Friday, February 27, 2009

Happy Birthday, Oliver !

Today, Oliver is 14 years old. At the risk of being "cliche" I need to say: "where has the time gone?" Where did this 6 feet and then some, teenager came from and what happened to my boy?

Oliver is a sweet boy, with a big heart for people, and is always ready to help. A few weeks ago when we moved, he worked like a professional mover, carrying, loading and unloading, moving stuff, big, strong, always with a smile on his face.

But that is not why I love you, Oliver.

Oliver has three sisters, and with all three he as a different, and awesome relationship. Francesca is his big sister, counselor, movie-watcher buddy, and friend. Isabella is his little sister, and with her he is more protective and acts like a guide whenever she asks for advice.
Angelina is Oliver's youngest sister, and for her, Oliver is a big, good, giant. He adores her and she worships the land he walks on. For her, "oller" cannot do wrong.

But this is not why I love him.

Oliver is my son, my only, sweet boy. I remember the day he was born, like yesterday. I remember the weather when we were running 85mph to the hospital ( it was an emergency c-section ) and how wonderful he was, so little, so identical to me it was not even funny. The nurses at the hospital looked at him, looked up at me, and were stunned.
He was ... me, only way smaller, and without glasses.

And even this is not why I love my son.

During his first ten years of life, he had two eye surgeries, and one brain surgery. I have to say he was extremely brave in all this occasions. Grown-ups often don't behave as brave and calm as he did immediately before his biggest surgery.

Oliver likes to cook, and experiment with it, and he is surprisingly good at it (great profiterols !). He enjoys family life, good friends, likes to read comic books, watch movies, and he quotes them all the time. His spirit and his heart are in the right place, and he always looks out for the "underdog" Ready to smile, give a hand, help, give a glass of fresh water to a homeless man at the corner.

Family counts for him, and counts a lot. He understands more than he lets us know about, and even if he usually does not speak a lot, he does think about a lot of things, and when he thinks he is ready, he tells us.

For ALL the things above, and for many more, Oliver, I love you. You are my son, my little boy, and sometime I think you, at the young age of 14, for some things have more judgment than me.

I feel sorry for all the dads that do not have you as a son. I think it is fun to do stuff together, and we need to do more, and we will.

Happy Birthday, Oliver.


Dry Land

We run aground. Siamo finiti in secca.
In my last post, I was hoping to resume regular posts, and that indeed was my intent. Little did I know we were about to get hit by the flu, and the situation at work was going to require more and more of my time. Lately it seems there are very little moment to spare for blogging.

And that is not something I want or like, since, trust me, blogging is like therapy, only cheaper.. ;-) .

Anyway, to all of my loyal followers, all three of them, I tell, do not loose faith, for "I will be back" (tomorrow). Really.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Asparagus ...

Asparagus, asparagi in Italian, "sparesi" in or dialect. The ones I want to tell you about are the "wild" ones, the ones that grow in Istria, in early spring until May, and you can find them in the bushes, in between thorns and poison ivy, gathering them is a challenge, and a badge of honor ... Once cooked, either with eggs, or alone, usually simmered in oil or butter, the taste is somewhat bitter. Some say definitely an "acquired taste". My three oldest kids, born and raised in Texas, tried them once and were "hooked" forever. Unfortunately "wild asparagus" do not grow in Texas, only in Istria, and right now we can only dream of long walks in the countryside of Istria, stick in one hand, and asparagus in the other one... If ytou are there ( Rob, mi senti.. ? ) have some for us too.

Alla prossima !

Friday, February 13, 2009


rossi bianchi gialli
trame tessute
dalla mano ruvida
terra amara
tra i muretti
ginestre gialle
campi ulivi fichi
profumo di fieno
erba al sole
venti irrompenti
odore di donne
sforzo quotidiano
pena amore gioia
pane e vino
canto felice
campi istriani
dei miei piedi scalzi

Romano Farina
Scrittore e poeta istriano.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

A spasso per il Texas.

Salve a tutti !
No, non siamo spariti nello spazio dell' etere informatico .. (bella questa!)

Con l 'esclusione di Francesca, tutti noi ci siamo beccati un virus gastrointestinale di quelli con i focchi. Ora, dopo una settimana di tormenti e corsa al Pronto Soccorso con la piu' piccola, Angelina, siamo ritornati alla normalita'.

Quando sono in Italia, mi chiedono spesso com'e il Texas, ed oggi voglio dare una risposta a quella domanda ... Ecco, il Texas (Centrale):

Dopo pochi chilometri, subito dopo un cartello di "Proprieta' Privata" e "Vietato l' Ingresso", troviamo questo cartello (molto chiaro) che indica l' uscita:

A questo punto, una svolta a sinistra era .. d' obbligo :-)
Alla prossima, a domani ! Ciao !

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Vela !

Mi ha tolto il fiato. Con una foto, semplice, Rob di Trieste Daily Photo ha risvegliato il (ex) velista che sonnecchiava in me, dopo 18 anni di Texas. Ricordi di scuola vela, a Sistiana con la Pietas Jiulia, Optimist, Flying Junior, Dutchman, Laser .. Il neverino che colpi' Trieste e Sistiana una mattina di Luglio,con molti di noi subito fuori a vela, approffittando delle raffiche di vento, planare un Flying Dutchamn e volare sull' acqua e' un esperienza che non si dimentica. Quando partii dall' Italia, nel Gennaio1991, un amico triestino, velista, mi fece un piccolo regalo. 18 anni dopo, 13 traslochi piu' tardi, quella piccola barca a vela e' ancora con me, sempre sulla mia scrivania, vicino alla tastiera.
Chissa' forse se qualcuno lascia una porta aperta, una raffica di vento ci arriva pure. Io sono pronto.
Enrico, Gianna, Franco e Paolo, grazie per la "mia" barca a vela, non ho dimenticato.