Meanwhile, back on the road:
With much slipping and sliding and a fair share of
Italian curse words from George, Zio Silvio drove them safely along the
mountain track to Montaldo. Still worried about the sliding hillside that they
would have to face on the way back, they rocketed down the paved road to the
two-lane highway then headed towards Gaminella. The driving became more difficult once
they neared the village as the swollen river had reached the road. As they
splashed along, they saw many houses on the river side of the street with muddy
water up to their front doors. After parking the little Fiat on a high spot, they
sloshed to the pharmacy for my father-in-law's medicine and to the grocery store for food. Then they headed back the way they had
come.
The hillside track was still open and the rain had let up, but through the
drifting fog they could see the hunk of grass and mud had slipped even closer
to the road. They paused. Eyeing the dangerous mudslide, George wanted to turn back,
but Zio Silvio was determined to brave the threat—and he was driving. He put
his little Fiat in gear, forged through the muck, and gunned it past the threatening
overhang. He continued fighting the fog and the puddles along the track until
they got back to the gravel road of Bertola.
Pacing once more, I heard the putt-putt of
the little Fiat coming down the hill. The children yelled “Papa! Papa!” as
the car rounded the corner of the house and pulled into the courtyard. The men
brought enough food and medicine to last for five more days, but I prayed that
none of us would have a serious relapse, at least until the bridge was visible
once more.
The rain drizzled off and on all that day and half of
the next. We couldn’t tell what was happening to the river because the world
below stayed shrouded in the fog bank, but inside we were warm and dry and fed,
and my in-laws were slowly recovering from the flu.
On the third day we heard the whine of the mailman's
motorcycle as it crossed the fog-bound bridge and climbed the hill. We all cheered. We
were reconnected to the world!
I raced down the stairs and stood outside our front
door while the mailman, still straddling his purring bike, pulled the damp
letters from his pouch and held them out to me. As I took them from his hand
the bands of tension around my heart released, and I felt a rush of relief.
But at that moment it hit me just how vulnerable we
really were.
NOTE:
NOTE:
The story of our move to Italy starts
with "Arrival"
on the June 26, 2017 blog post.
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