The Long Road Home by Flavio Girardelli

About a year ago I made a bid on a book translation and was privileged to be the person who won the translation. That book was The Long Road Home, by Flavio Girardelli (original title in Italian Io Ritorno Domani). Flavio introduces us to a group of best friends from boyhood, including Lorenzo, Augusto, Giorgio and Emanuele in such a way that we would recognize them right away if we met them on the street. From there, he goes on to the first, definitely impressionable and somewhat disastrous first encounter between boy and girl on the beach of Lake Garda, to then continue down the road to new jobs and the second, “fatal” encounter in Padua.

Flavio then takes us on an exciting adventure in the Trentino area in Northern Italy, an exploration of some of the most delightful scenery in Northern Italy, where our protagonists encounter a flock of sheep and a very annoying, recalcitrant donkey; eat at a restaurant with typical, mouthwatering foods of the zone; meet a cow they “adopted” and to top everything off quite nicely, they take part in a very enticing Medieval Festival, with authentic foods, music and workmanship of the times.

And then they begin their way home…

The Long Road home is truly a choice read, full of fun, adventure and the unknown. The book starts out in the early 2000s and ends somewhat further ahead in the future. The ending will most likely bring tears to your eyes (they did to mine) but they will be tears of joy.

Click here to download and read the first chapter of The Long Return Home by Flavio Girardelli.

 

 

©December 5, 2014 by Mary Purpari. All Rights Reserved

In the Corner of the Pinewoods

The following story is one I’ve been thinking about writing for years. It’s not really my usual genre of writing, but since it is Halloween and there was a sort of challenge for bloggers to write a short horror story, I thought I’d give it a try. It’s more fantastical than horrific, and since there is more than a single grain of truth to it, my protagonist’s name will be Melody. In the woods outside the town of Mistretta in Italy, there is a particular corner…


Melody looked at her watched and gasped. It was a quarter of five, and she’d now been gathering chestnuts for three hours. She had two huge bags full, but there were still so many lying around that she hated to leave them; if she didn’t gather them now, someone else would and that would be so many less than what she could have for the rest of the fall and winter. And yet, she had to get home, and quickly. Today was Halloween and they had the party that night.
She had ‘trained’ the girls well; they had been busily preparing for the party, putting up the decorations and preparing costumes and scripts for the ‘haunted house’, but she was the witch. And the Halloween party was not Halloween without her witchiness. Why, just the other day, as she was passing a group of children one of them came up to her and asked, “Mrs. Witch, are we going to be having the Halloween party this year?” When she’d answered in the affirmative, the little girl had skipped off to join her friends, nodding at them and giggling. A sense of satisfaction had gone through her that day: if she was to be remembered for something, at least it would be for providing fun for little children.
But now, it was late. She had meant to go home at least half an hour earlier, but when she was alone in the woods, gathering chestnuts, mushrooms or pine nuts, she usually lost all track of time and today there were so many chestnuts, probably resulting from last night’s tornado. Fortunately, she’d already made her famous poisonous mushrooms – the amazingly delicious pumpkin plus cookies that resembled the product they were named for – so all that was left to do was get herself ready for her bewitching role. But, before she could do that, she had to get past that corner…
It was on the fastest route out of the woods from the position she was in, and most of the time she had no problems taking it. Indeed, any other time of the day, she could take a short-cut across the corner, and take off a good ten minutes from her travel time. But it was almost five o’clock, and in just a few minutes… She had no other choice, though, because going the long way would add on an extra half an hour that she couldn’t allow herself today of all days.
And so, she walked. She couldn’t run, but even if she could, she wouldn’t because the ground was so uneven, with rocks and tree roots sticking up at odd spots. She hoped the strange feeling she got passing that spot wouldn’t grab her as badly as it usually did at this time of day. Had she left when she’d planned on, there wouldn’t have been a problem, because the eeriness of the corner appeared only at five o’clock. It wasn’t just the lighting – or lack of such – because the same sense was there in the summer, winter and spring, too, at five o’clock, rain, fog or shine. And, of course, the last rays of autumn sunlight filtering through the the yellowing leaves on the trees, caused oddly shaped shadows to ripple along the grassy slopes, hinting at things unknown and unseen.
Melody was almost there; although she could see it just around the bend, she would have known even with her eyes closed because of the cold tendrils of panic that gripped her heart. Today, though, the closer she drew to the spot the more she decided she would fight the usual tendency. She would teach them who would frighten who. Because, you see, Melody had a secret power; it was hers only on Halloween, which helped her be the best Halloween witch ever, and was the reason little children referred to her as Mrs. Witch. It was her laugh. Not an every-day-of-the-week laugh, but an evil-sounding, authentic witch’s laugh, the kind that causes children to hide their faces (which was why they loved it) and adults to tremble. And it only worked on Halloween.
And so, fighting against the corner’s chill (even Spike refused to chase any rabbit brave enough to run across that corner at that time of day), Melody gathered up her energy and laughed. The evil sounding, witchy laugh rang across that corner, issuing a challenge to those frightening, unknown forces of the pinewoods’ corner. As though by magic, a change came suddenly upon the corner. The mist drew back it’s chilling tendrils, the shadows drew back and though the sun had begun to go down behind the surrounding hills, its warmth slid easily in place of the misty cold. The birds began to sing in the branches, the raucous crows stopped cawing and peace returned to the beautiful corner of the pinewoods.
Melody smiled as she skipped through the woods, actually crossing the corner instead of going around it. Today, she could. Tomorrow? Tomorrow was another day.


© October 31, 2014 Mary Purpari . All Rights Reserved.

I Will—the Encounter

“First call for TWA flight number 163 for Heathrow Airport now boarding at Gate number 67.” Twenty-six year old Melody McDonald picked up her pace. She’d been lucky; there weren’t many passengers on the flight and so her standby ticket had gotten her on the first flight out. The song playing over the intercom was mournful, with an Irish lilt to it. She wished that they’d put up the volume so she wouldn’t have to strain so much to hear the haunting tune; she was dividing her energy between that and running to get to the departure gate before the flight took off. She knew that if she didn’t figure out what it was, it would probably drive her nuts during the entire eight-hour flight. Such was her concentration that she didn’t notice the tall, thin young man with the walrus mustache until she plowed into him, knocking both of them onto the hard floor.

Jack shook his shoulder-length, shaggy light brown hair out of his eyes as he tried to regain his composure. The impact with the cute blonde had surprised him; he’d been listening to the song on the intercom, trying to place it. It had sounded vaguely familiar, slightly airy with a more serious cello undertone threading through it, although he couldn’t remember who had composed it, or even the name of the piece itself. Of course it was a canned, instrumental version, but so intent had he been that he hadn’t seen the girl until they had literally fallen at one another’s feet. Had he seen her coming he would have moved out of her way; but then again, he thought, focusing his sapphire-blue eyes more closely on her, maybe not. She looked kind of cute with his baseball hat – which had ended up on her head during the collision – as though wearing baseball hats was a normal habit of hers.

Sitting there on the floor of the airport, in the middle of the gangway, her luggage strewn all around her, Melody could finally hear the music, perhaps a little too loudly, now. Had she possibly knocked something loose in the collision? She’d heard about people being able to receive radio stations straight to their brains after knocking a tooth loose. Of course, she could never tell anyone about this – they’d think she was nuttier than she really was. The song… She thought maybe it sounded a little like the Moody Blues – that slightly bittersweet song they had done in ‘72 – but there was that cheery Irish lilt running through it. Suddenly, the intercom broke into her reveries. “Last call for TWA flight number 163 for Heathrow Airport now boarding at Gate 67.” Oh dear! how long had she been sitting there? And she hadn’t even apologized to the young man yet! Che scema! Flustered, she jumped to her feet, gathering her belongings. Running to the boarding gate, she shouted behind her, without turning around, “I’m sorry, I have to run – that’s my flight. It was really nice meeting you. See you around!”

Jack sat there for a few moments, stunned by the preceding events. So astonished was he that he even forgot everything but the unknown girl running off with his baseball hat. He hoped she would take good care of it – it was the last one left from his days on the diamond. A grin spread across his face as he stood up and dusted himself off; he recognized the music now – Handel’s Water Music, with a little Bach thrown in for good measure. It seemed to fit.

 

For those who may be interested, this is a prelude to I is for I Will a Long story shortened.

 

© October 24 2014 by Mary Purpari all rights reserved.

 

 

“I” is for I Will: A Long Story Shortened (Fiction)

I Will

Who knows how long I’ve loved you, you know I always will.

Shall I wait a lonely lifetime? If you want me to, I will.

For if I ever met you, I didn’t catch your name;

But it never really mattered, I will love you still the same.

Love you forever and forever, love you with all my heart;

love you whenever we’re together; love you when we’re apart.

And when at last I find you, your song will fill the air;

Sing it loud so I can hear you. Make it easy to be near you.

For the things you do endear you to me, Oh you know, I will. I will.

(Lennon, McCartney; permission pending.)

The regular members of the grief support group watched on in silence as the frail old woman hobbled to the podium. Although it was obvious from the vast network of wrinkles lining her face that she couldn’t possibly be a day under 85, the thick, curly, snow-white waist-length ponytail and bright blue eyes lent a certain vestige of youthfulness to the woman’s appearance. After tentatively reaching out to adjust the mike, she dabbed at a tear that threatened to stray down her wizened cheek.

“Hello, my name is Melody McDonald and I’m here because a friend of mine suggested that I come and share my story with you. It’s a very long story, but I will try to keep it short; time is running out, and the story needs to be told.

“I’d always thought that the term «falling in love» was odd, because I’d always envisioned it as a raising of the spirit, an enlightenment of the heart. And so it was rather ironic that day at the airport; I wasn’t paying much attention where I was going as I walked towards the customs area. The loudspeaker must not have been working very well, and I was straining to hear the sweet melody with the slightly Irish lilt to it when I ran right into a very tall man with the most delicious twinkly blue eyes. I fell at his feet, as he did mine, and when he offered his hand to help me back to my feet, I KNEW I had fallen in love. And, do you know what? So had he.

“Shortly thereafter, he moved into my apartment. Never had I been so happy as I was in the time we were together; we were so much alike in so many things. Can you believe that in the five years we were together I could count the times we quarreled on one hand? It’s true! We loved the same music, our political views were the same and, quite ironically, we even had the same degree in the same subject.

“And he was so sweet. He’d come in while I was working at my desk and just come over and give me a hug, then stay for a bit of conversation. He loved to talk, and talk, and talk… And when we watched TV in the evening, we often had no idea what was going on because of the stimulating conversation. Boring? Never! Conversation interspersed with music: unbeatable!

“And then…he died. He just left: one moment he was there and the next, he wasn’t. Only five years instead of the lifetime I had envisioned, with the two of us growing old together. I was sixty-one, and that was thirty-eight years ago.” The old one woman stifled a sob before continuing, “At times, the pain of his loss is unbearable; I try to put on a brave face, but I miss him…” She stopped as the sweet strains of a lilting, Irish sounding melody filled the air. The people rushing to the podium stopped abruptly as Ms. McDonald fell at the feet of a tall, slim man with twinkly blue eyes.

 

© “I” is for I Will, a Long Story Shortened, 2014 Mary Purpari

“F” is for Facebook Friends and Family: a Modernized Parable

This is a modernized retelling of the parable of the good Samaritan. Note that I wanted to use person instead of man, but it was so repetitive as to be spammy.

Once upon a time (not too long ago) there was a man who had a huge, wonderful family and many, many friends, whom he knew personally and loved. One day, the man found Facebook, and discovered that he could keep close contact with his family and friends, which filled the man’s heart with with joy; he lived in a city far from all of them and in this manner, he was updated daily on their comings and goings. Soon, he began to add new friends to his friends list – friends he had never met but who seemed to be supportive and affectionate – and he began looking forward to reading their posts and their comments on his posts.

One day, the most unexpected tragedy overcame him: his beloved companion came down with pneumonia, and after much suffering, died. The man was disconsolate, his heart broken by the sudden loss of his dearest friend; upon hearing the tragic news, his family and friends, both actual as well as virtual, sent their condolences and love, support and commiseration, for his companion was also well-loved by many of the same people.

However, the support of one family member was particularly notable for its lack. In fact, when the man’s Facebook friends and family began to give compliments to the man for his strength and courage, the family member lashed out at the man, criticizing him for considering the words of his Facebook family more important than his real family (not realizing that many of the people giving comfort and advice were actual family members).  And behold, this lack of understanding served only to deepen the man’s sadness and depression.

And then, as the man sank deeper in grieving for his loss, a wondrous thing took place. Because of the death of this man’s companion, he was left with grievous financial difficulties and was even faced with the possibility of having to leave the home the two of them had shared for all the time they were together, the place where there were so many happy memories. But, behold: those very people, the “despised” virtual family and friends, silently got together and took up a collection and gave a goodly sum to the man so that he would be able to stay a little longer in the home where the two of them had been so happy.

And now, I ask of you, who was indeed this man’s family?

© 2014 Mary Purpari

“E” is for Easter 1960

This is a brief extract from the first chapter of my book Old McDonald Had a Funny Farm. Life was so fun and so simple back then…

Fifteen minutes later, Ross and Honey packed the kids into the car and headed off to Newport Beach for the church services. All four children walked demurely near their parents as they entered the church, which was beautifully decorated with pots of snow-white Easter lilies and bright yellow daffodils, just like the ones growing beside the McDonalds’ driveway. After the Sunday School lessons, Honey accompanied Melody to the choir room, and then joined the others in the front row of the chapel. Groups of people, in brightly colored clothing that vied with the beautiful sun-brightened stained glass windows illuminating the chapel walls, streamed through the doors toward the welcoming pews. Waves of joyous organ music accompanied the festive throngs. Feelings of hope and thanksgiving hung on the air with comforting warmth. It was a day for celebrating the resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ. The adult choir stood, divided, in the external aisles of the chapel, and began to sing the triumphal Easter hymn:

 

“Christ the Lord is ris’n today

Alleluia.

Sons of men and angels say

Alleluia.

Raise your joys and triumphs high

Alleluia.

Sing, ye heav’ns and earth reply,

Alleluia.”

 

It was so beautiful sitting between the two choirs as the voices echoed back and forth, and the triumph of the Lord rang in the congregation’s hearts. After the Pastor’s sermon, the children’s choir, seated behind the pastor, rose to sing, clutching battery lit candles in their hands. Melody was both excited and nervous at the same time and she fought to stand up straight as her knees wobbled and threatened to collapse from the emotion. She was singing in the choir for the first time, and it was wonderful, but what if she sang a wrong note there in front of everyone: she would die. But no, there was her family sitting there in the front row and she knew that everything would be alright. Mrs. Jarvis lifted her arms and began to lead the very young singers:

 

“When Israel was in Egypt’s land,

Let my people go.

Oppressed so bad they could not stand

Let my people go.

Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land

Tell old Pharaoh, Let my people go.”

 

Melody’s heart began to slow down. She had done it; she had sung the right words in the right rhythm on the right notes. It was wonderful singing in a choir and the congregation’s reaction made her feel like she could fly like an angel. At the end of the last service, as she and the other fifteen boys and girls of the junior choir walked in double file down the center aisle of the chapel with their candles shining brightly, the pastor loosed a cloud of snow-white doves. Just as the young choir members were leaving the chapel to take off their choir robes, one of the doves left its circling companions and settled on Melody’s shoulder. She wasn’t surprised—lots of birds landed on Melody’s shoulder (though not those pesky mocking-birds)—but this bird just heightened her feeling of peace and joy. Wanting to share this feeling, she turned around to search for her family in the midst of the festive crowd. Suddenly, she felt a hand clasp her other shoulder. Turning around, she came face to face with Grammy Jenkins. “I see you’ve found a new friend, Mickey.”

The dove flew off to join his fellows as Melody and her grandmother hugged each other.

“Grammy, you came to hear me sing. What a neat song, huh? Where’s Grampa? Is he here?

Are you coming to our house for lunch?”

“Oh, slow down; one question at a time. Yes, dear, the song was wonderful. Grampa is at work. You know the police have to work sometimes on holidays, unfortunately even on Easter. There are many more people here at Easter-time, you know. He’ll try to come later on, when he finishes his shift. Yes, I am coming to lunch and also to the Easter egg hunt. Then, if Grampa doesn’t make it in time, your Grandmother Mary will take me home.”

“Are you coming home with us in our car? Oh, please, Grammy. You can sit in back with me.”

excerpt from “Old McDonald Had A Funny Farm” © 2009 Mary Purpari

A Writer’s Christmas Tale

 

Three wise guys from the East Side went and found the baby dressed in swatting clothes and lying in a manager.

Meredith Soul, Vice President in charge of author relations at Disadvantage Publishers, was seated at her desk thumbing through the royalty checks that had been placed there for review several hours earlier. She stopped when she reached the one addressed to Melody McDonald. After three years of being on the market and selling only five copies, Melody’s book had suddenly jumped up to the 150,563^rd position of best sellers, out of more than 12 million books on sale at Silos & Common. The jump was amazing, since Publishers had done nothing to promote the book; the recent sales were due mainly to the author’s efforts among friends, family and their acquaintances.

Her reflections were interrupted by the sounds of carolers singing outside the otherwise quiet streets: “God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…” She stood up and closed the window; the noise was distracting her and she needed to think. The carolers, however, had reminded her that it was Christmas Eve; perfect – now she had two days in which she could work in peace and quiet.

After picking up the check addressed to Melody she looked at the e-mail on the computer screen; Melody had been particularly pressing lately. It was indeed true that the check from Silos and Common had been deposited into the company’s account a month ago, but Melody had already been waiting for three years to receive royalties for her book and Meredith was convinced that a few more months waiting wasn’t going to change a thing: what if there had been no sales at all? She wouldn’t have received anything anyway.

Meredith picked up the book in question and swatted at the unseasonal fly buzzing around her head; the annoying creature zipped out of her reach as the phone rang. She let the call go to voice mail – she rarely answered her phone because she never knew when an irate author was going to ruin her day by asking embarrassing questions about how things were going with his or her book, and it was best to let them think she was out of the office.

“Hi Merry, this is Ned Sugarsnak.” Ned had been one of the editors at the Publisher before the company had transferred from Park Avenue to Connecticut (less accessible to authors) and he had started his own publishing company. He was a nice enough guy, but she didn’t want to talk to him, either.

“It’s good to see you’re out of the office for awhile… I think. Listen I need to talk to you about one of your authors, so give me a call ASAP. Have a Merry Christmas, Merry.” She definitely didn’t want to talk to him – Ms. McDonald had been one of his favorite authors before he left Publishers and Meredith did not want to go there at the moment. “The name is MEREDITH,” she grumbled, “not Merry.”

She switched from internet to her excel files. The fly once more alighted on the screen, blocking her view of the numbers that signaled the rise in sales of Ms. McDonald’s book, How to Avoid Lunacy with Five Kids under Eight. The phone rang just as Meredith reached for the book so she could swat the fly; still staring at the fly, she picked up the phone instead. Flabbergasted, she stared blankly at the phone.

“Hello…hello. Is anyone there?” She continued to stare in horrified silence at what she had done, her eyes and mouth wide open. “Hello, Ms. Soul? This is John Dough, Ms. Melody McDonald’s lawyer; I am calling in her behalf. Are you there?”

Not that dratted woman, again, she thought. Rolling her eyes, she responded, “Uh…Hello. This is Meredith Soul speaking. How may I help you, Mr. Dough?”

“I have been speaking with our mutual client, Ms. Melody McDonald, and she is very distraught. It seems that she has written several e-mails to you regarding royalty payments that she feels she is entitled to receive. I have read through her contract with you and feel I must concur with her assessment. Our client has sold several hundred books, putting her well over the required fifty.”

Meredith was well aware of this; just before the fly had landed on the screen, she had seen that sales had arrived at 950 copies, and she wondered if it might not be a good idea to order a second printing. In fact, it had registered as a Top Ten best seller at Silos & Common one day in October…

“In fact, Ms. McDonald reached Best Seller status in October, earning herself the right to have that printed on her next book.” Was the man a mind reader? “At the moment, Ms. McDonald is in sore need of these funds, and since they are much overdue, we request immediate remittance of the entire sum. If nothing is received by January 2, 2013, our next conversation will be in court. Good evening and Happy Holidays.”

“Good Evening to you, too, sir. Good bye.” And good riddance to you. Happy Holidays, indeed. Slamming the phone back onto the hook, she walked back over to the window and glanced out. Obviously, the warmer temperatures that had kept the fly alive had plummeted; snow swirled relentlessly from the sky, covering the road below in a cold, wet, white carpet. She watched mesmerized as the wind, howling like a starving wolf, molded the snow into recognizable shapes that seemed to emerge from the flurries, before her very eyes.

She rubbed her eyes as one of the snowy shapes seemed to float toward her. She gasped: the figure now standing before her was Mr. Agnello, the owner of Disadvantage Publishers. He lived up on East Park Avenue in Manhattan, and had left for home hours ago. He tapped on the window, beckoning for her to open it up.

“Either I need to start wearing glasses, or I should start writing my own books,” she thought. She reluctantly opened the window as the tapping became more insistent. “Why doesn’t he just come through the front door? Maybe he forgot his keys.” As she turned toward the door to let him in that way, his voice echoed through the room.

“Ms. Soul, you must listen to me,” he thundered. “I had a car accident on the way home today; my car hit a patch of black ice and slid into the car in front of me, just as the car behind me slid into me. I was told to come warn you that the check will save more than one life and reputation.” He pointed toward another shape that had appeared in the snow-covered street. She jumped back, appalled, as she recognized the figure before her as a rundown version of herself.

“Remember, mail the check tonight on your way home.” His voice faded as he slowly floated back into the snow, leaving behind the memory of Meredith dressed in rags. She turned, shuddering, from the window.

That lingering memory stayed with her as she slid the check into an envelope and addressed it, slipped into her coat and opened the door. The pesky fly buzzed in a circle around her head, and then preceded her into the blustery night. The memory persisted until she reached the mailbox on the corner; as she dropped the envelope through the slot, she thought she heard the thundering voice of poor Mr. Agnello exclaim as the memory fled from her mind, “Merry Christmas, Ms. Merry Soul, and to you a good night.”