Sicily: Part Two (Palermo and some of Ancient Sicily)

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The chronology of our Sicily trip is a bit out of order in these two posts but I’m trying to remain focused on a few themes related to gardening and the green spirit. “Buon divertimento!”
Cucuzza squash in the Mercato di Capo in Palermo.

We’d planned to drive into Palermo twice during our time in Sicily but a food poisoning incident put an end to that plan two days before we were scheduled to fly to Rome. What’s worse is that I’d intended to spend that last day at the botanical garden but all I could do was vow to return. What’s a girl to do? Seriously.

This meant that we had to leave the island with only a few memories of the chaotic città di Palermo, but at least we saw the catacombs and il Mercato di Capo. My other hope all along had been to visit a market in Palermo and somehow we landed at one of the largest quite by accident.

Ok, maybe it was fate after all, a big hug from my Sicilian family from beyond the grave…

My great-grandpa Frank Amato with a cucuzza he grew in his garden in SE Portland. Since it’s much colder here in Oregon than in Sicily I know this was a triumph for him. I’m sure this photo was taken to always remember this accomplishment.

All I could think about that day in Palermo was my family. Everything I saw as I looked around brought color and life back into the black & white photos I’d grown up seeing. This awakening of snapshots invigorated me and although I walked beside my husband, I knew then as I know now that this experience was my own and I embraced every awkward moment of it. (Honestly, he’d bought a platter of pastries and was reliving his own Italian childhood as we walked through the market that day.) There we were walking together reliving our own memories yet his were real and mine were only the half-imagined stuff of stories, old photos, and dreams mixed with raw emotions. I wanted so badly to be a little girl walking beside my great-uncle Charlie (holding his hand), or to be with his best-friend, cousin Joe.

It felt strange to be in Sicily alone.

Il Mercato di Capo.

Yet, that was the beginning of an ongoing chain of epiphanies for me as I walked through the market.

Any American with a strong tie to another culture can make choices—either cut their ties and let the past remain the past or inject new life into it. I’ve always straddled my Italian-American identity and dealing with being bi-cultural in Oregon in the 1980s was not easy. Countless times Americans have told me I wasn’t Italian enough to be Italian and they were wrong. Children should never have to grow up defending their identity. They have no idea how painful and damaging those words were to me.

Besides, Italians don’t quantify their identity, they qualify it. That’s why I have a blood right (jus sanguinis) entitling me to Italian citizenship. I’ve been given that choice by my bloodline. In Italy it doesn’t matter how much Italian blood you possess, what matters is what you do with the heritage that’s been passed on to you through birth.

As a girl I’d looked at photos with family members and I’d been told that these were a part of who I was and of my identity but I know now the damage that can do over time. I was always confused because those photos weren’t of my life in the 1980s with a mother who wasn’t in the least bit Sicilian and with two brothers who in no way cared about any of this.

We’re the American generation that really is able to choose to be called American but I’m the only one of my siblings who’s chosen to remain hyphenated. This is what happens in bi-cultural and bi-racial families. Individuals must be allowed to decide who and what they’re going to be and the family fabric will change.

I wish I had siblings like me, but I don’t, and honestly, we’re not that close. For me it’s always felt like a cultural rift or divide but it’s difficult to say.

Instead of dwelling, I’ve lived my own independent life and have chosen to remain Italian through my marriages and I’m pleased now to have an Italian mother-in-law. It’s the way my life is, has been, and will be. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been. I love to cook and garden. I have an undying love for produce and fresh food. And when I wake up I drink my coffee and spend a lot of time everyday thinking of making new dishes for the many friends I invite to eat at my table.

Seeing a market in Sicily one day can make all of this happen if you’re the right kind of person in need of that kind of emotional catharsis. I’ve been crying out for that experience for so long and it’s sad I had to wait for so long and travel so far but I’m a better person now.

Ok, now back to our regularly scheduled programming…

This mosaic floor depicts the bountiful harvests available on the island during the era of the Roman Empire.  Many of the orchards had been planted by the Greeks centuries before so there was already an agricultural system in place.

Leading up to that epiphany in the market we’d spent the day before driving from Termini to the Villa Romana del Casale in the interior of the island. The villa contains the largest collection of Roman mosaics in the world and is an UNESCO World Heritage Site.

The “bikini girls” is by far the most famous mosaic work in the complex. Seeing it in person was a highlight of the trip for me. It was absolutely nothing like I had imagined. The figures are quite large and they’re more real when seeing them in person. The shading on the leg muscles was much better than I’d remembered seeing in books.

I also noticed all of the botanical bits and pieces as we walked through the entire complex. Recounting what I knew about the meaning of each plant as we looked at the mosaics was interesting to John. Although he has a Master’s degree in history, with an empasis on the Italian Renaissance, he’d never read much about ancient Rome and Italy. It was fun sharing with him.

Nowhere in Rome will you see anything quite like the Villa Romana del Casele. It’s huge and very well preserved. Walking on walkways overlooking all of the rooms and floors was a brilliant design plan too. You see so much!

It really made me long to return to my days as a student of art and landscape history. I’d once worked hard to specialize in ancient art, philosophy, and history. Using my knowledge while there though really enriched the experience for me. John left knowing a lot more about Italy’s flora and the history of it too although we both still have so much more we want to learn.

Driving several hours though the countryside, stopping in the road for a shepherd and his flock of sheep, and chatting all day with John about his impressions of the place made for a dream-like day. We still had one more stop though.

We drove for a few more hours to Agrigento, on the southern coast of Sicily. This is where you’ll find the Valle dei Templi. In addition to being a national monument in Italy, it’s also one of the best places in the world for Ancient Greek architecture.
The temples are above the valley, along a ridge. As we drove into town they were difficult to miss. The view from the road below was truly breathtaking and I was left speechless. I’ve had few spiritual moments in my life, but that afternoon was truly a spiritual pilgrimage for me.
Yes, there was an attached garden too but its gate was closed.
And it was so lovely that in the middle of the ancient Greek temples, catacombs, and necropolis you’ll find this humble home built by an Englishman by the name of Hardcastle who came to “save” the temples. I will not get onto the topic of what other Europeans have done in Italy in regards to preserving the history of the ancient and artistic heritage we all seemingly share, but I’m certainly of the opinion that this lovely eyesore should have been built somewhere else—oh, and that England should hand back the Elgin Marbles to Athens.
(I also highly recommend the novel Nike: A Romance by Nicholas Flokos. It’s a love story like no other concerning the repatriation of the Winged Victory statue in the Louvre.)
This should probably make my sentiments and opinion quite clear.
Here I am standing in front of the Temple of Concordia.
It is sad to me that John does not share my interest in the ancient world, but he has other things to buoy his interest up north and happily we ended up learning a lot from one another.
Life is a funny thing and we all need our own raison d’être as the French like to say. I think it’s important that we each find our own and respect others’.  There truly are so many options out there that make life truly worth living.

As we walked back to the car, I spotted this sign and glimpsed over to the area it was describing.

Only exhaustion at this point kept me away.

I wanted the signs to tell me more—so much more.

But my body was in no mood to make the descent.

I definitely need to study more and return refreshed and prepared to Sicily.

We drifted from that ancient universe to Palermo and then to Cefelù after several trips into Termini. The days truly all blend together now.
That evening in Cefalù I purchased seeds at this shop for my mother-in-law and myself and it was a bit like a candy store for me. All the necessary new Italian vocabulary I needed to communicate with other gardeners was there on the shelves.
(This is not vocabulary you learn in your regular Italian language course.)
Then I ate something that gave me food poisoning and the trip took a turn.

John and I after a day of bed rest due to food poisoning. Our nausea made walking difficult but we made it down to the common area at least.

Our last full day in Sicily was spent recovering from the food poisoning. John only had three bites of the aranchi rice ball that made me so sick so at least he empathized. We were both unable to move much that day so we just processed what we’d seen so far and John and I talked about what was yet to come.

Wild native Gladiolus italicus growing in the olive orchard.

I wandered around where we’d been staying to take more plant pics and after John returned to our room, I sat with the Sicilian tourists at the restaurant below our lodgings and soaked up their noise as I wrote to friends back home using the Wifi connection.

The day-trip tourists ate daily at the restaurant and then danced to loud music and talked to one another. (Yes, Sicilians love agroturismo too and they’d all paid to take a bus to artichoke country to spend time basking in the harvest.) We were largely ignored as outsiders, but that last day it changed for me.

The day before I’d heard an old man on the patio playing traditional Sicilian music with his mandolin. My heart had seriously skipped a beat. That day he was back. The tourists piled onto the buses and only he and I were on the patio. He hobbled over to me and sat down speaking Sicilian dialect as he slowly crossed the distance. Looking right into his eyes, I pieced my words together carefully.

I told him in broken Italian I understood him but did not speak well. He shifted to Italian.

I pointed at his mandolin and said to him (in broken Italian), “the music of my great-grandparents”.

He asked me if I was Sicilian. I said yes. He asked me my name. I said Amato because that’s what a Sicilian means if he’s asking about your name. He wants to know the name of your family. He asked where my family was from and I said Termini.

Cha-ching!

And that’s the key to opening up a Sicilian. He smiled a wide smile and his eyes lit up. Then he asked what my mother was and I said “American”. As is usual, he told me that was ok and then he played music for me and sang. He apologized for his playing and blamed his age. He told me he lived nearby and was widowed and alone. He walked to the restaurant when he could for the exercise.

Then we talked about Oregon. He was shocked that Sicilians so long ago had moved so far away. This was not the first time I’d heard this either. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that they’d avoided other Sicilians in the United States intentionally. At least that’s what I’d been told by a relative not long before he died. We never had spoken much about it when I was a kid, but he told me because by that point it no longer mattered. What’s done is done.

The view from our bed. The doors to the room are glass but then there is a second lockable set with louvers. It’s a great way to manage the Sicilian sun and heat.

This is part of my American story and I’m proud of it. My Sicilian family thought differently and I’m happy they landed in Portland.

It’s also been said they came here for the soil. They wanted nothing more than to be able to grow vegetables in peace and to prosper beyond poverty. Unlike many other Italian emigrants, they saw success early on and their sacrifice paid off.

Last photo before leaving.

Driving through Palermo in the dark on our way to the airport I recalled having seen the bleak monument near the waterfront only days earlier dedicated to AI CADUTI NELLA LOTTA CONTRO LA MAFIA (those who’d fallen in the fight against the mafia). I thought of the judges who’d been blown up along that same road. I thought too of the brave Sicilians participating in addiopizzo. Many of them are of my generation and I know that if I lived there I too would be in their ranks.

I abhor the glorification of organized crime in any way, shape, or form. The commodification of this way of life feeds on the glorification of interpersonal violence and it’s not what Sicilian culture is about and I’m ashamed of the ignorance of those who play into these stereotypes.

Leaving Sicily that Friday morning was very difficult for me. I’d only just started watching as something inside of me had germinated and began to grow. At least whatever it was was going with me.

When the wheels of the plane lifted off, I felt an emotional tug in my gut. I did not want to leave but I left with my eyes wide open for what felt like the first time in my life.

Terra firma in springtime…

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A Phalaenopsis orchid given to me as a gift last Christmas (2011) has finally re-bloomed.
Like the above orchid, I’m currently in the process of re-blooming too. It seriously took my being able to accept that I had to simply shut my own eyes, let go (trusting that I would be caught by something), and finally I allowed myself to fall backwards—yes, I guess back into my own life.
So what if I went to that moment kicking and screaming? I made it.
If I told you what happened next, well this wouldn’t be a garden blog any longer.
A lovely organic leek I sliced for fresh potato and leek soup on St. Patrick’s Day, 2013.

Cooking has again become popular around here and I’m happily creating and trying new things. I’m learning to make the basics, while appreciating the bountiful produce that’s appearing as the season changes.

Being gluten-free is easy most of the time, but then you find recipes such as the one for the cake seen below, and you just have to make a cake to share with your friends.

Though not a garden, or even a plant, I had to share my leprechaun trap cake with everyone. Although no leprechauns were hurt, we did attract some pixies. (See below.)

I wish this had been a gluten-free cake, but it wasn’t. I think that it turned out well except for my poor handling of the frosting. Someday soon I will master buttercream and this cake will look more like it’s covered in grass. (That’s why it’s here. I knew there was a reason! Grass!)

The pixies are French so they could have cared less about the rainbow and pot of gold. Note that one has a ladybug on its thigh and the other has what looks to be a snail. No, oops, I mean escargot.

Like other gardeners I am excited for spring and I am feeling very playful and happy again.

The vintage ceramic potatoes make for nice vases on St. Patrick’s Day too. 

I really miss ikebana classes a lot but due to the divorce I’ve had to cut such things from my life for now. In the meantime, I’m doing the best I can and it’s not so bad at all.

Vintage hanging ceramic indoor planter with an Aligator fern (Microsorum musifolium).

The fact that I’ll be moving sometime during the next few months has finally sunk in and I’m looking at my plants much differently now. Although I have not yet found a place to call home, I’m finally getting excited about it.

Epiphyllum grown from seed. I like to call this move “doing the Icarus”.

Someday soon, I hope to see many of my houseplants bloom—like this Epi cactus!

Well, stay tuned since it’s moving with me. I have no idea how many years it will take, but I will wait for it.

Green mums in a small vintage liquour glass inherited from my family.

These past few weeks I’ve quietly sat back a bit to think about my life, my garden, my plants, and who I am and who I want to be now. I started this blog when I was obviously a different person, living a different married life. It was full of chronic illness, unhappiness, and for a time, troubled foster children.

When things changed for me over a year ago, I was shown by many of my gardening friends that I belonged here.
I learned that lesson rather quickly, but I didn’t know how to start over. I have no shame in admitting I needed to find my own way. I’ve learned some incredible things about myself during the last two months. The serendipity I’ve experienced has given me a kind of hope.

My niece Chelsea glam’d me up for an event.

Yes, then there are the things you need to do for yourself. My marriage did not make me feel very beautiful at all. Let me tell you now, if you feel that way yourself, get out. It is the most important lesson I’ve learned. The people you surround yourself with should always help to make you feel like the beautiful person you are and sometimes that’s just not what happens.

My nieces helped me to really understand this recently and I’m proud of them. When you help to raise a child, and then they come over to spend hours making you look pretty—after you’ve not looked so great for nearly a decade—it does something to you. To say that my niece Chelsea made me look beautiful one Sunday to prove a point to me is an understatement. She’s been telling me for years she missed me, and that she wanted the world to see the woman she sees, and I have to say the kid’s got a great eye. I just wasn’t seeing it.
She proved her point, and as an aunt, it was the first time I’d sat back to be school’d by one of my nieces and it was so worth it.

Oh weird! Downtown Portland. I remember this place…

Trust me when I say that I’m not giving up gardening. I’m very much going to continue blogging too. I just need a little more time to adjust. There are many changes afoot.

There is direction too—and maybe even a plan (possibly a very detailed plan).

I’m over the shock and pain of having fallen blindly. I survived and I’ve planted my feel solidly on the ground. It’s new where I’m standing but I’m certain it’s terra firma. In characteristic Ann fashion I’m standing a bit uncomfortably in the middle of an empty field and I’ve covered my eyes with one hand while with the other I reach into my pocket for seeds.

I am throwing out the seeds. I am casting them blindly in every direction, and if you look closely, you’ll notice I’m coyly smiling. If you listen, across the distance, you’ll hear me laughing again. It’s not loud, but it’s happy at least.

So take that springtime! I’m ready for you this year.

Let’s get this party started.

Garden & Plant Memories from California

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Next week I will be leaving for California. In anticipation of this exciting trip to plant places like Annie’s Annuals and the San Francisco Flower & Garden Show, I have made a recap of some of my previous trips. A lot is missing—and it isn’t fair and balanced blogging—but it has some bits and pieces of the California I have come to know.
It all begins with me in a hammock. Sure, I’d been to California many times by the time this photo was taken, but looking through my old photo albums, it wasn’t until this trip that plant and garden photos begin appearing everywhere. (I had been surrounded by gardens all my life but I had completely taken them for granted.)
During this trip, I’d gone to Los Angeles for PhD program interviews at UCLA and UC Irvine, but upon my return home, everything had started to change, and my life’s direction changed too as so often occurs.
Somewhere near Altadena—I think. It was the home of my good friend David’s boss and the guy was a landscaper. Can you tell?

The Getty Center experience during that trip really opened my eyes and was transformative in terms of my development. Looking at plants as art was something that excited me after years of dark rooms and images of old paintings from the art history department’s slide library. It is difficult for me to explain even now, after all these years, what happened that day at the Getty, but in a way, the easiest thing to say is that I  think I woke up to something.

Garden designed by Robert Irwin at the Getty Center, Los Angeles.
Garden designed by Robert Irwin at the Getty Center, Los Angeles.
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I went home after that trip and began dating my husband. Later that year, we travelled back to California to meet his family. I’d never really thought a lot about where the famous horticulturist Luther Burbank had lived and I was so excited when we visited his home and garden. My father-in-law has always supported my interest in pruning and grafting, and I like to talk about these old times like Burbank because he inspired many of the older folks who mentored me as a junior gardener. (More on him when I revisit the lilac lady’s house in a few weeks when I am back home.)

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A few years later our nieces went to California to see what was so exciting. We had a really fun trip and I cherish those memories now even if they teased me about all of the gardens. Maybe that was because our first garden stop was a bit odd and it challenged them to reconsider their own preconceived definition of the word GARDEN. Cornerstone, located near the town of Sonoma, is essentially a garden full of art galleries that just happen to be gardens. There is a café and shopping too, but my nieces had already come to expect those two things from public gardens. (How quickly they learn these things!)

The famous blue tree will be taken down this weekend on the first day of spring. I am so sad we will be missing the opportunity to take one of these little ornaments home with us, but oh well! (This is the cover of their first catalog.)
The experience of standing in this landscape was very awkward. We all felt like we should feel comfortable but the falseness and unnaturalness of these objects really heightened our awareness to the point we actually considered and recognized the importance of our perspective in the environment and how much this necessitated our interaction with it.   What is it without us?
Aeonium ‘Zwartkop’.
Aeonium ‘Zwartkop’ and a teen who is not quite sure if she likes it much while her pre-teen sister looks on. They had so many puzzled faces while we were there that day.
I was still working at Frank Lloyd Wright’s Gordon House so of course we had to stop at the Marin County Civic Center. When I asked my husband if he’d ever been there, he told me that he had been inside once as a teen because he had to go to traffic court for a ticket. He described the courtroom as being like something our of Star Trek. My husband is funny.
The girls sitting on the patio on the top floor of the Marin County Civic Center. It was really hot and we were all getting so tired. I feel bad I didn’t take more pictures.
I love how nicely the inexpensive pavers blend in with the grass. This is a great way to get that modern look and it can still be family friendly without it being overtly so.

We also snuck over to Alcatraz during that vacation and I was so excited to show the gardens to all of them. I wish I could volunteer and help with their preservation, but for now, the gardens of Alcatraz are in safe hands.

We also took the bus to Golden Gate Park and we visited many different sites.
The moon bridge in the Japanese Garden at Golden Gate Park.
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The next trip was with our youngest niece and the girls’ neighbor friend who is like a sister to them both. Only we three ladies travelled home together along Highway 101 after dropping Uncle P off at the vineyard.
These are images of the Mendocino Coast Botanical Gardens near Fort Bragg. These should be native plants, but I cannot identify them.
The little yellow flowers here should be a short form of a poppy but I am not sure which one this is.
Back at home, I unpacked these nice cones for front porch decor. We’d picked them up in Kelseyville, not far from the vineyard. These are from the Gray Pine (Pinus sabiniana) a tree endemic to California. Though not the largest pinecone, their cones can grow up to 14 inches long and they contain edible pine nuts. The largest pinecones come from the Sugar Pine (Pinus lambertiana) and both of these trees coexist a bit together near the Sierras.
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During my last trip, we drove through Lake County on our way from the airport and I took in more of the plant life from the passenger’s seat in the car. There are plenty of Gray Pines everywhere in the hills intermixed with gorgeous mature Manzanita shrubs (Arctostaphylos). I have no idea what kind these are on this hillside—since there are around 90 or so different types in California alone—but they are a sight to see. They almost appear to resemble a tree’s root system floating in the air. (Be sure to click on the link to read about the rare Manzanitas in the San Francisco area. Amazing stuff!)
The first time I saw Lake County I was reminded of the photography of Ansel Adams. Much of the Sierra foothills looks similar too due to elevation.
Back at the vineyard, this is the olive orchard. The trees are much bigger now and they are producing well.
My father-in-law’s olive orchard in Kelseyville, California.

After San Diego and Yosemite we visited Sacramento on our way back to Oregon for the winter. My brother-in-law and sister-in-law are living near there now and it is always nice to see them. We arrived a bit early and we parked by this incredibly mature palm tree in the historic downtown area. Imagine my surprise when I saw these dandelions growing ON the trunk of the tree! California is a crazy fun plant place.

At my brother-in-law and sister-in-law’s home they had a Buddha’s hand lemon tree growing in this wine barrel. At the time, they were still working on the new landscaping and pool and it had not yet been planted. I cannot wait to see next week how the tree looks now!

I’ve never understood why lemons get such a bad rap. Making lemonade out of lemons? Bitter and sour are important and yummy if you know what to do with them both.
Have a great weekend and go play in the garden if you can!!!

Hollyhock House Hollyhock

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A few years ago I attended a conference in Los Angeles hosted by the Frank Lloyd Wright Building Conservancy. While there, we visited all of the cement block homes in the LA area, including the Hollyhock House. Although not my favorite structure due to the confusion of the architecture—too many hands in any project can do that—I still enjoyed it. Their gift shop at the time had only one small object I could afford. Seeds are always just the right price in my book. After some delay, I finally planted some at home, and this is a bloom from one of them. I’d show you more, but due to some neglect, they are not exactly upright citizens in my garden and tend to nap a bit too much. Hollyhocks are, for some strange reason, a favorite of mine. A traditional cottage garden plant, they can be difficult, but I’d rather have them any day over fussy hybrid tea roses.