Una Bella Giornatta
I raised my glass of Bosco Anice Forte,
clicked
Tony’s, and said, “To a good day,” but I said it in
broken Italian, because I came to Canada when I was
only five and never learned to speak it properly; in
fact, I had forgotten most of my Italian until I met
Tony, my cottage neighbor, who only comes to his
cottage whenever he can get away, which he would
like to do more often because he loves it here in
Georgian Bay where he can do what he loves to do,
which is simply doing something to keep himself
busy, because doing something fills him with the joy
of fulfillment and gives his life purpose and meaning.
Long-since widowed and with another woman (the
first one didn’t work out), also Italian and a widow
but set in her ways and only comes to the cottage
when she’s in the right mood, leaving Tony to choose
between her and his cottage, but I said to him one day,
“She’s a good woman, Tony; don’t fuck this one up,”
and he listened and they’re together still, and yesterday
he came to the cottage alone because she was tending
to her family (getting things ready for her grandson’s
birthday), but Tony had to tend to his leaves, which I
helped him blow and bag (plus three wheelbarrows of
acorn seeds), and he made lunch for us, a barbeque
which he loves to do, ten blended lamb and prosciutto
skewers, two small Black Angus steaks, and two thick
pieces of pancetta, seasoning them with his favorite
spices, homemade round Calabrese bread, and a nice
hunk of Parmesan-like cheese, (apologizing for no
salad), and while waiting for the barbeque we sipped
our Anice to warm up from our morning
work, and I
never felt so good for returning a favor to my good
neighbor who has always been there for me. “Una
bella giornatta,” he said, toasting our friendship
when we sat down for lunch at the kitchen table
with a glass of his homemade wine.
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