Playing with fire

Our life here often reminds Stu of his scouting days. He frequently tells me success stories about how he used to light a campfire with only one match, cook a full meal for the scout master and build a bivvy for protection in bad weather.

Well, something happened last week that may put an end to his proud posturing.

He set himself on fire.

It was late winter and we'd already started to think about the jobs outside that needed to be done before the onset of spring. We'd decided that burning the 6-8 piles of weeds and prunings that we'd left to dry over autumn and winter was right up there on the list of priorities.

So last week, on a reasonably clear morning we set off to the bottom paddock, which contained 4 of the said piles. The temperature was still hovering around zero so we were dressed in all our warm gear, including scarves and gloves. We were also armed with the chainsaw and fuel (to cut a few of the larger pieces of wood into firewood), firelighters and matches and a shovel and rake should our bonfire get out of control.

Our first, second and third attempts to light two of the piles resulted in very little flame and much smouldering. In our great disappointment, we convinced ourselves that the piles just needed a bit more sun and then consoled each other by quickly identifying an alternative job closer to the house.

As I was gathering the tools for our return to the house, the aforementioned individual thought he'd give the bonfire one more chance. Unbeknowns to me, he had opened the fuel can and poured fuel on the old oil rag that he used for the chainsaw. He'd then inserted this rag into the middle of one of the piles and set a match to it. All of this careful activity had been conducted with his woollen gloves on.

Suddenly I heard a sort of trembling warble coming from the direction of the said individual. When I looked over at him, I saw that this ex-scout was wildly shaking a flaming glove in a rather panicked way and saying 'oooh, oooh' in a rather understated way. I figured immediately that he didn't want to draw attention to himself lest I realise the stupidity of his actions. But, being a generally insensitive sort of person, I panicked and ran over to him anyway. I couldn't pull the burning glove off his hand because he was waving it around in such an aggressive way that I couldn't get close enough to it. Instead, I did what all good ex-brownies would do. I told him to roll on the grass to smother it.

The individual ignored me. Clearly he thought that my suggestion would extract some unwanted and hysterical laughter from me. With growing alarm, I looked at the flames leaping from his hand. I watched the whites of his eyes as they grew larger and larger. Stu was watching his burning appendage as if it didn't belong to him.

Finally, he managed to wave it around and hit it with the other glove enough to put it out. Then he glanced over at me and I caught an expression which contained horror, relief and pride. I was wondering how he was able to feel any amount of pride at all, when suddenly I saw the other glove on fire! There ensued much the same sequence of events already outlined until he was eventually able to put that one out too.

No more has been said about this incident since it occurred, although I have noticed a distinct absence of scouting stories...

Still obsessed...

We're still obsessed with our septic system...

We've been uncovering it, opening it, peering into it, testing it, emptying it, poking it, prodding it, stirring it and smelling it ever since we moved here.

Lately, we've become aware of a rather distasteful stench hanging around the house.

Because it smelled strangely like decomposing excrement and old grey water, we quickly suspected that our septic wasn't 'balanced'.

When we did our usual thing and surfed the internet for a solution, we found that we needed to re-balance the bacteria which breaks down the 'horribles'.

So now we're 'feeding' our septic system!

Yes, we regularly feed it with a lovely concoction of full cream milk and vinegar. This unusual combination is left in a bowl for about ten minutes to 'mature'. Once the mixture assumes the appearance of a congealed sort of curdled yoghurt, it's ready!

Then we tip it down the sink.

And we wait.

A few hours later this beautiful mix of healthy bacteria has commenced its work on our 'contributions' to the septic system and the air around the house smells like roses again (sort of...).

Our solution certainly beats dropping a newly killed chicken head into the septic...apparently the old Italian remedy...

Stripping, filling & painting

Stu and I work well as a team. Well, most of the time.

One of my major jobs this year has been to restore our internal doors.

When we arrived here, all of the upstairs internal doors were painted black.

I have trouble with black doors. I think they look depressing and uninviting.

So I determined to re-create them...

My first attempt to strip, sand, fill and stain a door was a nightmare. I tried to do it without the assistance of stripper and it was only when I realised that there were multiple layers of lead-based paint on the door that I realised chemical assistance was absolutely necessary.

Then, once I'd stripped the old layers of brown, olive green and black paint off as much as I could, I realised that it was always going to remain patchy and wouldn't take an even stain.

So I stripped it as evenly as I could, filled the many cracks and holes that punctured its surface, then painted it a warm cream water-based colour!

Since that first door, I've done three more. They are all matching and the same cream colour. They make me want to walk into the rooms that hide behind them.

Stu and I make a good 'door team'. Stu removes them, I restore them and Stu re-hangs them.

The only time he has become frustrated with me was when, in my enthusiasm, I filled some bolt holes that he'd painstakingly measured for re-hanging!

Nonno and nonna are with us...

I like old things. They remind me of times gone by. Our 200 year old house allows me to share my life with those from the past. I dream of the people who have lived here before us. I feel their spirits as they waft throughout the rooms. I hear the sound of their arguments and laughter in the stone walls.

When we finally finished renovating our bedroom, it was only fitting that my spirit friends should be surrounded by old bedroom furniture.

So on a clear blue sky day in mid September we found ourselves driving to Torino.

While local farmers were busy amidst the vines and driving tractors pulling trailers laden with grapes to cantinas, we were going to collect an armadio for our bedroom.

As we approached Torino we were rewarded with beautiful views of the alps that surround the city. Torino was shining in the brisk late summer morning as if to show off its royal past.

The purchasing process for our armadio had been a simply wonderful experience, right from finding it on ebay italia, communicating with its owner, then finally driving to 'meet' it for the first time on that fresh morning.

The lady who sold the armadio to us, Daniela, is slim, has short grey hair, beautiful clear olive skin and is in her 50's. She met us at the gates of her apartment building in the centre of Torino and took us upstairs to her apartment. While she prepared coffee for us we inspected the armadio. It stood in her wide hallway amidst boxes and mess because she was in the process of moving. A glance around the apartment told us that Daniela was an artist and a musician (pianist) and perhaps a little eccentric. After coffee we asked her to play us something on the piano and were stunned when she rewarded us with several bars of clear and confident classical music.

It was love at first sight. Our new armadio was old. It is an antique from the 1850's and made of solid walnut. It has all sorts of cracks, marks and damage on its lovely patina and these give it heaps of character. It also has a legend.

Daniela explained to us that it had belonged to her grandfather who had come to Italy from Germany where he lived near the border with Holland. He was apparently a very intelligent man and a brilliant photographer and he used to develop his photos in the armadio, hanging them on the rail to dry in the dark depths of the cupboard!!! He eventually gave up the art of photography at the age of 90 and died shortly afterwards.

Unfortunately, the armadio was much bigger than we had imagined. We realised fairly quickly that it would be impossible to travel back to Canelli with this precious antique sliding around on top of our little 1.5mt x 1.5mt trailer. We told Daniela that we thought it was too big for us to take. She looked upset for us but then went over to the armadio with a small screwdriver and proceeded to undo several tiny screws as well as some larger bolts that we'd never seen the like of before. She told us the armadio broke down into 12 pieces! We were wrapt!

Just as we were starting to dismantle it, I noticed a small antique desk on the opposite wall. It was made of beautiful wood and had a smooth marble top. Daniela said it was her most treasured possession.

After a few minutes, we had dismantled the armadio to the stage of having to lift the top off it. Just as Stu lifted the top off, there was a sudden slip and a crash. The two doors of the armadio had crashed to the floor, smashing into the marble desk on their way. We were horrified. Amidst profuse apologies, we dropped to our knees to check the desk. Thankfully there was no damage. We then checked the armadio doors. Again, no damage. Both pieces of furniture were aged and well-preserved; their materials hardened and their construction stern stuff! We learned quickly that the doors of our armadio are held on by a link into the top.

Daniela was very emotional as we prepared to take the armadio away. She helped us carry every piece into the lift and out to the trailer. She even got involved in the loading and helped us to squeeze cushions between various pieces to protect them. The loading took a full hour and she was clearly thrilled that we had taken so much care with it.

Just as we were finishing the tying down, I noticed Daniela walking around the trailer with her arms crossed and her head bent. She seemed to be meditating. Suddenly she looked up at me and said 'Mio nonno e molte contento' ('my grandfather is very happy'). She was absolutely beaming. It was as if she'd got a message from beyond. When she grasped my hand for a photo beside the trailer, I felt strangely connected to this woman.

Later, when the armadio had been re-erected in our bedroom, I had stood back and welcomed nonno to the house.

A few weeks later, we returned to Daniela's apartment, this time to buy the matching cassettiere (set of drawers) which belonged to 'nonna'.

Now, when I look at our old furniture, I imagine the sound of nonno's voice in the waxed walnut wood of the armadio and see the stretch of nonna's smile in the polished cracks of the cassettiere...

I love the way I can be childish...

It was when the wheels on the elegant white car in front of me started to spin that I started to panic.

I was driving our Suzuki Grand Vitara in a snow storm for the first time in my life.

I was 45 years old.

I could have panicked and, as a much younger person, I probably would have.

But last night I didn't. I now have a mature mind.

I slipped the car into 4WD and confidently passed the other car, which was now painfully zig-zagging towards the peak of the range just outside Canelli.

A few minutes later I was at home and dressed in my pink and brown flannelette pyjamas. Within seconds I was tucked up in bed enjoying the warm heat of the electric blanket on my back. The snow was long forgotten.

A few hours later I was awake and dressed in my 'round the house' winter garb. I was looking out of the bedroom window at a valley that lay thick and heavy with snow. I was challenging the clods of snow on the trees, teasing each of them, hoping that I'd be watching the unlucky one when it finally fell silently to the ground. I laughed and clapped my hands when I won.

I love my mind. I love the way it alternates between maturity and childishness.