The way his car rolls to a stop he seems to be in a hurry and we hasten to cross the street behind him. But instead of moving on he gets out of his car and comes around and greets us. First in Italian, then in German, which is a tad easier for both of us. What he shared, I don't exactly know for sure. But, after we explained we were from Stati Uniti, he did mention he'd spent time in the states. He is in a rush--his car and us in the middle of the intersection. But he clearly wants to welcome us to the small town of perhaps one hundred families, and shakes our hands before moving off.
Moments later, We have picked a spot at the trailhead to lean our bodies and bikes and consume our simple lunch bought from the local grocer and fruit seller of cheese and bread and a couple apples. But a voice calls out from across the street. She's speaking to us and walking across the street. She is old and short in stature but not hunched, and moves slowly toward us still speaking. Her hair is thick and white and sensibly short. And she is in slippers. The salt and pepper brows arch over kind dark eyes that remind me of my grandfather.
She is close now and intent on conveying her subject. But out paltry Italian is not helping until, finally, tavola and sedia. Giardino. Table and chair. Garden. She tells us her age-- 84? 94? (The numbers past 50 are difficult.) She gets through to us that she is a mama, a Nonna, and another Nonna...great grandmother. Alaine "mi chiamos" her name and mine, "E tu?" Alaine asks and then asks if that is the correct way to ask. It is not the formal way but the woman adamantly gestures that formality is to be disregarded--we are friends and her name is Lidia.
She beckons us to follow her, and we do-- to her door, down her hallway, out a backdoor to her garden area, where she resets her plastic chairs, finds a rag to wipe the morning's rain from the table and bench, picks and places two small white flowers, of some small bulb type, on the table. Alaine and she "talk" of plant varieties-- Alaine understands geranium, rose, Rosemary, calla Lilly. Lidia is giving small kisses to Alaine's cheeks as I pull out our lunch. Then Lidia says prego and returns to her home.
We eat quickly and then knock on her door to pass through to the front and street and our bikes waiting at the trailhead. We have for her one of our bookmarks with photos of Bellingham Bay, our home, us. She is touched and shows us similar paper mementos on her hallway wall, and then points us into her living room to show us photos of loved ones, living and dead. Talk of the dead brings tears to her eyes and she holds onto Alaine's hand tightly. But then she turns to the array of oversized portraits of babies on the opposite wall and the sadness eases away.
Our goodbye is a mix of nods and grazies and smiles and holding on, with more kisses, for both of us. And another photo.We were sad to leave Lidia alone, but as we readied our bikes, we heard, "Lidia!" and turned to see a neighbor cycle from the intersection, obviously checking to see how our new-found Nonna was.
