Foxes Hill

Foxes Hill 3

We arrive at the house when it is almost dark, Cerasella has stopped right in front of the staircase; I thus observe once again how animals, all of them, know how to get used as usual, both towards man and towards things.

Without grandmother helping me, to dismount, I lift my right leg and step over the animal's neck; I slightly twist my torso and, holding my right hand to the saddle, I let myself slide and, slowly, touch the ground.

Grandma is also dismounted and runs to open the stable while I move the donkey to tie it to the iron ring, placed on purpose, there near the stable door.

The beast does not move, it knows, it has to wait to be unloaded from its load.

While waiting, while I am scratching his forehead, she suddenly, taking me by surprise, rubs her nose against my chest; she wants to scratch herself, for the itch caused by the harness and so has soiled my clean shirt.

Having removed the saddle, I put the big head on him, let him in and tie him to the manger; grandmother brings him a bucket full of water, and she quenches her thirst, drinking most of it.

We govern it by putting hay in a corner on the ground and oats mixed with straw in the manger; the donkey eats greedily, plunging its snout into the straw.

While she eats, I stay to watch her; the oats mix with the straw, and the mouth fills up more and more: he chews hard and looks at me, slightly lowering his big ears.

We take our things, turn off the light and close the barn: the day is over for Cerasella.

We go down to the house from the back, once on the floor below the grandmother opens the large door from the inside that overlooks the main street of the village, Corso Umberto, and closes the window.

In the meantime, I reopen and look out the door, the barber is still open; he is not shaving or cutting a client's hair, instead he has the accordion resting on his legs and, sporadically and then, he plays: with his clients, it seems to me, we are once again talking about politics.

I go out, through the course, and I approach: I have to take my suitcase.

The barbershop is illuminated by two light bulbs, one in the center of the ceiling and the other on the mirror; on the right, aligned, the chairs for waiting customers and on the left, the typical barber's chair, in front of the sink and the mirror attached to the wall above.

The topic on which, this time, I hear them discuss is the municipal administration; the mayor is the main subject, but there is no lack of criticism or appreciation towards of some area deputy and the councilors of the village hall.

A look of understanding with the barber and, from where I he left it, I take the suitcase; I thank Master Paolo and as I leave, I greet everyone: they all answer in unison.

At my good evening, everyone follows, in their dialect, Buona sér lu bàres! (Good evening, Bari).

He comes home while grandmother is busy making dinner.

He is melting the pork lard for the sauce in a pan; grandma mainly uses while the pasta is already in the pot, on the fire, I set the table.

Following his instructions, I spread out the tablecloth and put on it cutlery, glasses, water, wine and a magnificent loaf of bread taken from inside the matrella (sideboard), together with a very fragrant Caciocavallo (aged cheese), already cut, and to an inviting plate full of raw ham cut by hand in thick irregular slices.

While waiting for it to be ready on the table, I walk around the house in search of the memories of the previous summer.

I look out behind the window, and push aside the white silk curtains made from one of the parachutes of the fallen American plane.