{"id":38,"date":"2011-11-20T12:33:52","date_gmt":"2011-11-20T12:33:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.sandralangston.com\/?p=38"},"modified":"2011-11-20T12:33:52","modified_gmt":"2011-11-20T12:33:52","slug":"greetings","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.sandralangston.com\/?p=38","title":{"rendered":"Greetings!"},"content":{"rendered":"

We live at the end of a longish gravel road, so coming or going we pass parcels of land belonging to various families; small garden plots, lines of olives, wheat, and oranges. \u00a0 Often the owner is out working his plot and so we salute each other as we pass. \u00a0If for some reason it is a day of errands, we may pass by the same person a number of times in a day, yet never would we dream of failing to repeat the gesture each time. \u00a0This ranges from stopping to chat, \u00a0a wave, a beep on the car horn, or the characteristic \u00a0poker-faced upward nod of the chin. \u00a0 The gentleman who \u00a0pruned our olive trees, who has since passed on, would \u00a0station himself regularly \u00a0near \u00a0the road, observing every passage. We dreaded seeing the palm of his hand which meant, “Stop! \u00a0A word with you.” \u00a0A “word” being an intricate tale of horticultural intrigue, accusations of obscure doings on the part of \u00a0those sharing a boundary, or just a chat about the weather. \u00a0We called him the\u00a0dogana,<\/em>\u00a0or customs agent, and we would breath \u00a0a sigh of relief on the days when he was absent. \u00a0I might even have gone so far as to hunt furiously for something under my seat or fake an urgent cell phone call to avoid having to stop. \u00a0I miss him, sometimes.<\/p>\n

Another man, older and a little strange in his ways, never failed to confer \u00a0his greeting even if involved in activities better observed in privacy. \u00a0One morning, glimpsing the top of a bald head above the wheat stubble, I prepared to greet him as I passed. \u00a0It was only as I came upon him that I realized that he was answering the urgent call of nature, pants around his ankles in the trampled hay. \u00a0Hardly had the realization kicked in and I, in shock, turned my concentrated attention back to the road, then I realized he was cheerfully waving and yelling out an enthusiastic “Buon Giorno!” \u00a0 As I, \u00a0as we, \u00a0passed.<\/p>\n

A different morning, as I drove past this same man’s plot between the olives, I heard my name. \u00a0As I proceeded I saw \u00a0in my rear view mirror that someone was gesticulating frantically from the upper branches of the tree, calling me back with the characteristic wide downward arc of his arm. \u00a0Lord, I thought, he has accidentally kicked his ladder down and needs help to climb out of the tree. \u00a0So I threw the car in reverse and backed quickly to place myself \u00a0under the tree to see and hear him better. \u00a0He continued to wave his arms at me and yell, until I managed to make out clearly that he was saying, “Sandra! \u00a0Hurry, move out from under the tree, the branch I am cutting is about to fall!!” \u00a0Thinking to myself, “We live in the same place but in different logical universes,” I agreed and went on my way, thanking him for calling me back to warn me.<\/p>\n

At the beginning of our road, years back, a retired\u00a0carabiniere<\/em>\u00a0commander bought a large parcel of land and planted an extensive orange orchard. \u00a0His trees were just getting started, robust and dark green with growth, when one night someone went in and systematically cut each one off, leaving \u00a0a foot of forlorn trunk. \u00a0 Someone with which he had interacted in the past apparently had nurtured a grudge.\u00a0 But rather than succumbing \u00a0to discouragement, he \u00a0regrafted a better stock onto the trunks and today they are wonderful example of the lemonade one can make with lemons, or oranges. \u00a0His greeting is always \u00a0unassuming. \u00a0We appreciate the fact that he is the only person we have seen \u00a0who will repair a pothole on the public tract of road, even though this action might benefit others as well as himself. \u00a0Most folks around here would never dream of making a reparation which others might \u00a0enjoy vicariously.<\/p>\n

A good\u00a0cristiano \u00a0(<\/em>which means god-fearing person, of any religion)\u00a0\u00a0always greets another that he knows,\u00a0\u00a0even if the number of greetings to the same person in a morning verges on the farcical. \u00a0I am not so fond, when navigating my way through a big American city from supermarket to mall to sidewalk, of adapting my behavior to avoid creating \u00a0ripples in the flow of everyone’s anonymity. \u00a0 Eyes downcast and small device in hand, an electronic crutch to lean on when pressed too close together, everyone tries to avoid unnecessary \u00a0contact with one’s fellow humans. Here, the greeting is vital. \u00a0You know when someone has been seriously offended because they will “togliere il saluto” \u00a0<\/em>which means” take away their greeting.” \u00a0When this happens, and it does sometimes, everyone notices the vaccuum created in the comforting, and human, \u00a0flow of things.<\/p>\n

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painting: \u00a0“La Strada per Montescaglioso” \u00a0pastel on paper, 2001<\/p>\n

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