Salon Welcoming Message

As circles in the water

C ome circles in the water the expand my thoughts in my mind and bring me back to a cherished past that helped me and help me push forward with joy and great hopes.
Perhaps, in his wisdom, my grandmother Valentina, had begun, not surprisingly, when I was a kid, my first sewing dresses with colorful fabrics that reported fantasies of tribes' Indian , led by Sitting Bull and Thunder Hawk. "Life must be 'conquered' whispered to me while putting on her old Singer sewing machine foot pedal, and as I listened to the sound of the spinning wheel that the belt, and set the points at the seams, I could almost hear the clatter of horses crossing the American prairies and threw war cries.

Cosi'gli American Indians came into my life and have had their triumph at the age when 'five-year anniversary of a carnival in Viareggio, I convinced my parents to buy me a dress Apache's full crown of feathers.
The fact 'that the crown, became legendary for me and for my family,' cause every day remained fair on my head.
The wore throughout the hot summer with a bathing suit while I was helping my grandmother to put the clean dishes in the cupboard, climbing with a chair, as my first achievement was its belief that of our old kitchen.
Then mangy feathers and began to lose their colorful colors for the delight of all, since 'in October of that year I started elementary school.

But, somewhere, embroidered on a green hill by lush vineyards that are interspersed along its flanks, where peace and serenity 'reigned supreme, a young teenager she was picking up the colors of those feathers. The echo of a distant Indian tom-tom drums, invisible waves, which turned cosi'rapidamente that he could not measure it, walked the bone shaking from head to toe. He , a quiet guy, rational and with feet firmly planted on the ground, I, a dreamer without the measurement of time and space, what he had to do, he, with the conquest of the prairies, the screams of Apache, and the rattle of the drums of war?.

Both were part of a world still invisible, and whether or not we believed that there was a real world. Beyond 'any meaning everything' that has to happen can not 'be avoided, and nothing' casual when it comes to love!

Cosi 'when a person tells me: "Come on, Laura, be piu'realistica!" I respond instinctively: "I'm realistic, I believe in miracles." We believe, and I really have the same expectation.

I was born amid the smell of bread and my husband between the bitter smell of the vats filled with freshly squeezed juice. Bread and wine, two very special as connubbio, do not you think?

My father was born in the village at the foot of the hill of the Pearl, where my father lived Almo, tenant of a wealthy local family. My husband had met my father through pastries, donuts and bread from the good taste home. Every morning, his mother gave him the few dollars that would be used to pay the bus ticket that took him to school, the Institute of Corporate Accounting. The ritual was that, at that time, my father used to get the s u truck with big and delicious bread and pasta at the grocery store in the country. Without a second thought times, entered the store and exchanged his ticket with a nice pasta stuffed with cream is still warm. The road that divided him from the school preferred to go on foot, so every morning an early start, the right one to meet my father and get to school on time, one step after another, enjoying the treat.

He would not ever find the opportunity to chat with the man who was watching in a hurry to enter the store to deliver the cakes and bread, the same trend that was found in the cupboard home from school and that would have filled with that juicy good sauce that his mother was Josephine.

Gia 'could be seen sneaking a smile on his face. That young man was a very reserved type, introverted, unlike mine, which I can communicate with the extaterrestri. There was never an 'opportunity to exchange a word, and I'm sure my father would have appreciated the compliment.

la'di Beyond all doubt there is a collaboration between events and facts in a way that involves fate. There are no accidents. And this is why he wanted our lives intersect through my sister Nicole, poiche'diventarono colleagues, in the same office bancario.Un days after discovering that unexpectedly had met the daughter of the baker had found a pretext to get invited to our house to greet my father, his favorite pastry.

Finally after so many years he had had the opportunity to reach out to the man of sallow complexion, with dark mustache that he expected to meet every morning before school, and not only brought those delicious pastries that lit up the sun in the middle of a morning rain, (and he had taken so much), but the view was pretty sweet and melancholy of a past that refused to die. It was a harmony of the set of characters, colors and flavors of his beloved past full of sacred values, lived on the hill of La Perla.
was taken by surprise as he climbed the stairs of my house moved to that visit. He seemed to hear a distant echo, some vibration similar to an Indian tom-toms. He had stopped at the second landing, pretending to get some 'breathing, straining my ear surprised, incredulous, trying to go unnoticed by my sister, who preceded him. Those drums, now advancing on the steps, shouting a song Apache. He had brought his hands to his forehead sweaty while the memory of his childhood resurface in his mind like a cork, making him suspect that something extraordinary was about to happen as he watched the door in a little while you would open.

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