Some things worth celebrating: wildness, 50 years, 41 laps, 4:57 minutes

Life has been a whirlwind since I last wrote. I’m starting to think that whirlwind is the default I do not remember opting into, and as such I am enormously grateful to be in WV for a few days right now. Here, whirlwind doesn’t much exist, and I treasure that. About an hour ago, I ventured into the kitchen to investigate dinner, and as I walked past the glass doors to the deck, I noticed a blur of movement to my left: it was a hummingbird at the lonicera sempervirens (coral honeysuckle) that I planted to cover an old wicker “wall” below the deck. That little plant is clearly in a happy spot because it has shot up and out and now boasts hundreds of trumpeting flowers. Hummingbirds are such magical little creatures; I crouched and watched until this one flew away and was so thankful that nothing distracted me.

Earlier today, the large rhododendron at the front of our house seemed literally abuzz, and once again, I paused, eyes wide. What I believe were several swallowtail butterflies were dining on the pale pink flowers with what seemed like real gusto. I found a darling frog in some leaves, watched male house finch argue at the feeder while a huge red-bellied ignored them and ate suet, and gasped as a huge wild turkey “flew” across the street in front of me as I ran out to the market. The goats are relaxed and happy, I have seen no spotted lanternfly nymphs, and more-than-our-usual rainfall has left everything lustrous and healthy.

Roughly three weeks ago, I turned 50. I have no qualms about age; it’s really just the quick passage of time that makes me fret as I don’t want to run out of it. But the number marking my age bothers me not. I decided to throw a party. It was so much fun to pull out all the stops in dressing up, doing hair and makeup, and gathering my loved ones. Not everyone could make it, but I know they were with me in spirit, and that counts for everything. Thank you for all the messages and love. It was a memorable celebration!

Just two weeks after that was the DC Electric Vehicle Grand Prix, the DC leg of the Global EEE electric vehicle competition for high school students. As you may know, Oliver has spent the past two years designing and building a custom car: a passion project times infinity. Last year, his team placed 5th out of roughly 40 teams, and this year he really hoped to medal. Readers, he won it all. He and his team drove 41 laps in 60 minutes and took home the grand prize as well as best technical innovation (for the second time) and best use of 3D printing (for the third). To say that I remain stunned with pride and admiration is an understatement.

Not one week later, Ol achieved another goal toward which he’s been working for nearly the same amount of time as the car: he ran a sub-5:00-minute mile in his final track meet of the season. To see him cross the finish line and realize what he’d done was unforgettable. Oliver is the hardest working person I know. He has a remarkable ability to set a goal and to realize that it may take ages to accomplish but that getting there is as meaningful and important as achieving it. He just keeps on plugging, through thick and thin, and little could fill my heart more than watching him see his countless hours of determination come to fruition.

His effort feels particularly meaningful in a time in which so few seem interested in working hard for anything really. Efforts at immediacy and for power have resulted in rampant cheating in schools and in politics, to name but two. Perhaps this is one reason everything feels so fast and intense. Many accomplishments, real studied and endeavored for earns, take time and patience, trial and error to achieve. You can’t cut corners, skip practices, use ChatGPT, or gerrymander your way to sincere wins; those take hard work and commitment, plain and simple. They take resilience and fatigue and hope and exertion. Writ small, it’s what trying to turn a rocky acre in WV into a thriving ecosystem has been. Looking around today, 50 and not so nimble anymore, I nonetheless celebrated the years of work I’ve pored into this land. Here, things are happy. I feel successful.

A wonderful trip to Emilia Romagna

Tom, Oliver, and I are recently back from a much-needed family vacation and were lucky to spend eight days in Italy. They were itching to use their beautiful new Italian passports (I am hoping to get mine some time in August), I was eager to use my knowledge of the language in real time on the ground, and none of us has been to the homeland since I last went to Florence in 2022.

For this adventure we chose the Emilia Romagna region in part because it is such an excellent destination for food lovers and also because both Ducati and Ferrari have their headquarters and histories there. As I am sure you all know by now, we are big eaters. You probably also know that Oliver is obsessed with motorcycles, particularly Ducatis. And perhaps not surprisingly, he and Tom are Formula 1 maniacs. This means that I have come to appreciate motorcycles and enjoy F1 too.

In any case, as Oliver is one of the least materialistic people ever (which makes him extremely hard to shop for) and his birthday always falls right at the start of spring break, we often consider experiences for his gifts and plan around that. Emilia Romagna fit the bill completely, and I planned a trip that started in Bologna (food and Ducati) and then took us through Maranello (Ferrari), Modena and Parma for food, and Dozza (near Bologna) for a tiny, off-the-beaten-path town for a night before returning home.

Fair warning: this is a huge, lengthy post with many photos. Settle in.

Days 1-4: Bologna

We stayed in the Centro Storico district and although it is a touristy area, it is absolutely abuzz, not least because of its proximity to the University of Bologna. Founded in 1088, Bologna’s University is the oldest continuously operating uni in the world. As our eldest attends St. Andrews, a uni founded in 1413, we thought we knew old. But add a few centuries, and you get the school in Bologna.

As seems to happen every spring break, Oliver was sick before we left and add to that an overnight flight to Munich on which he slept very little, by the time we got to Italy, he was struggling. Our first day was, therefore, primarily one of rest and settling in. We did go to lunch and immediately ordered the two most traditional pasta dishes from the region: tortellini en brodo (meat tortellini in meat broth) and tagliatelle bolognese. As I skew largely vegetarian, I chose the tortelli di zucca (tortelli stuffed with pumpkin).

Afterwards, we walked around Piazza Maggiore and gazed fondly at the Garisenda and Asinelli towers, both symbols of Bologna and both listing in delightfully wonky fashion. Think Leaning Tower of Pisa. They stand at the point where the Via Emilia, an historic Roman road commissioned in 187 B.C. by Marcus Aemilius Lepidus to connect critical military and commercial sites, entered Bologna. It runs east-west through Emilia Romagna, from the Adriatic Coast to the Po River. We encountered it in every city and town we visited. Fortunately, both towers are being restored right now; unfortunately that meant we couldn’t climb either. The views are probably spectacular.

One thing for which my awe never wanes is the way the light in Italy bounces and plays off the stucco in which so many of its buildings are clad. They positively glow and radiate, and the rich sunset-inspired colors cannot be beat. If I built a square home here in Maryland and painted it orange with green shutters, it would not look good. At all. But it is magic in Italy.

And don’t even get me started on the phenomenal iron work there. It is art. As an aside, we shopped at Farmacia Zarri, and I am telling you that it was the loveliest, most efficient, helpful pharmacy experience I have, perhaps, ever had. You left a prescription in the States and have proof of the script? Down the hatch the med came (literally, a cute little chute). You need to know the best X for Y symptoms? Certo. Here you go. We got everything we needed and walked out for €17. America could learn something.

On our second day, my sister, niece, and nephew came to visit from Florence, and we had a marvelous time together. I was sad to see them go after just five hours but am thankful we could cross paths. In addition to lunch, we visited Piazza Nettuno where there is a huge statue of Neptune; if you stand in just the right place, you’ll see that Neptune’s thumb looks incredibly suggestive. When my nephew finally found the spot, he was like “OH!” Indeed. We also looked for the whispering walls but came up short, but did find the secret window overlooking a canal.

Monday was Ducati day. Founded in 1926 by brothers Adriano, Marcello, and Bruno, Ducati originally produced radios and related components. The company grew quickly and built a factory in Borgo Panigale area of Bologna, and it remains there today. Heavily bombed during WWII, the company rebuilt afterwards and also introduced a small 48-cc engine, the cucciolo or puppy, that motorized regular bicycles. The cucciolo was an enormous hit and in 1950, Ducati released its first motorcycle, a 60-cc bike. In 1953, the company split into Ducati Meccanica and Ducati Elettronica. The brothers retained control of the former and the rest is history, in terms of the company with which Oliver is obsessed and that you might know of today.

In addition to the factory tour, we greatly enjoyed the museum. Oliver has astonishingly encyclopedic knowledge of all Ducati bikes, from standard motorcycles to those used only in MotoGP, and he regaled us with all manner of factoid, proprietary Ducati parts, famous racers from history, and so forth. The bikes have evolved in fascinating, sophisticated ways; the helmets, too (see below. The blue and white “protective headgear” looks like something Coyote would wear in the cartoons).

For the rest of our time in Bologna, we explored other neighborhoods, primarily the Quadrilatero, Ghetto Ebraico, and University areas, ate, and people watched. What must have been a U of Bologna graduation was going on, and we delighted in seeing graduates wearing laurel wreaths on their heads and celebrating with their families. The Quadrilatero has been, since medieval times, the site of busting food markets, so we ate and shopped enthusiastically there and appreciated the beauty all around. Near Piazza Maggiore is the Basilico di Santo Stefano, a religious complex founded in the 5th century and rebuilt in the 12th. Inside the church hangs a crucifix and sits a pontifical mitre, both from the 14th century (maybe 1380?) which is just phenomenal to consider.

I don’t know that Tom and Ol loved Bologna, and my sister never has, but I did enjoy it. It’s more diverse and a bit grittier than Florence and it has a relaxed, happy vibe and so many gorgeous buildings.

Days 5-6: Maranello/Ferrari and Modena

On Wednesday, we rented a car on the way out of town and drove to Maranello, a roughly 60-minute drive west. Maranello is, and has always been, the home of Ferrari. The motivation for this visit was more Formula 1 than the regular Ferraris themselves, but each vehicle is an absolute work of art and both factory and museum were cool to see. You are not allowed inside or to photograph the factory, but our guide was wonderful, and a special bonus was seeing a client test drive a new car on the track. That’s not a guarantee, and it was thrilling. T and O drove in the F1 simulators and found them super fun and very hard. Tom crashed repeatedly.

From Maranello, we drove a quick half hour to Modena, the home of balsamic vinegar and another huge food lover’s destination. We again stayed in the centro, just off the Piazza Grande. Modena is immediately charming and inviting, and we loved it. A city with a population of roughly 200,000, it is beautiful, friendly, and full (!) of restaurants, gelaterias, and markets. I had arranged a three-hour food-based walking tour for our first full day there, and it was a delight. Our guide reminded me of a plump Isabella Rossellini and was immensely fun to hang out with. There were only two other people in our group, obsessive eaters from Boston to whom we took an immediate liking. Like us, they were there to eat, and were hilarious, smart, and Trump-hating. All in all, it made for a very fun morning that began with a thorough tasting of balsamic vinegars, from the most niche and serious (DOP) to less intense “I still would not use this for salad” to “Ok, this you can use for salad.” We subsequently enjoyed a very large charcuterie board (pork is king in the region; I myself do not much care for pork, but bygones.) and parmesan tasting with Lambrusco, a full lunch of pasta or risotto and wine, a segue for “white cow” cheese tasting, and, of course, gelato and then coffee. Along the way, I swooned over more stucco, iron work, and the small details that no one seems to incorporate into design and build anymore. Such a loss.

As we waited in Piazza Grande that morning, for the tour to begin, we repeatedly heard a very loud thud. It was a pair of automatic doors into a bank that had gone haywire: they kept trying to close, failed to realize they’d done so, slammed themselves together, reopened, and rinse and repeat. We took note of this as it was both hilarious and irritating and assumed it would be repaired post haste.

That evening, back in Piazza Grande, those doors were still trying desperately to close themselves, and we simply laughed. No one in the States would let that go on for a half hour, much less all day. The next morning we found that a block had been wedged into the gap between the doors. Not repaired, just a stop gap.

We were in hysterics

All in all, go to Modena! A+ destination.

Days 7-8: Parma and Dozza

We left Modena in somewhat begrudging fashion, but with even less time allotted in Parma, I hurried us along. Oliver was improving by this point but was fairly wiped out by having been very sick, and I think all of us were growing vaguely tired. We were to have one day and one night in Parma, an afternoon and a night in Dozza, and then needed to return the car at the Bologna airport the next morning. Regardless, when we arrived in Parma, despite everyone telling us that it is fab, we were immediately underwhelmed. We then moved into our apartment which, while centrally located, was on a dim alley next door to a horse butcher and had depressingly minute “windows.” Oliver flung himself onto the pullout couch that was only springs, and I began doing some embroidery like I was possessed by a negative spirit. Tom was heartened that we had a washing machine, so tucked all socks, undies, and Oliver’s clothes into it while Ol and I moped pitifully.

We decided to eat. This was an excellent decision and was the first of only fabulous meals we had in Parma, home of Parmegiana-Reggiano and Parma ham. A quick hop from our place was da Michele, a Neapolitan pizzeria in Piazza Garibaldi with a bazillion great reviews. They are warranted. Lucky for us, the Parma outpost of da Michele just opened in 2025, and it was sublime. The crust was to die for. The mozzarella di bufala to kill for. This pizza righted out souls.

That afternoon, Oliver felt well enough to go for a run so did several miles in the Parco Ducale, or ducal park, while Tom and I walked it. It is a lovely green space across the Parma stream (I mean, stream is harsh; I think it’s a weak river; it requires bridges for goodness sakes.) built by the Farnese family in 1561. You have to hand it to wealthy Italian dynasties of centuries past: they used their money to support academic and civil endeavors that really benefitted the public in many ways (evil or not, in intention).

The Farnese family included a Pope (Paul III in 1534), a mistress to a Pope (not Paul III) dukes, military leaders, and even a queen. Their Palazzo della Pilotta, an enormous compound, today houses The Farnese Theater, the Parma National Gallery, the National Archaeological Museum and the Palatine Library, and all are stunning.

A century and some after the decline of the Farneses, Napoleon’s second wife, Marie Louise (Maria Luiga), became the Duchess of Parma (in 1814). She also did wonderful, benevolent things for the city which today has a population of, like Modena, about 200,000. Marie Louise focused on infrastructure, culture, and social welfare. She built schools and hospitals and even a center to help those with mental illness. She was, by all accounts, beloved. We learned that she adored violets and those remain a symbol of the city and homages to them and her are everywhere: we ate candied violets on yet another food tour.

Yes, I had scheduled another half-day food-based walking tour, because when in Emilia Romagna you eat. This tour was even better than the one in Modena and solidified a definite fondness for Parma. Our guide was a gem with whom I immediately wanted to become dear friends. Roberta was born and raised in Puglia, moved to Bologna for university where she studied languages, met a man from Abruzzo (where Tom’s lineage is; in fact, Roberta has been to Tom’s ancestral town, Fara San Martino (pop 2,000) twice!!! SMALL WORLD) who now works for Barilla (based in Parma), hence her now living in Parma for nearly 14 years. We met her in front of da Michele, funny enough, walked to Carlo’s store, a tribute to Marie Louise and where we had the candied violets, then to Pepen for this insane sandwich/pie with artichoke and pesto cream and mortadella, then for wine and infinite iterations of prosciutto, to pasta and a parmesan tasting and more wine, and finally to Ciacco for gelato. Perhaps my favorite thing was the lime-celery sorbetto at Ciacco. OF.THE.GODS.

Roberta also gave us a wonderful sense of Parma as a city, its history, its present, her life there. I truly enjoyed our time with her so very much; so did Tom and Ol. Go to Parma. A. Be ready for pork. Avoid the many horse butchers!

And then we had to leave because Dozza called. Dozza is a town of 300 people that most people seem never to have heard of. Roberta had been there, of course, but she said she’d never met a tourist who was going. So why were we? Because I planned this trip.

We had to get back to Bologna but I both did not want to drive in Bologna and I didn’t want to stay at some airport hotel and waste exploration time that could be better utilized. The famous F1 race track, Imola, is very near to Bologna, so initially I had us going and staying there in hopes it would be open to the public. Imola was recently removed from the F1 race roster both because it is old and dangerous and also to make room for a new host, but the autodromo remains and can be visited. That said, everyone online noted that if you can’t visit the track, Imola as a town is ass so don’t go. Sorry, Imola. So to hedge, I researched other nearby gems and discovered Dozza, a town of 300 that hosts a biannual Festival of the Painted Wall and has since 1960.

Perfetto!

As we drove in, via a generic suburb, I could tell Tom and Oliver were like, “where are we going and why?!” but as we entered the walls of the Rocca, a fortress that comprises a castle, defensive towers, walls, moat, and merlons, they seemed more accepting. There is one street through the town, and on it we encountered a jubilant wedding reception. Fortunately, we were able to pass, connect with Mauro, the non-English speaking elderly husband of our AirBNB host whose natal home we were staying in that evening, and get our keys and instructions.

I really cannot tell you the immense satisfaction and pride I felt throughout the trip in my ability to really speak with Italians in their language and in multiple tenses with ample vocabulary and even some nuance and silliness. There is a good deal of English in Bologna, but in the cabs and at the car rental place, for example, I needed my Italian skills. In Modena and Parma they were even more helpful, and in Dozza, they were essential. I have always felt that languages are a superpower, that facility with ones you did not grow up with is an actual power, a profound connective tissue that is difficult to forge in the absence of shared tongue. It was a joy to speak with Mauro about the town, his wife’s childhood home, where they live now, how to lock up and check out. It was a joy to tell the woman at dinner that due to my two glasses of wine at lunch in Parma I would not be drinking wine with dinner. It was funny to argue with one cabbie about acceptable fillings and sauces for tortellini —SOLO EN BRODO! said he— and then to ask him to call dispatch because two days earlier Oliver had left his sunglasses in another cab and could he help us. He did. To no avail, but he did, and I was thankful.

Dozza is such a special little gem. Some of the older murals are flaking away but their presence remains. Everyone seems happy there, in this town of art. The castle now houses a giant enoteca and museum of Emilia Romagna wine with a lengthy walk interested drinkers can take to explore the various wineries along it. There are many cats that roam the town in leisure; surely they run the place. They are unperturbable except when confronted with a barking dog, which we witnessed, and to which they immediately show who is boss. It’s really cool to see a town so wisely have continued to thrive, even in a time of chain stores and industrialization and capitalism and cities. The Dozza tourism board should be a case study in absolute success: they went all in history and art, and they’re killing it. We could not get into one beautiful restaurant that night because it was full but fortunately found another beautiful spot and had a delicious meal. The views from everywhere are gorgeous. We felt happy and we slept well in a wonderful old Nonna’s home.

A+. Go to Dozza.

Different words for...

Spinster. Crone. Witch. Old Maid. Hysterical. Past Her Prime. Shrew. Hag. Harpy. Harridan. “Fucking bitch.”

On Friday, in anticipation of, as we joke in the DC-area, a storm bringing “1-78 inches of snow,” I came to West Virginia. Our animal caretaker does not like to drive in icy conditions, I happened to really need a break—read: alone time—, and I despair when I think of any animals, especially my animals, being neglected in any way. Sign me up.

While MD did get a respectable 6”, my little corner of WV got nearly 10”! It is extremely cold and extremely beautiful, and I have spent today feeding and hydrating the goats, cats, birds, and any other little being that I hope to be serving with the vast amounts of seed and water I’m keeping stocked outside. ONE goat has deigned to wear its coat (Rambo, duh), the cats will only come inside for periodic warmings that I think are more about accommodating my maternal worry than their discomfort, and you can see none of the paths I shoveled on my first voyage to the barn. Hey, we still have power (miracle), and I have detailed the stovetop and painted a bathroom and taken many a photo, and the migraine I’ve had since late December is gone. And now it looks like I’ll be here at least until Tuesday. You don’t hear me complaining.

Why are there so many pejorative names for women who aren’t nubile and agreeable? I mean, I offered you but a sample above. And like WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

If the (vastly understaffed because they’ve all been fired by trump) weather service is correct, tomorrow is to be sunny and at least ten degrees warmer than today. This will put the temp at roughly 25 F. I’m not complaining, but I’m also not expecting much in the way of melt. Considering that I did not see or hear even a single plow today, I think I best settle in. For pete’s sakes, I can’t even drive five feet in my driveway which is about a half-mile long, so… But yay for sun! And a proper winter. I pulled a massive dog tick off Jinx tonight, but hopefully the other ticks are all freezing to death in the snow and hopefully all the plants are having a proper lie in and remembering the concept of seasons, and hopefully everyone can just take a minute to calm down and think.

With humility, may I suggest we think about courage and moral integrity and the profound power that can be felt and asserted by saying “NO! I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!”

I am about to start a new needlework class entitled Emerald Counted Threads, aka Blackwork in needle-speak. In preparation, I brought all my supplies to WV and today enjoyed reacquainting myself with variously sized needles, beeswax, hoops and threads, and the somewhat blinding creative optionality that can be found in so many places. I was awestruck by this bit of ice on a window, for example, but had no luck tracing it (the light) or reimagining it with paper and pencil (too intricate), so gave up and started something with pearled purl and jewel-toned bullion for Valentine’s Day. And to have a whole table full of material and a day of time and a room of glass which means light and so much beauty all around, well I felt rich.

Honestly, I also felt full of rage and deliciously entitled to and empowered by that rage. Were not two innocents just slaughtered in Minneapolis? Were not their killers simply supported with money (you fucker, Bill Ackman, I see you and your BS) and reassignments (no punishment, of course, gasp, what a concept, it’s like Catholic priest pedophiles) rather than punished and shamed as they deserve? Renee Good, a mother and school volunteer. Alex Pretti, a nurse for veterans. Both simply bearing witness to the horrors their community is enduring, both simply showing up, both killed for their goodness.

Y’all, if I find total peace in my counted threads class tomorrow, I will let you know. Could it be so simple? Yes and no.

Because you know what? No one should feel peace right now but for the intermittent kind that we all need to discover and hold onto to stay sane. If you support Donald Trump, you hate America. If you support the GOP, you are evil. If you voted for trump, you have blood on your hands. You should be shamed and tarnished and kicked out of decent society. You can hide behind your “Christian” values or your “safety” bullshit. But Jesus would weep at the sight of your cruelty and the most dangerous among us are white men who peaked in high school and have now joined ICE to feel tough and to vindicate their pathetic existences.

If my words make you uncomfortable, perhaps you’re starting to think of me as an overwrought libtard. A hysterical progressive. A deluded wine mom. If so, I am A-OK with that. YOU are on the wrong side of history, of morality, of justice, of democracy, of what our founders envisioned, and most certainly of Jesus. Fuck, I’m an atheist and I’m a better Christian than every Republican I know.

Consider the words that have historically been used to tar and feather women who were sick of towing the party line. Who wanted to live rather than be controlled. Who wanted to think for themselves rather than having their dear husbands/parents/churches/whatever do that “work” for them. Who would not, and will never, sit by while innocent men and women are being murdered for simply saying “wait a minute; I see your misbehavior and I don’t agree.” You start to wonder about the why behind the monikers, you know?

I will turn 50 in a few months. I’m nearing peak “crone” age. And I am reveling in it because I am no longer willing to sit down, stay mum, keep polite, and remain palatable. Some of you, some of my very family, are wrong. You are deplorable and you are ripping our country apart.

Spinster. Crone. Witch. Old Maid. Hysterical. Past Her Prime. Shrew. Hag. Harpy. Harridan. Fucking Bitch. In those denigrations is such power and liberation. Can you hear my witchy cackle as I raise my hands and heart to the skies?