Moving to Italy: Phone call to California

After the holidays at Gabi, we lost some of our energy. The days were dark and gloomy as the winter set in. The boys went back to preschool, and since George was no longer needed in the fields, he once again tackled the never-ending painting. He also tried a little carpentry as he put together some wood to make a cabinet for the bathroom. My days were unchanged: cooking, cleaning, laundry, and keeping the twins gainfully amused.  January 5^th arrived, and George and I talked about what time we would call my sister on her birthday. I wondered if she, like me, was thinking about the events of January 5^th five years earlier, the day my mother died.  

On January 8th we once more drove with the children to the café/bar in Montaldo to telephone my sister with high hopes that this time we would get through. Although we had corresponded regularly, it would be the first time I had spoken to her in the eight months since we had left California. Luckily the bar's phone was inside a small booth, so I’d have some privacy. After the long-distance operator predicted a two-hour connect time, we bought the children a drink and settled down at a small table to wait. 

Around us, many older men were gathered at the tables to play cards. When we walked in with the children, we had caused the usual sensation. They looked up and greeted us, then talked directly to the children in loud and jocular tones. Each child’s response reflected his or her personality. Paul answered them back and laughed with them. Shy James hid his head in my lap and refused to look up. Matthew smiled openly and tried to converse, while Margaret Ann asked George to pick her up, then leaned back against him saying nothing while looking sideways at the men who didn’t stop talking to her. With her blonde hair and blue eyes she always got lots of attention.  

After just fifteen minutes the phone rang, and we were connected to my sister and her husband in California. We had woken them from a deep sleep. My sister cried off and on through most of the phone call, which made me cry too, but I forced myself to keep control so that we could maximize the few minutes we could afford. We had six minutes which would cost us $23, a lot of money at that time, especially considering our financial state. In those few minutes, I tried to let each of the children speak to her, while I clutched a list of things to say, most of which were discarded. As we said goodbye, she sobbed into the telephone, “Just come back. Please.” 

Her cries spun me backward to five years earlier.