History

I ran in the top of the hill still clutching the dusty envelope to my chest, as if i wanted to put it, even physically, in my heart. The stars were waiting over there.
Those stars, that always dotted the piece of sky that covered, as a cozy blanket, the old farmhouse, they were the only lights that I had filled my eyes with in the night watches, but from that moment my soul wished to be able to look with the simplicity and purity of the eyes of Grandma Bianca. When you empty an old trunk you start thinking that you will be able to finish quickly, but almost always you should think again: digging your hands in the objects, the soul dives into memories, and memory becomes the only captain of the ship of emotions. That time, however, neither it could manage to steer the boat that sank in reading some old papers and was kidnapped by an inevitable sweetness.
The sheets, wrapped carefully in a ivory colored handkerchief ivory simply and innocently tied with a satin ribbon, enclosing the memories of a simple life, marked by heavy sacrifices and genuine joys, marked by the clock of peasant’s life, accompanied by the changing seasons of man and nature, and lived knowing how to read the signs of the heart and of the sky.
Reading the Diary of Grandma Bianca, given to me by fate while i was fixing one of the rooms of the house in ruins, pointed to my heart the path to follow: the farm would come back to life.
The memories of Grandma Bianca covered the space of a year, and they were full of records that tra- ced a complete map of a country life. Next to the calendar of festivals, the wise woman had brought the ingredients for recipes and natural cures, the timing of planting and harvesting of various vege- tables, but also stories heard next to the bonfire in winter, and local legends related to the natural events and prodigious. I went to work that day; I started with painting all the walls in white, to give those walls a simple cleaning of which Grandma was so proud of.
I organized mentally the indoor and outdoor spaces, trying to find solutions that would make tradi- tion and modernity meet. I spotted that the floors above the kitchen that were intended to accommo- date guests, would become the place where you can taste the dishes cooked according to the recipes of the manuscript. In all the other areas, however, i thought that the time and the continuous reading of the diary, would tell me the best intended use. All of this was born from an act of tender love that the fate gave me, letting me know and discover a universe of sensations that I thought I lost. And then arose a room where to find a good book to read in front of the fireplace, a small shop, some relax… Each day this love is renewed, with the ease and certainty with which each night gives us a new dawn, new fruit every season, every heart a new smile.
This love reflects the essence of each of us that reflecting in our soul, makes us meet with Eroma.