Theo and the Sputtering Volcano

 I am not an expert on volcanoes. I don't know why they erupt sometimes and not at other times. I don't know how to tell if an erupting volcano is dangerous or just a sight to behold.

In the United States, there are only a few active volcanoes--Kilauea in Hawaii, Mount Rainier and Mount St. Helens in Washington state, Mount Hood in Oregon, Redoubt Volcano in Alaska, and then there's Yellowstone National Park.

Volcanoes that sputter and spit lava and steam are not easy to spot in the United States. The last volcano that erupted in the US was Kilauea in September 2024. The last dangerous eruption in the US occurred when Mount St. Helens erupted in 1980 and killed 60 people.

Maybe that is why volcanoes are so fascinating. There is that element of danger which warns you not to get too close. 

We are cruising to Siracusa in Sicily when we pass Stromboli, an active volcano in Sicily that erupts quite often. It is near sunset. A 3/4 moon hangs in the sky. 

We see the first fiery sparks every 10 minutes or so, and that gives me plenty of time to run and get Theo. He is napping, of course, but I shake him awake and explain the situation.

"Theo, this is a sight to see. I want you to come out with me. You'll probably never get to see a volcano erupting again."

Theo yawns.

"I'm serious. I wouldn't be so dismissive. Trust me on this."

When Theo is thinking or considering an idea, he usually gets up and stretches. He arches his back. He pretends not to be listening.

I wait. "Well?"

It would be nice if Theo says something like "No, mom, I'd rather not" or even "Just forget it."

But he doesn't. He relaxes and closes his eyes. 

"Theo."

Volcanos are not his thing. Obviously.

I'm back outside on the deck. The sparks from the volcano get bigger and bigger.

Then two lava sparks appear, and the lava begins to flow. You can see it begin to wind its way down the mountain. We're assured there is no danger. It is far enough away from civilization to hurt anyone. 

An erupting volcano is a mesmerizing event. You have a hard time pulling away. We blithely walk around on the earth, seldom thinking about what lies underneath. Until we have an earthquake. Or until a volcano erupts. 

Later, I show Theo the video I took. His attitude is completely different. He wants to see all three videos. He actually looks excited to watch the sparks and sputters. 

I don't want to say "I told you so" but the words pop out of my mouth. I feel bad.

"Well, tomorrow," I tell him, "We'll be climbing up Mt. Etna. Dad can put you in his backpack. Maybe you'll even be able to see some lava up close and personal."

 

Theo Guards an Agriturismo

 We love Italian history and the pieces of the past that surround you when you visit Italy--the statues, the old buildings and fountains. You can step back in time and imagine life as it was. But we are also fascinated with how Italians live now. That is why we are spending an afternoon with Aldo.

Aldo runs an agriturismo in Salina, the largest of the Aeolian Islands south of Sicily. 

Salina is known for its capers and Malvasia wine. It is also where Il Postino, a famous Italian movie, was shot. Aldo lives with his sister, daughter and cousin. He's a spry eighty year old, who is usually working seven days a week from dawn to dusk. His vast piece of land up a mountain--plenty of death defying winding roads to reach it--comes with an old farmhouse, a field full of capers, fruit trees, flower bushes, vineyards, and chickens. 

He lives off his land and sells his products. By law, 50% of the products he uses and sells must be home grown.  

Aldo is determined to give us the full "farm experience." Dan and Theo go with him to the fields to gather the capers, of course. It is the first step in the rather laborious process of curing the capers before sale. Later he'll show us how the capers are salted then rinsed. 

I stay behind with his sister and daughter to prepare lunch which we'll eat at a long table on a porch that is protected from the sun but open to the air. It is nothing fancy.

This is a neat experience for me--to watch real Italians cook. We're preparing pasta with wild fennel pesto and zucchini sautéed in olive oil. A few anchovies will be added for flavor. 

We wash, chop, and slice. The sister is the head chef. She tells everyone what to do. I am nervous. She speaks in a rapid Italian that takes me a minute or so to make any sense of. Occasionally the daughter will chime in. She speaks a little English. The aroma of the fennel is intoxicating. 

Then before lunch Aldo takes us up a long and winding upward path to where the chickens are. 

He's got around 40 chickens and one oversized rooster behind a fenced in area. 

Our job is to collect the eggs into a basket. (Somewhere along the line I imagined this was going to be fun, but never anticipated that in June in Italy it is hot. Hot.) 

Finally, we sit down to eat. The pasta is delicious. Wine is poured. There is something truly miraculous about this afternoon. In Italy. Eating homemade pasta. Looking out over fields that seem to go on forever. 

And what about Theo? He's fed up with being inside, in museums, looking at things on the other side of glass. He wants to be outside and sniff. But he doesn't like the smell of capers. Aldo manages to find him some cut up chicken which Theo gobbles up so fast you would think he didn't have breakfast. Which he did. Then he rests by my feet on the cool cement floor, in the shade, with a gentle breeze blowing in. Until . . .

Who can anticipate these things? A stray cat wanders by and meows. Before he even makes an appearance, Theo rouses himself and looks around. Can he smell him? Then, of course, Theo sees him. Now Theo at home is a guard cat. Come around our house--if you're a cat--at your own risk. His tail expands, he smacks at the patio door glass, and glares. Will he act the same? Is he intent on guarding Aldo's agriturismo? 

I grab hold of Theo (just in case) and, of course, he struggles to be free. 

"I'll handle this," Dan announces, slowly rising from his comfortable chair and reluctantly leaving his wine behind. He disappears. I know the drill. Keep Theo occupied for a few minutes. Distract. A few minutes go by. Theo is napping again at my feet. Dan still doesn't return. Where the heck is he?

He's made a friend. The stray enemy cat is, of course, the cutest, friendliest, and most cuddly cat you'd ever want to meet. He is all over Dan.

 

For a minute we consider if we should arrange a greet and meet. Would Theo appreciate meeting an Italian cat? We think of the advantages. We think of the obstacles. We know Theo. 

"He's taking a nap." I shrug my shoulders.

"Yeah, it's probably not a good time."

Dessert is zeppoles. The sister deep fries pumpkin dough with raisins (like a donut) and covers it with sugar. Sweet. Light. Airy. It hits the spot. 

Aldo talks about his struggles. Besides the capers and the eggs, he sells jams made from the fruit from his orange and lemon trees. But his biggest concern is keeping the farm in the family. Who will run it when he can't do it anymore? 

In Italy, many things are different, but some things are remarkably the same. Parents and kids. Stray cats struggling to survive. Guard cats who won't give an inch. And life goes on.

Ancient Burial, the gods and Theo

 Lipari, Italy is known for more than a cathedral and St. Bartholomew's thumb. Dan and I know there's a fabulous museum close by. Now, I like some museums and hate others and sometimes feel totally overwhelmed by the number of objects organized on shelves that you're forced to look at. 

The Museum of Lipari is different. 

Even though it is huge, it is housed in several different buildings, forcing you to make choices. It is primarily Greek artifacts unearthed centuries ago because Lipari was originally a Greek city. Dan and I (and Theo, reluctantly) decide to visit the Pre-historic museum building because it contains ruins unearthed outside the city walls from a Greek Necropolis (yes, a city of the dead). Beginning in 1948, archaeologists discovered 3000 tombs (so far) hidden under approximately thirteen feet of earth. These tombs and what was inside date back to four or five centuries before Christ. That's a long time ago. 

Theo is slightly interested in two facts. One: the bodies were buried back then differently than the method we use today. No coffins. Instead, the remains were usually put into vase like structures that look more like wine canisters. 

Two: the Greeks insisted on being buried with small objects that they believed helped them reach the afterlife. 

The Greeks, back then, literally believed in the gods and the power they had to control the life of humans. One of the most popular was Bachus or Dionysus (his Roman name), son of Zeus, who was the god of wine, festivity, fruit, vegetation, fertility, theatre and religious ecstasy. For the Greeks, theatre was a religious experience.

Therefore, the tombs contained all sorts of neat little objects representing the person's belief in their preferred god, usually Dionysus. 

 

Theo is fascinated. As we walk past shelves filled with all these tiny figurines--statues of people and animals or masks that connect to the theatre--Theo's paw keeps stretching out and hitting glass. He can see them, but he can't touch them. He can't sniff them which amounts to another excruciatingly depressing experience for the gangster cat. The hits become more frenetic.

"Stop that, Theo. Just look. You can't touch."

He gives me a woeful expression. Isn't that the story of my life, he seems to want to say. 

"I think Theo has had enough," Dan says.

"You're right. I think it's time we go and visit Aldo."