It should be a funny evening, with Don Francis taking center stage, acting like an impresario. He is certainly a larger than life character.

Roy finished most of the installation of the terra cotta sink in my studio. It was too hot to paint today, and I really missed not painting. So I hope to make up for that tomorrow.

With the moon past full, we've taken out all the lettuce and I'll plant some rugghetta seeds tomorrow morning. It's time to put in more lettuce, and give it a couple of weeks to come into its own. The red onions continue to grow next to the lettuce, and we'll pull them out and braid them soon. In the meantime, Roy waters nights and mornings and we pretty much lay low during the middle of the day, for the temperatures climb almost to 100 degrees. Welcome to Italia in the summer time.

July 22
A breeze greets me outside the front door this morning, but today is hot. I can tell it will be a hot day by the weight of the air as I move about the garden. (Hot to me these days means over 90 degrees.) Tia and Monique and Nicole will arrive later to look at the ceramics and the garden. So we move about, manicuring this and that. Roy and I move the pieces of the wooden storeroom to the back of the house, where he will stain them. He has inventoried the whole lot, and we even have a few extra pieces.

I love the space at the back of the house. It will work out very well for us, even after the little room has been constructed against one of the walls of the house.

Felice stops by, and checks out the tomatoes. I meet him in the lavender garden, and point up to the fig tree, whose leaves now provide sweet shade for his bench. He slowly walks up to sit on the long slab of stone, and I yearn for a photo of him there, but he does not want one taken of him. Some day I'll take one when he does not mind. In the meantime, I will keep the image of him in my mind, sitting there wearing his immaculate short sleeved plaid shirt, with his cap in his hand, looking across at the tomatoes, his eyes full of delight.

Roy is sidelined by the irrigation system, hooking up two more roses on the path between the door to his "office" and the steps to the upper garden. With a few more fittings, we will be able to lay down nursery cloth and gravel. Now I have a better idea of what kind of tiles I want to design for the outdoor sink surround. They will be grotesques, of course, very elaborate and colorful ones, to play off the more formal green and grey of the garden. Soon I will mock up the template. I will need about twenty tiles. The design will come...

We have a number of very special guests arriving in September: Cousin Cherie and Peter, Michelle Berry and Ann and Jack Murphy. So I'll put a marker in my subconscious to get the tiles finished and installed by then. That will give me about two months. I think I can do it. I know I can!

Just before Tia arrives, I take a look at the photos we took the other day in Rome. The exquisite panels of grotesques feature an interesting flower and leaf. Upon closer scrutiny, I realize that the flower and the plant is the passion vine! So I will study the vine we have right outside my studio.

There are no flowers on the vine this year, but I think it is an interesting coincidence. When first looking closely at the design in the museum, I realized that the flower was painted with its "back" facing out. And the closer I looked, the more I realized the cup shape of the flower was the same as those examples of our vine.

When the girls arrive, the ceramics are all laid out in the loggia and in the studio. It is good to show them to people. With each plate, I become more proficient and with each piece I want to attempt more complex designs.

The sink installation is just about complete in the studio, and Roy agrees to put the original brass fitting back on it, instead of the more practical Gardena orange plastic one. I only use it for water for the plant seedlings or for water for the paints, so whatever trickle comes out is fine with me. Instead of installing the bottom cup of the ceramic sink, he uses an antique roof coping tile, one that takes up the entire remaining space from the sink to the gravel floor. It looks caratteristico, and that's fine with me. Bravo, Roy!

Later in the day, I help Roy to move all the pieces of the prefab room behind the house to the cement pad. Roy sets up a table and sawhorses and starts the tedious process of coating the wood with two coats of stain. When it dries, and only then, can we do the assembly.

Now that Roy likes working behind the house, I suggest that he consider doing a kind of switch with the little building in the lavender garden. We can store some of the garden things there, and he can move his workbench and some tools to this room right behind the house instead. He'll see what works best for him, but at least we have an interesting option.

I paint two more little Mugnano plates, and Roy scares me with the idea that he wants me to paint signature plates for all the towns around. I tell him he can take a plate to the Pro Loco (chamber of commerce) of the different towns to see if they will buy them, but that's not really the kind of work I'm anticipating. I applaud his resourcefulness, just the same. Perhaps he's been inhaling the fumes of the stain...

My lesson is cancelled for tomorrow and I'm really disappointed. I need to do more research on grotesques before I paint any more plates or tiles. So unless I can come up with something I'll go back to my writing projects and try to sell a story or two.

After ten PM, I sit at the desk in our room and look out to see the moon. It is hardly visible, hidden by a cloud, and then I look out a while later and it is right there looking at me. The cicadas work overtime in the trees on Pia's property, and it is cool enough that I turn the fan off in our room.

Earlier, Roy reminded me that we live in a village of farmers. Each morning, we are awakened by the sounds of farmers tending their land in the valley below us. This is different than what we think of as being a farmer in America.

Farms there are remote, and people live out in the countryside, surrounded by their land. Here, people of our village live right on top of one another, or side by side in attached medieval buildings, and take their apes, or tractors or walk down to the valley below to tend their plots of land. Everyone who lives here full time is a farmer. I don't count people like Lore and Alberto, who use this as a little weekend getaway from Rome.

The moon is still there, like a giant egg yolk suspended on an invisible chain. Now its surrounded by a rim of haze. I hear the sound of a train in the far distance and the sound trails off until the cicadas alone break the silence of this lovely night.

July 23
Sofi wakes us up twice in the middle of the night, throwing up. We spring out of bed like a jack-in-the-box, rushing to her side. She is really not well. These days, her eyes look big and dark, perhaps because she has just had her summer haircut, and looks so little. Her eyes are another story.

I am unable to get back to sleep, and she is clearly not well, so I lift her up on the bed and Roy is not happy. But I think she is really ill, so want her by my side. She sits up just looking out the window. Ten minutes later, she is back in her bed. After getting sick again at around 3 AM, I take her outside. She has little strength, and her body shakes and shakes. Early in the morning, we get ready to take her to the vet. We have no idea what is wrong with her.

I fix the batter for the zucchini fritters early, because it needs to sit for at least four hours. We are expected for pranzo at Tia and Bruce's at l'una, and our zucchini fritters are going to be the appetizer for ten people. So they'll have to be plopped into hot girasole (sunflower) oil at noon. If Sofi does not get better right away, I'll stay at home with her today, sending Roy with the fritters to Tia's.

Doctor's hours start at 9:30, and we are there before 9:15. For once we are the first to arrive. But no one arrives until almost 10 AM, and one of the assistants tells us that hours start at 10. When I show him the sign, he raises his shoulders and tells me it is wrong. He acts as though, "Who reads the sign, anyway?"

Another doctor has the key, and about an hour after we arrive, we are ushered into a waiting room. Giuglio sees us, and just as he starts to look Sofi over, the phone rings and he picks it up. He does this twice, including once while he's trying to put an I V in her, and it upsets me so that when the phone rings again I warn him not to answer it. All the yakking adds to Sofi's nervousness. And Roy and I are so squeamish that we take turns holding her. I look up at Roy when the I V is going in and I think he's going to faint. I just hold her close and we both shake together.

It's been determined that she'll get an I V for about half an hour, while we sit with her, as well as two injections, one an antibiotic and one to stop her from throwing up. By the time we are through and go to pay, it is....€20! This amazing price is probably one tenth of what it would be in the U S. And the quality of her care here is excellent.

There is no way we can take her to Tia's, with ten people for pranzo and two very energetic dogs. So Sofi and I stay at home and Roy will take a big tray of zucchini fritters, which I prepare on top of the outdoor stove in the loggia as soon as we arrive home.

Sofi and I eat roast chicken, one of the things I can eat without shaking up my stomach these days. For the next two days, in addition to not being able to eat fried foods, rich sauces, crunchy vegetables, carbonated beverages or alcohol, I will not be able to eat fruit or vegetables at all. So today I help myself to fruit, but mostly Sofi and I stay in the kitchen relaxing.

I move the potter's wheel to the kitchen table and the stool inside, and work on a new large plate, with an angel in the center and grotesques around the edges. When the weather cools off, we move outside, and by then Roy has arrived home, with a plate of lamb for me and a rundown of the activities at his pranzo.

Sofi is doing much better. She follows me from room to room but mostly sleeps, and after we move back inside, has enough energy to throw one of her toys around the room.

Roy works behind the house staining more of the panels, but this is a big job. So he'll do more of it tomorrow. We hope it won't rain tonight. The panels are all lined up behind the house, drying.

We go up to bed early, but there is a whole crew of people on the street, having a good time. They seem to be congregating right below our house. The voices are not familiar, and a couple of them are very loud voices. It's a warm night, and the villagers love to walk outside on warm nights. Bless them. They have a right to this wonderful village, too.

I walk downstairs, with the intent of walking over to the edge of the terrace to see what all the noise is all about, but see Roy coming inside, and he tells me that a few women are sitting on our bench on the path, but most of the noise has stopped.

But when I walk back upstairs the noise starts again. Now there are more people, including young children, taking a walk.

I return back downstairs, turn on the outside lights, and walk over to the edge of the terrace. Esther, Erica, Francesco are there, as well as others, all sitting on our little stone benches. We bid each other "buona serra" and I return upstairs. The moon is still pretty full, more like a round oval, and its color is a bright pinky yellow. I'll close the front window and we'll nod off soon to dreamland.

July 24
Today is Terence's 35th birthday. We seem so very far away on days like this.

The noise of a generator drones on outside our window. Or is it a tractor? It sounds more like a tractor, roughhousing with the land in the valley. I remember a friend telling us about her bad experience renting a house in Tuscany one summer. The villa was located in the countryside, and "What nerve! We were woken up in the morning by sounds of a tractor outside our window! Didn't they know we're trying to sleep?"

We had to stifle our laughter.

I take my little hand fan with me to church this morning, and inside several other women join me. We are like butterflies, fluttering our fans while the mass proceeds. Elena tells me the expression is "airea forte!" or a lack of breeze. Don Ciro is late arriving, and moves through his homily with his eyes all but closed, as usual. Is this to avoid the knowledge that not everyone pays attention? The church is full, with many summer residents.

This weekend is an important one for Mugnano. There was a wedding yesterday; the bride was the daughter of Nicola, one of Roy's confraternity fellows. We see two lovely trees decorated with pale pink roses flanking the front door of the father's house, next to Nando's when we walk up to church. We encounter Luigina as she walks back from the fountain after watering the plants at the bus stop. She is the one who tells us about the wedding.

We know Nicola to say "buon giorno" to, but that's about it. So all the commotion and beeping of car horns yesterday around 5PM was about that. The wedding took place outside Mugnano. Elena was invited, but was not sure of the town. Nicola is from Mugnano, and is Carlo and Giovanna's brother. We see Nicola when we walk back from church, and wish him "Auguri!".

Don Francis' plans have changed. He is having car trouble, and will arrive by train tomorrow without Cornelio. Fa niente. He will be here for pranzo and we hope will stay for a few days. We invite Lore and Alberto for drinks on Tuesday night, and they look forward to seeing our dear friend then.

I spend several hours working on painting the pitcher for Nicole, and don't finish. It will take a few more hours before it is ready for the oven. I do most of the work inside in the cool air during the day. It is too hot to spend time outside.

Tiziano arrives after 6PM to help me to write a thank you note to the Director of the Museo Nazionale at Piazza Venezia, and to help me figure out why we can't read the document she forwarded.

I did not know that when using the search engine Google, if you click on the word Images, you will see photographs of what you want to look up. He helps guide me to open up the page that was forwarded incorrectly, and yes, I am able to find a number of grotesques. My previous search did not come up with these sites.

Once we are through using the computer, we return to the terrace and Roy joins us. He has spent a lot of time today staining the pieces of the magazzino behind the house. It will take many hours to stain all the pieces twice, first with the colored stain and then with the sealer, before he is ready to put it together.

Tiziano draws a little snail, or lumaca, for me. I am going to make a plate for him, really a coat of arms with the lumaca featured in the design. Tiziano told us that the people of Mugnano are called lumacese because they are so slow and crawl into their "shells" when criticized. Is it strange that I think this is a complement? I love the slow life here, and with each day that passes, I withdraw instead of getting into conflicts with people. Conflicts seem so unnecessary. I believe my family problems have brought me to this conclusion. It feels safer to think this way. And safety is my goal, at least for now.

Sofi is having a great day. Her appetite is back, and she runs around the property joyfully, wagging her tail at each of us even more than usual. Roy thinks she is thanking us for taking good care of her yesterday. It is so good to see her back to her old self.

But Roy is sad today. He calls Terence a couple of times to wish him a happy day, and finally connects. He wishes he could spend more time with his son and his family, as do I. Days like these are especially sad ones, but we made this choice to live so far away, and have our November trip to the Bay Area to look forward to. Terence sounds happy. That pleases us so. We then call Uncle Harry, who is doing pretty well, and he is another person we miss a great deal. We'll see Harry and Elaine also on our trip in November.

The night ends as I put my drawings away and Roy goes to bed first to read. The cool night air lulls us to sleep. On these summer nights, I have only to put my head on the pillow to fall asleep.

July 25
With neighbors' tractors chugging away in the valley at 7 AM, I know it's time to face the day. The sky is hazy, but I am sure the day will be hot. There is excitement in the air, and I look forward to it all.

I have not made bread in a while, so start some ciabatta and add fresh rosemarino to the dough. There is a temporary glitch in today's bread-making. Bread, while it is rising, does not want to be in the path of moving air. I have just about finished all the risings of the bread and am ready to put it into the oven after sprinkling water on it, but for some reason turn on the fan at the back of the room. The bread instantly deflates. Fa niente. Ciabatta is supposed to be pretty flat, anyway.

By this time, it is close to noon and with all the cooking in the kitchen the room is hot. The shutters are closed, and Sofi and I are starting to drag. Roy is busy painting more of the wood framing for the magazzino in the shade behind the house.

Don Francis calls, and his train is just pulling into the Attigliano station. So Roy drives off to pick him up. Sofi is over the moon when she sees him. She remembers him and can't wait to get hugs from him, Hasn't it been a year since his last visit? She absolutely knows who he is.

It is great to see Don Francis, and these days he sports a wonderfully elegant beard, almost pencil thin and immaculately groomed. He can't wait to change into his shorts, and we sit around in the kitchen for most of the afternoon, eating slowly and enjoying stories. He always has such good stories to tell.

Artusi's ancient recipe of sausages and grapes, cooked in our outdoor kitchen, are delicious, or at least they tell me so. I am on a no fruit and no vegetable diet for two days, and in addition to no sauces and no fried foods, and no carbonated beverages and no alcohol, I make do with pasta and grated cheese.

I ask Don Francis about Don Ciro's homily two weeks ago. I tell him I think it was all about mosquitos (zanzari). He breaks out in raucous laughter, for he knows the homily referred to the gospel, and literally about zizzania, which is a weed that looks like wheat. When farmers wanted to cheat someone, they would add in zizzania, for it looked like wheat, but would not produce grain. My thought was that "things are not always what they seem", and he agrees that that is one way of looking at it.

A conversation with him is always an education, and today he takes advantage of the language fun by adding a new word. Now we speak about garbage. He tells us that lo sfacio is a junkyard. But in our Italian dictionary the closest I can find is spasciare, which means "to go to pieces" or "to smash" or "to lose one's figure". He tells us that spazzaturo is garbage and a spazzaturalo is a garbage collector. All those "z's" give the Italians a sense of levity, I suppose, and a word with a "z" in it is fodder for a good story.

Well, the big news is that Archbishop Levada is expected to take Pope Benedict's old job as the Dean of Cardinals! The two men worked very closely for many years on doctrinal subjects. What a wonderful step for this highly regarded bishop of San Francisco. We hear stories about Isernia, and about Don Francis' parish there. He is still associated with Isernia, even though his present post is with the Council of Catholic Bishops in Washington, D C. His mission is interfaith dialogue with Eastern religions. So of course we want to know how the Catholic Church is working with people of the Islamic faith.

And we also commiserate about our mutual quests to obtain Italian citizenship. He happily tells us that all he needs is his grandfather's proof of naturalization to obtain his. Roy and I look at each other in "here we go again" expressions and explain our endless quest for the same information about Roy's grandfather. Even with his passport, we are unable to uncover the information regarding when he became an American citizen. So we wish Don Francis luck, and move on to another topic.

The weather reaches 40 degrees, and Don Francis takes a "dolce fa niente", or afternoon nap, for a few hours. I try to come up with a good but simple meal for tonight and we agree on: prosciutto and melon, pasta simplice with some of our freshly roasted pepperoni, cold chicken tonnato, heated zucchini fritters, chocolate cake and granita. Surely, there will be lots of red wine.

The table is set, and Tiziano arrives first, with a torta made by his mother of fresh plums from their garden. It looks beautiful. A few minutes later Don Luca arrives, and we sit down to eat, with Don Francis on my left and Don Luca on my right. Tiziano and Roy are seated on either side of the priests.

The meal is a success, with only one Italian food law almost breached. I pass out sliced homemade rosemary bread with the pasta, and don't understand why it is left on the table between Don Francis and Tiziano, until I ask if anyone wants a piece. Once I realize my mistake, I cringe in a kind of horror, but everyone takes it in stride. As I pass each dish to Don Luca, he takes it and serves Don Francis before taking anything himself. I think this is so sweet and quite amazing, until I hear Don Luca's story.

Don Luca has been our parish priest (well, he is in charge of all the parishes in Bomarzo and Mugnano), for approximately four years. Before that, he attended the seminary near Assisi after a couple of years in business. He was also engaged for a short while. When he graduated from the seminary, Don Luca was assigned as an assistant priest in Vitorchiano. One month later, however, he was given the position he now has in Bomarzo/Mugnano. Evidently the priest who was to take the position had a last minute emergency, and the bishop had faith in Don Luca. So he has only been out of the seminary for four years. Don Francis's position parallels that of a monsignor, so once I hear Don Luca's story, I understand the attention and respect given to Don Francis by this young priest.

Don Luca really likes Don Ciro, one of the priests who perform masses in Mugnano, and tells us so. I agree, and tell him that when he gives his homily, he does it dreamily, with his eyes closed. "What do I do?" Don Luca asks. So I put my fingers together as if I am fidgeting, and he laughs. He tells me he'll stop, and I tell him no, that it's a good thing to do. He also turns his gold ring around and around while he speaks. The next time he gives a homily at our church, I'm sure he'll look at us. It is fun to have this secret with him.

So it's time to characterize all the other local priests: Don Bruno who has three sets of glasses, and places them around where he can find them when he needs them, is first. He speaks softly during his homilies until almost putting the parishioners to sleep and then raises his voice almost to a yell. And there is Don Mauro, who is always smiling. Don Luca likes hearing about all this, as a kind of fly on the wall.

Before it gets dark, we take Don Luca out to meet Lulu and Vito and Gina, and as he walks back toward the house compliments Roy on how beautiful the garden looks. I admit we take it for granted. Earlier Roy and Don Francis laughed about my "easy to maintain Italian garden". Roy rolled his eyes.

Tiziano and I really want to talk with Don Luca about our project, researching San Liberato. We tell him what we know, and he tells us that he does not know much more than we do about the saint, but that we should go to the library in Bagnoregio, where the seat of our parish is located, for more information. That building is closed to the public, but he agrees to write a letter to gain us admittance. So we are inching forward on our quest.

He quite enjoys hearing details of our research about the saint, and Roy tells him that one night we may sneak into the church and paint San Liberato's face black. All the legends tell us that our patron saint is from Africa. The statue in our church that we parade around on feast days, however, is white. And then there is that bust of a very different black San Liberato that sits in the sacristy...

Don Luca tells us when he leaves that we can invite him back for meals even when Don Francis is not here. We'd like to get to know him better, so just may take him up on that.

July 26
The alarm wakes us early, and I have the preliminary symptoms of a headache. Since one of the reasons for this journal is to document the history and chronology of my headaches, I sadly note that this is going to be a headache day.

I can't take anything for it yet, because this morning we're driving to Terni for my ecografia, or sonogram, a procedure that has taken five weeks to set up. So we leave Don Francis sleeping and Sofi guarding the house, and arrive at the address early. Approximately thirty minutes after the appointed hour, I am ushered into a cool dark room with one man sitting behind a desk, writing on a computer facing me.

A woman older than me beckons me, her red hair piled on top of her head in a 1940's style. She ushers me over to the examining table and tells me to lie down upon it. She sits to my left and, while taking the familiar probe and covering the top with gel, she faces the computer and talks with the man as though he is behind a screen.

Once she rubs the probe against different areas of my stomach, she calls out the information to the man, who