Note: The story of our move to Italy starts
with "Arrival"
on the June 26, 2017 blog post.
The first Monday in October George bounded up the
stairs that morning just as I was about to turn on the washing machine. He told
me to hold up because the water didn’t seem to be pumping properly, and they
had to check it out. I shrugged and told him to let me know when I could get
started. I pointed out that I still had two loads after that one, and I wanted
to get the clothes on the line before noon. Little did I realize it would be days before I could start the washing machine again.
My in-laws asked Dario, the stonemason, to help George
check out the well located very near our front door. They exposed the heavy
steel cover, unsealed it, and then removed it. Looking down at them over the balcony, I could see that the inside of the well was
enormous. It occurred to me then that it had to be. With a minimal input of
fresh rain, it had provided water for all eight of us for the entire summer,
including at least two loads of wash a day, and also the water to mix cement
for setting the tile and repairing all the holes from the central heating. Peering down into it, I realized the well was dangerous for our active children, especially now that it was unsealed. When the boys came home from school, I would
have to warn them not to go anywhere near it. There was a little water barely
visible at the bottom, and the men couldn’t understand why it wasn’t pumping
up. At that point Dario went home for his lunch. When he came back, two hours
later, he used the ladder that was built into the side of the well to climb
down and take a look.
Dario reported back that the pipe was too short. It
stopped just above the remaining water. He suggested that we install a longer
pipe, and Marino agreed. Dario also pointed out residue that had collected on
the sides and suggested that we clean the well while we had it open. He quoted one price for the job, and a much
lower one when Marino said that George would help. I wondered how we would
have managed to pay for everything if my in-laws had not been there. George and
Dario used a hand pump to get the remaining water out of the well and stored it
in large plastic barrels. We would have to wait until the following day for
Dario to come back with the cleaning materials and another ladder, so that he and
George could climb down inside the well to scrub the walls. They replaced the
cover and George came upstairs to report on their progress.
He delivered the news just as I was cleaning up after
dinner. The good news was that there was water in the well. The bad news was
that it would be several days before we could use it. The really bad news
was that no water meant, not only no laundry, but also no bathing, and we could
wash dishes and flush the toilet just once each day. I looked at the pasta sauce
smeared across Margaret Ann’s face and sweater, and I realized we had a
problem. The boys had been playing in school all day, and they also needed a
good wash. Matthew looked grubby too. After dinner, I wet and soaped a facecloth and, one by one, cleaned off
as much dirt as possible from each of them.
The next day, I prepared breakfast for the children
and tucked large paper napkins under their chins. Margaret Ann didn’t mind. I told her it looked pretty and she smiled,
but Paul and James resented having to wear “a bib.” As soon as they protested, so did
Matthew. I prevailed by talking a lot,
threatening a little, and then explaining that we all had to cooperate in
troubled times. They eventually stopped
fighting me. As I dressed Paul and James
in their last set of clean clothes for school, I thanked the gods that the
asilo required each of them wear a grembialino—the little
long-sleeved smocks. They would be a big help in keeping the boys’ clothes clean. The twins were much younger and sloppier, so
I dressed them in old clothes and hoped for the best.
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