Unravelling time

… and other thoughts

I am sitting in the room painted by the previous occupant. The walls are cream coloured and splattered with light green paint, quite pretty. I slept on the floor on a pile of sheets and blankets. At some point I will collect my belongings from Beanie’s place. I see that I cannot lock the door from inside, which is fine if no one is living or sleeping in here.

Matisse is purring, Rosso is a little out of sorts, Shanty is squashed into the corner beside me. The woods at Beanie’s place were perfect for the cats. Nelly has already found a long horn from one of those Maremanno cows. I let the dogs off one at a time, because if they leave together Porgy will teach Nelly how to bark at cars along the too close road around Lake Bracciano.

I was invited to my neighbours for lunch, near the house I should never have left. While there Mister Neighbour tells me that Beanie’s brother had called him and asked him to go visit because Beanie was very depressed. He had gone and been told that the brother had been to see the owners of the house with muddy water in the taps and they had told him I had threatened them with lawyers and had asked for money. Misses Neighbour reminded me: “But that’s not true! You were offered money to leave and left before they paid you!” I had just wanted out of there. Mister Neighbour was also asked if Beanie and brother could dump all my belongings in one of their fields. This meeting had taken place before I had the lunch with the Caribbean group.

My former neighbours also tell me they have been in touch with a man in the legal system who warned them that Beanie’s brother is not motivated by love or tenderness, but by interest in land and money. He tells me it was the brother, and not Beanie, who was afraid I was after the land. My former neighbours are imbued with righteous indignation on my behalf, in contrast to my impotent fury. I am advised not to “react”, and because it is they who are asking me, I don’t. I let it go. Mister Neighbour is very upset. I told him he was only trying to help two people at the same time, and it was really not anyone’s fault.

As it turned out, the parents of my new boss down at the stable help me to move some of my belongings. Not everything could fit in the truck. It was one of those sports utility vehicles with more cabin space and less space for transporting useful items. I had to make rapid choices on the spot. Luckily no one was at home that day. I selected the futon instead of the pretty couch that turns into a bed, and my large and small chest of drawers that hold all my clothes. I show Papa and Mama Stables the veranda, and they agree it was built very badly. They looked at the land, they liked what they saw. They asked me to find out how much the property would sell for. I am thrilled to send a message, as one who has been kicked out because they may have been interested in the land, now sends a message to ask how much it would cost to buy the land. I do not receive an answer, which was to be expected.

On returning with the furniture, the cats were in the room when I am carrying the furniture inside. Matisse seems confused, so I put him in his carrier. Rosso and Shanty were already sitting in theirs. Were they afraid we are about to move again, and were taking precautionary action by putting themselves in the carriers?

My woman friend from Tolfa helped me move my paintings to a friend’s large garage in Manziana. On the way she tells me she thinks there has been a dreadful misunderstanding. She also tells me that in twenty years she had only met Beanie’s brother twice. I had met him twice in two weeks.

Something I have noticed over time is that some people are inherently false, and will present their better face to people they think they can get something from. Some people, like me, genuinely believe the whole human race is near perfect and can do no wrong, until someone does do wrong. I am one of those people who believe in the inherent good of people, meaning I am too often proved wrong, but that is as it is, I prefer to continue to believe in the good that resides in humanity.

Since I am living near Bracciano, I am close to the secret swimming spot that Misses Neighbour taught me about. I have already been for a swim. It is not as interesting being there without my good friend’s company. You drive down a rocky road, park in the shade of trees, push through a rotting wooden gate onto a small beach where fishing boats have been pulled up. You walk through this area and come to a narrow strip of sand, where you can put down your towel. This beach is near a place where people keep their permanently parked trailers. You put plastic sandals on your feet, mine were fluorescent pink, so you can walk across the sharp, volcanic, jagged rocks into Lake Bracciano.

If you were to swim out far enough, you can look back and see the town of Bracciano with its castle silhouetted against the sky. A glorious sight because, from that angle, there is nothing to see that is not old, no new buildings to spoil the view of the past.

Something else was going when I moved to the stables. Boss’ girlfriend had a baby. The birth of children is something I know very little about, but Mama Stables talked to me, there were things that worried her. She asked me so many questions I could not answer. One day she told me the baby was in intensive care. All I could tell her was something I remembered my storyteller buddy, Dan Yashinsky, from Toronto had said when his own baby had been in intensive care. He said he had told his newborn son tales from the Odyssey and Canterbury Tales. I told Mama Stables he had said it was very important to talk to these tiny babies, even if they could not understand your words. It is important they feel your presence, and hear your voice.

Dan Yashinsky has written and spoken a lot about this, and I’ve left the link down below for a recording of his 35 minute performance with music of Talking You In.

It occurred to me that I could be considered homeless, but in another sense I was not. I had a place to sleep, a bathroom steps across the courtyard in front of the stallions, around the corner with a shower with hot and cold running water, just like the shower for the horses. There was the bar where I could make a coffee. When I first arrived I was given a shelf in the bar, and told I could cook there. Days later Mama Stables asked me if I had sorted out a place to cook. She had taken over the bar, and obviously no longer wanted me in there. A moment of slight panic until I remembered I owned a two burner electric hot plate, which I pulled out and was able to set up in my little room. I had no fridge, so I bought and ate food that I could eat in a few days, or could keep safely in a tin.

A long time ago, when I was working at Unicef, a colleague who used to travel around the world a lot for her job told me her most important possession was her mug for coffee or tea. Wherever she went she would carry it with her so she would always have that contact with her home. I have always remembered that. A feeling of home can be a possession, which makes me think suddenly of all those people without homes who are shunted and shifted from one place to the other and take along their bags filled with their dearest possessions. In a way, I am fortunate because the only place I have ever called home is Carton, in Jamaica. No one can take that feeling away from me, even though our family has lost our physical connection to that place, it is always inside of me. Anywhere else is only a stopping place along the way until such time as I can step through the veil that separates us from whatever there is beyond.

My new job consisted of cleaning out a few horses. I overhead someone ask if I couldn’t find another type of job. I could, yes, but I wasn’t ready. I needed to find myself in one place, renegotiate my link with time. Wait for that part of me that had left to return. There were many reasons to accept where I was and what I was doing. My job did not take all day, it was heavy work when it rained, because the horses I was looking after at the time lived in covered pens, and the rain fell and everything became heavier. I was also asked to feed the horses twice a day. Hay and feed in the morning and late afternoon. I was up early and my horses were cleaned and fed before Boss brother had cleaned and fed his share of horses. Later he told me why he fed the horses so late, it was so that when the owners came in the late morning or later in the evening, they would see him feeding their horses and cleaning them out. It explained why the owners of one of the horses I was feeding would always be adding more hay when they arrived.

I fed the horses earlier so that I could run away to lunch with friends, or to do my “bits” as my Auntie Gladys called her odd jobs around town.

I was living next to a hay barn. It only had a roof with all sides open to the four winds. Matisse was very happy to have this space. Rosso found how to get onto the roof of the little ex-saddle room I was living in. Shanty bravely faced the other cats and dogs living at the stables. There was a mother cat and a tom cat with a raggedy ear, and the most seriously concerned and caring expression I had ever seen on a cat’s face. Mother cat and he were often up on the ledge outside the window looking in at me and my three cats. Boss brother fed them and the dogs that were there, and mine. I’d seen him feeding them out-of-date food from the bar.

I went to a meeting of Ente Nazionale Guide Equestri Ambientali (Engea, the Agency for National Environmental Equestrian Guides), at my friend the Last Buttero’s ranch, as I’d signed up to be a guide. There was a man and woman there who I’d met during my stay near Tolfa at Beanie’s place. They greeted me kindly, the woman laughingly asked, “Already divorced?” We laughed together.

It was fun while living at the stables to be able to ride whenever I pleased, sometimes late at night, under floodlights in the cool. I would take Selva out of her pen, she would not be pleased. I also knew she got bored being ridden around on sand, she preferred to be out on the trail. This is the place she first saw cows. Unfortunately that day the Freccia Tre Colori (Italian Air Force National Aerobatic Team" or "Tricolour Arrows) were out practicing and happened to fly up from behind a hill just as I was leading Selva by a field full of cows. Forever after, I am convinced, whenever she sees a cow, she looks for jets streaking across the sky.

One day Papa Stables asked me to call Mama Stables if I heard any strange noises. I am not sure what I am supposed to be hearing. There are many noises. I have horses right next to me, and across from me, and I hear their hooves on cement in the night. Dogs bark, there is loud music down by the lake at night. I am not too concerned because I have my two dogs outside my door and I know Nelly is becoming very fierce. She looks a lot fiercer barking than she actually is.

I needed to get rid of some of my belongings. I had two cars, one was mine and the other was given to me to look after by a work colleague. It was easier to get rid of the car I bought. I also thought about selling my horses, finding homes for cats and dogs, leaving everything to move on, but where would I go? I had got my first cat Matisse to prevent me from just picking up and leaving at a moment’s notice. It was something I was still learning to do, live in one place. I had been afraid to know people, to become involved in their lives, to mourn them when they died. I had not wanted to know or be attached to anyone or anything. Getting a cat had been the first step to my settling down, but here I was moving from place to place. Life contains many surprises, sometimes we must just learn to roll over, reflect, stand up and walk again.

It was not the end of my hearing from Beanie. He called me to ask where a bell was that he had attached to a rope, and another time he called to ask where the enamel bowl was that he used to feed his old dog. I couldn’t help him with either question. I suspected he missed my calming presence and had wanted an excuse to be in touch.

One day, when no one was around, I was asked to sign for a delivery of horse feed. All this was done in complete silence, with sign language, as though the driver of the truck and I thought it was too early to use words. I was covered in hay, wore a straw hat. I had given up on ever getting the hay out of my clothes. When I washed my clothes I would pull hay out of the fibres, or just give up and wash the hay as well.

Life continued. I did not know if my work with the horses was to be compensated, or whether my work was to pay for the room. I overheard a conversation when Boss brother’s girlfriend was asked why I was not giving a riding lesson to a child. I heard her say that I was busy. Bossman said Rosemary is not earning any money, so she should give the lessons and earn some money in this way. It occurred to me that Bossman brother’s girlfriend was also working for free. She would also have wanted to earn some money. I prefer to teach horses, rather than humans. I thought I could teach a beginner, but knew I would not be able to take anyone beyond that phase, as I am a put together rider myself. I had been taught English style, had learned to ride a different way in Jamaica, and in Canada, and then I learned to ride Western in Italy, which I preferred, because I could keep my knees straighter than in English style. This meant I could stay in the saddle much longer because my left knee would stay pain free.

Living at the stables I learned about caring for and training horses using techniques gathered from the great Monty Roberts and John Lyons. There are others I know, but these are the people I became aware of at that time. Their techniques helped me in how I related to my own horses. I only wished that I had trained Selva from the start, because I feel there are gaps. I know my horse finds it hard to take me as seriously. It is as though she looks at me with her horse eyes and I feel she laughs at, or with me, I have yet to understand.

Will stop here. Thank you for reading, until next time.

Here is the link to an audio version of a performance of Talking You In by Dan Yashinsky with music by Canadian composer Brian Katz: https://tellery.com/talking-you-in/ (Opens in a new window)