Sherry L Huckabee: A Day in Life of a Dreamer

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

I’m going to take a quick break from page 77 of the book (not counting the 20+ pages of assorted paragraphs drafted but still waiting for their place) and try to draw in words the picture of my life right now.

I was up at 6 this morning, watching the sun rise beyond the mountains out my front door. I wrote a difficult email to someone precious to me, pouring heart and soul, love and the inspiration of the rising sun into the words. I made coffee and fixed a bowl of Muesli and yogurt and walked out to the table on the terrace. “Buon Giorno, Senora!” came Luciana’s greeting to me from the window above. Does she wait for me in the morning? Or did she plant a camera in the house? I am beginning to wonder. “Buon giorno, Luciana! Come va?” We chat in Italian – her cold is better, the weather is beautiful, she hopes the rain doesn’t come, aren’t my feet cold without shoes. What is up with the Italian preoccupation over whether I am cold or not?! It was like this the entire six months in Ascoli. I’m cold in your freaking houses made of concrete and ice floors. Outside I’m fine!

Luciana goes back inside, wishing me a good breakfast. I finish my yogurt and wake my computer up to begin the day. The entire last third of the book is outlined and written for the most part. I am now going back through and filling in dialogue and places I skipped. The day before yesterday was thrilling. I basked in sunlight almost as strong as the power of actually bringing to fruition a dream. The full culmination of it all - leaving everything behind a year ago, coming to this part of Italy to learn Italian and write, returning now a year later, able to speak Italian with hundreds of pages of written material and a book that is well underway – still leaves me breathless with wonder at the ways the Universe supports us when we set out to follow our dreams. Not all days are thrilling. Yesterday was lonely – tracing memories of times gone, moments past, trying to hold memories tight that are fading, squeezing the essence of them, trying to distill them into words. Today is drudgery - editing, reorganizing, filling in gaps. So much written and still what is left, just in this section, is daunting. And this will be the easiest part.

At nine my friend, Kiko, comes to visit – he flies across the porch and into my lap, tail wagging, whimpering for my caresses. Fifteen pounds of boundless energy and the kindest yellow eyes. He belongs to Maria – his spitting image except human. The only difference is he has the whitest teeth I have ever seen on a dog and she has only two that are the yellow of his eyes. They both greet you with the happiest yapping and bright smiling eyes. I can’t understand what either one of them says, but there is nothing but joy in their eyes. I’m sure the next town hears Maria when she walks the path greeting the day and the contadinas that live here. Based on looks, she would have been burned as a witch at Salem, yet I think she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. I finally shoo Kiko off after it is apparent that I will never fill his kisses sack enough. I fix another cup of coffee and return to my work.

I work until noon, forcing my fingers along the keyboard, knowing I have so much to capture and only so much time before the memory of a glance, a word, a taste disappears. My fingers are cramping and my neck aches. I need to stretch. I put the yoga mat out on the terrace and Azam Ali on the digital player; gentle crooning pours out of the little pink speaker. Thirty minutes later I am sweaty and revived. I boil water and rinse off over the bidet. There is no hot water and no shower here. I always swore I could live without everything except hot water. Now I know I can live without that as well. The freedom is not in the leaving, it is in the things you find you don’t need along the way.

I check my email on the dial up, guilty for the money I know it costs but hopeful for a word from the world beyond. There is none. I go back to writing. It is now 3pm. I know I need to eat even though I have no desire for food. I break off a piece of parmesan cheese and take two slices of mortadella, sitting on the porch step to look at the mountains. I close my eyes for a cat nap. It was well nigh 3am when I finally fell asleep last night. I dream so hard it feels more like I have been working out than sleeping when I wake up. It is 3:30pm when I wake up. I put on another pot of coffee and walk outside to stretch and see if it is too bright to see the computer.

“Ciao Bella! I hear from the distance. I can’t see where it is coming from. “Bionda! Qui!” I see Malvina waving. Is that Maria in a tree? They shout something to me that I can’t hear. “Aspetta, arrivo.” Wait a second, I’m coming. I throw on shoes but I can’t figure out how to get to them from the garden below my terrace. I finally just climb the wobbly, chicken-wire fence, hoping I don’t break it, or me. I cross the rows of vegetables and fruit trees. Sure enough Maria is sitting in a tree; Malvina standing beneath her with a bucket on her head. Maria is snipping bunches of grapes and tossing them into the bucket. “Ciao Bionda! Vieni, vieni.” Hey, blondie, come here. They have set aside two perfect bunches of grapes for me. Malvina’s husband Antonio is there leaning on a post as he always his. I watched her clear an entire garden yesterday, so did he. She laughs with her bright voice, “Forty one years it has been like this. I work, he watches!” He fixes me with twinkling eyes. “Sono Napolione. Io canto, non lavoro.” I’m from Napoli. I sing, I don’t work. He tells me stories while she clears the rest of the garden. She is a powerhouse. My granddad couldn’t clear a plot of land that large in his heyday. She finishes and joins us. She apologizes for being dirty and ugly. Le persone che lavorano con un soriso sono sempre belissime, I tell her. People who work with a smile are always beautiful. She laughs her big laugh. “E’ vero! E’ vero!” So true, so true. They wished me a good night and set off in the dusk.

Now she is standing with the bucket on her head, the same bright smile, laughing and talking while Maria tosses grapes down. One of the men I haven’t met asks me if I’ve seen them make wine. No. “Vieni!” he tells me, leading me into a little garage like structure. There is a giant bucket and a big blue machine with a motor on the side. They throw the grapes in the top and it grinds them off the stems, spitting the stems out one side and the grapes into the bucket below. He shows me how they ferment the grapes and the big tanks they store the wine in. I am wide-eyed and fascinated. Maria and Malvina come down the hill, carrying the last of the grapes, laughing. The men had already moved the separator so the women do the last few bunches by hand, laughing and teasing the whole time. Malvina holds her grape stained hands up, threatening to smear them on Maria’s face. Maria ducks. “Dai, camina, basta.” She laughs, they are beautiful, more like school girls on the playground than sixty year old women. I ask Marina how long they have worked together. Ten years. She tells me she’s from a town further up the hill, more beautiful than this one. Maria feigns offense. Then you should just get your self on back there, go on, get going. They laugh, leaning against each other.

It is almost 4pm. I know I need to return to my writing. I thank them for the grapes and for showing me the little wine cellar and bid them all a good afternoon. I walk back up the hill, popping rich, plump grapes in my mouth as I go. Two hours later the sun is about to set. One of the men returns from his work, stopping on his way to ask how my writing is going, and give me two peaches with the softest peach fuzz I have ever felt. He wishes me good work and walks on up the hill. The dogs are start up everyday about this time. Some prearranged cacophonous choir. Dozens of them. I don’t know what sets them off. At 6pm I’ve heard enough, I put on my jeans and my music and set out to walk the hills. I know I need to get the blood moving anyway before the cold sets in. I stop to watch the sun set into a valley, casting shafts of sunlight upward, a perfect V rising up from the valley, painting the tops of the mountains in the distance a pale pink against the blue mist. I have never seen such a thing before. I’ve seen the setting sun rays cast downward but never upward, and never one single thick penetrating laser beam ray like this one. I burn the image in my mind, bummed I didn’t bring the camera.

It is after seven when I return, invigorated from the walk. I gather an armful of firewood and arrange it in the fireplace, promising I won’t light it until the last possible moment, and then return to the table on the terrace to type until it is too cold to stay outside any longer. By eight I am shivering. I know I need to eat again. I still don’t want to. I fix a small plate of pasta with oil and garlic and put on another pot of coffee. I eat and edit. It is good. Parts of this book are really good. I’m scared of the process of pulling it all together, but it is coming, it is definitely coming.

I dive into a section that is undrafted, fingers flying as the story unfolds before my mind. It feels more like watching a movie and trying to type what you are watching than writing. It is a strange process. The ending is based on a real experience but the memory of the reality and the images I am creating weave back and forth, each with such vividness I no longer know which one is which. This pains me for a moment. I know it means I am paying for the story with the richness of the experience, but it is necessary. By 10 pm my fingers can’t move for the cold. I light the fire and move to the brown leather chair, placing my feet on the edge of the fireplace, knowing somewhere Antonella would cringe if she knew I was lighting fires in the region. Last night a lizard visited me, the night before a scorpion, tonight it is just me. Me and my computer. My fingers race until the fire has died and the cold returns.

I don’t want to stop but I know I must sleep. I save everything, email myself a copy, and pat my computer good night. I have worked over 16 hours and couldn’t be more invigorated. I can’t wait for tomorrow. I brave the cold for a cigarette on the porch step as I watch the moon and the stars in the sky. I catch sight of a shooting star out of the corner of my eye and wonder just how many lucky stars there are in this life.

I realize the answer to my own question - more than we could ever imagine.