Peppino loved back with her slow pace the terraces of the garden of oranges obtained along the steep coast vadduni. The way she walked up the steps made from bits of Lentini was slow, lilting, rhythmic, constant but staggered a half step. The years passed between the orange trees with their feet immersed in water twill had exacerbated the pain in his left leg. Peppino, was leaning with his right hand to the knee of the good leg pushing forward the painful part. So his pace was break-tam-tum, tum-break-tam, tum-... Every morning at dawn, took the old black leather bag with half cock, the bread, egg, bivirino with water and the inevitable 'nzinca. The 'nzinza represented what today we would call a reminder, a small white string tied to the handle of the old leather bag that remind you to pick up the parsley to the wife, to pick up the rods for baskets, to control the suction pipe to river and so on. Every day lit la sua rumorosa seicento fiat azzurrina tirandola fuori da quella che una volta era la stalla, accelerava assicurandosi che il motore fosse sull'orlo del collasso, staccava la frizione e via fuori verso il vadduni. Curve a destra, tornanti a sinistra, la stazione, la strettoia, il passaggio sopra il ponte e poi il carrubo dove parcheggiare, il freno a mano e la pietra davanti alla ruota destra perché non si sa mai. E così cominciava la sua giornata di duro lavoro tra gli aranci.
D'estate, la domenica, la sera, Peppino e la sua famiglia si riunivano sotto il grande ulivo che spuntava dal cemento grigio chiaro dello spiazzale davanti alla casa in campagna. Fu durante una di quelle calde and humid evenings Peppino told for the first time to his grandchildren a funny story about a pastor who learned to count.
Na votes, cumpari Micenzu back into the house late at night when it was dark. You know, then the house did not have switches with lamps and wax candles cost. So the poor shepherd, exhausted after a hard day in the fields, sped straight to bed sure to find your feet warm welcome to his wife. Two are mine, two are yours, but here there are six! No way! Recounted. Two are mine, two are yours, but here there are six! I'll be lying with the mule? Recounted. . . And count and recount the shepherd fell asleep. At the first light of dawn still in doubt for counting, in the twilight of the morning, cumpari Micenzu awoke, reached for the chair at the foot of the bed where he usually threw his humble clothes, got dressed and riding his mule walked to the pasture. Arriving at the pasture had a very bad surprise. I saw him just trusted his dogs began barking arraggiati reach as never before, the mule and scared disarcionò. It was then that he understood why cumpari Micenzu counts did not return. He noticed that the long black robe she was wearing had frightened the dogs.
That story was so funny big laugh, but we children left us perplexed. What is there to laugh falling from a mule? And then, it hits the habit? And does it matter? Well, big sti are strange!
