Ricordi…

Remember

Text extracted from “Ricordi” of Julie AVIGNON-PASTINELLI (Balogna).

I have in memory these marvellous evenings around the “Fucone”…

At the beginning of the century, television did not exist yet. The children of today, who pass their evenings in front of the small screen, do not imagine a second what could be one taken care.

The night fell quickly at the end from the autumn. We took our meals with the gleam of the oil lamp then, when the evening was calm, without rain nor wind, we go to my mother my brothers and me, in one or the other of the three driers with sweet chestnuts close to our house.
The driers all resembled each other, they were composed of only one part, on the ground ground beaten not having for only opening that the gate. In the middle of the part the “Fucone trônait” (large fire). It was a square case, of a half measures height, made thick boards and filled with packed argillaceous ground.
On this hearth, a large fire burned night and day, a fire fed mainly with stocks of arborescent heathers which release much heat by changing ember heap approximately. The ceiling was made of smoked out trays on which the sweet chestnuts, spread out and stirred up from time to time, were desiccated slowly.
In the drier, the atmosphere hot and was smoked out; when it became suffocating and that the eyes pricked too much, one opened the gate to drive out smoke and to let enter a little fresh air. In the drier, there was not other lighting only the gleam of fire or that of a soft wood torch (déda) which burned while grésillant and along which ran resin tears. The old men, (because the young people were alas! with the war), the women and the children sat down in round around the “Fucone” on low chairs or small wood banks. The women shelled dry beans sometimes but knitted, generally, of bottoms and the cotton or wool socks. The old men chewed “the arba tavacca” (the grass with tobacco) whose each family cultivated a few feet in her garden. These chiqueurs, to the rebounded cheek somebody who has a toothache, sent time to other on the fire of squirted of brown saliva. Other old men smoked the pipe, always faggot of their clean “arba tavacca”. They left their pocket a small lengthened bag, in skin of cat, “the arbagholu”, containing dried tobacco whose sheets had been émiettées with the scissors. When their pipe was well furnished, they warned a small firebrand and put fire at grass with tobacco by aspiring very extremely some puffs.

In these driers where several families met, all, and particularly the children, awaited two things: pleasure of regaling with chestnuts “I fasgioli”, and the pleasure of listening to beautiful stories “E foles”, where it was a question of “fate” (fairies) of “streghe” (striges) and of monstrous animals. One also told, with taken care, of the “stalbatoghji” (of the lived stories” or the stories of “Grossu-minutu” (“Large-Finely”, the insane one of Pascal Paoli, stories full with relevance, mischievousness and humour).
It was generally with an old man or an old woman, who knew art to cook them at point, that returned the task to roast sweet chestnuts in the “testu”. The “testu” was a terra cotta container, at the bottom bored of holes but major than the frying pan with chestnuts of which one is useful oneself nowadays. With its handle, out of terra cotta also, it resembled a basket a little. The “testu”, filled with fresh sweet chestnuts was posed on a tripod above the flames and embers.
Seizure by the handle, with a rag in order to avoid the burns, it was shaken vigorously to brew sweet chestnuts. Those started to sweat then their envelope carbonized little by little and, when they were roast at point, the “testu” was rested with ground and cover of a packing paper. When the chestnuts could be peeled without burning the fingers, they were discovered and then all the arms were tightened and all the hands met in the “testu”.
While the chestnuts cooked or that they were tasted, somebody told a “fola”, in Corsica language of course, one of these marvellous stories which did not have anything to envy the tales of Perrault. The storyteller finished invariably by this sentence: (that is called “filastrocca”, “counting rhyme”)

      “Fola, foletta, scinchiriletta,
      Said will vostra it, chi the mea E detta ".

That one could translate about by:

      “Fable, fablette, larirette (historiette),
      Said yours, because mine is known as ".

Another storyteller or another narrator then took the changing to lead us in some other magic field.
Jean Baptist and me were very ears, the opened wide eyes, rivetted on the storyteller. There we would have remained, a long time, to listen, quiver or with laughing, but our little brother let himself gain by the sleep and our mother, with Pascal deadened in the arms, left the drier after having wished “bona note” with the company.
We followed it to regret and we regained our room and our beds.