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Georgia Straight, March 18-25, 2004 Travel Writing: Italy BY DON HAUKA I had hoped to impress my wife’s male relatives on la Festa degli Uomini (the festival of the men), but in the end, I got caught with my pants down by the town drunk. Sergio and the pants were the inevitable end to our visit to Friuli-Venezia Giulia, the triangle of territory northeast of Venice, wedged between the Slovenian border and the Alps. Off the well-beaten tourist track, its green valleys, craggy mountains, and rolling fields have an unspoiled charm. The most picturesque town is the ancient city of Cividale, which straddles the Natisone River via a stone bridge built, according to local legend, with the help of the devil. My own demons lay further upstream in the village of Azzida, the ancestral home of my wife, Donatella. It was my first visit and I was anxious to fit in with the relatives. The matriarch of la famiglia was Aunt Titina, nicknamed La Tedesca (“the German”) for her insistence on regular mealtimes. Cousin Lucio, a few years older than Donatella, was paterfamilias. He was a nice guy and I liked him, but he had distinctly traditional views on matters masculine. But I clicked with Max, a younger, more relaxed cousin. I flunked Lucio’s first test of machismo on our pilgrimage to the Black Madonna of Castelmonte, an ancient Capuchin abbey that looked like it was carved out of the mountain’s summit. Its tall, stuccoed buildings had massive, hand-carved oak doors and wrought-iron railings. Inside, the Black Madonna herself is housed in a lavishly decorated chapel covered with rich frescoes and a massive altar. On the drive up the mountain (during which Lucio’s Fiat was often on two wheels), I merely observed that it might be safer to walk to the abbey. Numerous roadside shrines commemorating fatal car crashes supported my argument. Lucio, however, deemed this an unmanly attitude. Strike two came, surprisingly, after a hike with Max to the ruins known as Atilla’s castle. Sitting atop a long spur of a mountain commanding the confluence of the Alberone and Natisone rivers, the castle doesn’t really have anything to do with Atilla the Hun or his infamous invasion of Italy; it was built centuries later by a Lombard ruler. Long off-limits as a “strategic site”, it is now open to the public. As we walked in the stifling afternoon heat, the Alberone flowed in a cool, green ribbon to our right, its rounded-stone beaches shaded by oak and ash trees. We resisted its charms and climbed up to the castle. The ancient stone walls and masonry were almost as impressive as the view of the valley and neighbouring Slovenia. Instead of going home by the same route, Max insisted we take a shortcut across the mountain. One switchback followed another as we climbed higher and higher. The view lost its allure as the heat ascended with us. A furnacelike glare emanated from the white crushed-rock road. “God,” I grumbled. “We might as well have walked all the way to Castelmonte.” Finally, we stumbled upon a paved road and a house, where we learned that Castelmonte was just two kilometres to the left. Swallowing our pride, we called for a ride home. Upon our arrival, Lucio sniffed: “I would never have phoned. I would have walked home and not told anyone.” Desperate to prove my manhood, I agreed to attend the rodeo in nearby Guarzo. Lucio insisted I accompany him inside El Corral, a cowboy bar beside the grounds, while the womenfolk waited on the patio. Through the haze of smoke, overweight cowpokes in cowboy boots and shorts talked loudly over their beer and wine. Lucio was greeted by a knot of friends at a high table beneath an imposing set of longhorns hanging on the wall. A beer was shoved into my hands. We talked (I assume) of manly things and at one point patted each other on the belly—comparing wine and beer guts was the only possible explanation I could think of, or perhaps some bizarre pre-rodeo custom. There were frowns from Lucio’s friends. Apparently, I did not pass blubber, having a negligible pot despite Titina’s best efforts. Lucio’s manly honour satisfied, we rejoined the women for dinner. Hoping to make a man of me, Lucio ordered spaghetti, followed by a mountain of polenta, the cornmeal a bright golden hue. A huge fritatta was accompanied by what I at first mistook for a pizza but was a slab of baked cheese—a frica. As if this weren’t enough, Lucio insisted we have some salami for the long night of punching cows. By the time we waddled down to the corral, we could have been used as four of the barrels for the races. Not that any of the dozen cowboys would have noticed the difference. They were a motley band with riding gear of every type: English, western, European. Some had cowboy boots, others high English-style boots. One rode barefoot. The crowd favourite was riding bareback, experimenting at what speed his long, flowing blond hair looked best. The evening’s entertainment resembled a spaghetti Western with a script written by Federico Fellini. Confusion over the rules was rampant. A semblance of order was maintained by an announcer via a tinny PA. While the crowd drank, argued over horses, placed bets, and occasionally paid attention to the antics in the corral below, the riders cavorted madly about. They urged their mounts around barrels in the wrong direction or ignored them completely, flying to the far end of the field between two rows of oil drums and racing straight back. Between races, country music played loud enough to blow out the speakers and the crowd’s eardrums. Then, after perhaps five minutes, someone would turn the volume down and Willy Nelson’s nasal voice or Johnny Cash’s guttural growling became slightly less painful. Arguments with the announcer grew more frequent. Several participants were disqualified in the preliminary heats. Tension mounted as the finale neared. Blondie was pitted against an experienced-looking horseman in English gear. By now, both had grasped the concept of pole racing and they darted swiftly between the slender staves before rounding the final turn and galloping for home. Spurs and English saddle won over bareback and long hair. The crowd left grumbling and arguing over the narrow margin of victory that had robbed the local boy of his richly deserved prize and their own winnings from the bookie. Having failed the gut check, I decided to turn the tables on Lucio. I announced I would cook a meal for the entire famiglia. The women were aghast at first, then warmed to the idea. Word that a man was going to cook in La Tedesca’s house swiftly spread throughout Azzida, then up and down the Natisone valley. As I prepared dinner the next afternoon, groups of friends and relatives came to the kitchen door to look. They were rewarded with the sight of me in an apron, sweating over the stove, resulting in much gesticulations and exclamations of astonishment. Everyone gathered alla tavola at 6 p.m., Titina’s appointed dinner hour. A hush fell over the assembly, the only time I had ever seen la famiglia at a loss for words. A constant stream of visitors who “just happened to be in the neighbourhood” were at the door. I gave them a full culinary broadside: antipasti of sautéed mushrooms and yellow peppers; a primo piatto of spinach and chicken; and crepes Azzida, featuring a sauce of ricotta cheese and white wine, local piquant formaggio for dash, and lots of fresh basil to season the wrapped chunks of beef. Helped by a steady flow of red wine, tentative bites became larger mouthfuls, and any reservations vanished as swiftly as the food. By the time the fruit Macedonia was served for dolce, there were cries of “Bravo!” and “Buonissimo!” Only Lucio was subdued, complaining that no one had made such a fuss over his annual family barbecue. Mystified by the whole thing was Sergio, the town drunk. He hadn’t heard about the meal but was on his evening round of cadging drinks. Thin and drawn, he scratched his armpit with one hand while clutching a glass of red wine in the other. What was the world coming to? he asked, staggering to his next port of call. I waited until he left before I did the dishes, dragooning Max into helping me. The rivoluzione della cucina had a profound effect on Max. In the morning, he made himself breakfast with the leftovers. Titina nearly fainted. “Every day of his life, Max has sat down at the table and asked his nonna what’s for breakfast,” Donatella said, beaming. This news was discussed over the ironing board. At 7:30 a.m., while I was still getting the wrinkles out of my pants and Donatella was upstairs, Sergio arrived for his morning drink and found me, iron in hand. He gulped down his wine, wiped his mouth on his brown, wrinkled arm, and gasped: “But his wife—does she do nothing?” “They share,” said Titina proudly. “I think it’s good.” Sergio shuffled out, muttering a list of saints’ names and occasionally punctuating his oaths with a loud complaint about the state of affairs—a latter-day Virgil moaning, “Oh, the times! Oh, the morals!” ACCESS: Venice is the gateway for most travellers to Friuli-Venezia Giulia. Trains run from Venice to Udine, the regional capital, a 155-kilometre journey that takes a couple of hours and costs about $10 to $12. Trains depart hourly from Udine to Cividale, a 15-minute trip costing z2. There’s also bus service and, if you dare, you can rent a car, but beware of narrow roads, local drivers, and herds of livestock that own the road. Accommodation in Cividale ranges from camping and hostels to affordable hotels costing from z42 to z65. You can play cowboy at La Frasca, the hotel attached to El Corral. The rodeo is held every weekend in July and August. 

The Globe and Mail, Nov. 5, 2003 The Old Guy's Sale In the end, dealing with the three used, remote-controlled submarines was the easiest part of disposing of my father's estate. The hard part was sorting the other stuff, accumulated over half a century by a man raised on the Prairies during the Depression whose mantra was: "Plenty of good wear left in that -- shame to throw that out." It was like excavating a midden: each layer had its wonders and horrors. My father, Donald Mitchell Hauka, was an inventor, electrician, professional dreamer and, to my mother Margaret's despair, no businessman. By the time I was born in 1959, his shop in front of our house on the Sunshine Coast Highway in Gibsons, B.C. was already a community hub. People sometimes came in with items for repair, but more often simply to talk to Dad, whose interests ranged far beyond the art of appliance maintenance. The first layer of the shop midden was deposited as a result of Dad's practice of loaning brand-new radios to customers to take home until he got around to fixing their old ones. The back wall of the shop was, from floor to ceiling, composed of dozens of radios of all kinds: antique tube sets in wooden cabinets, plastic-cased transistors, gleaming, metal-faced marine models. All waiting for tubes and transistors that, if they ever arrived, were seldom put in place. Dad's passion for underwater technology laid down the next layer. He put the first remote-controlled submersible into the waters of the West Coast in 1964. Anemones bloomed, lost tugboats loomed and territorial codfish glared into his lens. The grainy, black and white photos and film stock seem dim in this digital age, but back then, they were like watching the lunar landing. No one had ever done this before. I spent the best summers of my life aboard Dad's barge. Sun rising on the water, salt-spray mingling with the engine's diesel perfume, fishing line trailing taut from the stern to catch breakfast. Heaven. Other inventions (fish-counters, pike-pole mounted cameras) covered the submersibles. Sprinkled in at all levels were oddities. People knew Dad could fix anything and brought him gadgets like an RCAF bomb-site, a weather balloon and what appeared to be a 1960s tanning lamp. Dad died in 1993 and for ten years, the shop stood untouched, a time capsule. When we sold the place this spring, we finally had to "do something about Dad's stuff." The Sunshine Coast Museum and Archives took some material to mount exhibits on the submersibles and the repair shop. But there was still a mountain of material to identify. Being the youngest sibling, I was at a disadvantage -- there were big gaps in my Father's story I'd missed. I enlisted the aid of my uncles, Art and Ed, but all too often, they would come across some object, shake their heads and mutter, "No idea what this is for." Desperate, I took several collectors through the shop. They didn't see the Aladdin's cave of my youth, but a musty old store piled to the rafters with useless junk. They would leave empty-handed and I would fume. Surely some of this stuff was useful. But who would want it? Then, it hit me. Guys who would want this stuff would be like Dad: old-timers who did their own wiring and auto-repairs. Old Guys. And if I could get them to talk, I could record a bit of my father's world, hear a few stories and fill in some of those gaps. The result was the Old Guy's Sale. The yard between the house and store was piled high with Dad's stuff. A video of home movies played on an endless loop. The shop was once again a community hub as people flocked to the sale, filling its dark, water-stained interior with warmth and affection as the memories flowed. Tape-recorder in hand, I pursued every white-haired guy. The gaps started to fill in. Long-time Gibsons resident Bill Wright described how he'd helped carry Dad's first submersible from the shop to the government dock slung on an old flag pole. Tommy Morrison, who apprenticed with my Father, recalled the days he'd boarded with us (and how one morning I covered his ears with peanut butter while he was asleep). Bob Nygren, retired fishing charter operator, related how he would find Dad in Georgia Strait and take his customers aboard the barge so they could look, amazed, under the ocean. It was a magic day. But it didn't end with the sale. That night after everyone was gone, an older gentleman wandered into the deserted yard. His name was Leonard. As we stood in the shop, he told me how he was just out of high school when Dad taught him how to solder copper pipe. That one skill got him a job in a Vancouver hospital, sending him on a career path he never expected. He'd always wanted to come back here and thank Dad for this gift, but never had. "Thanks for giving me the chance to say good-bye," he said, tears in his eyes. Despite the sale's success, there was still a mountain of stuff left over. As I finished cleaning up, the new owner, Dave, moved in. He'd been raised on the Prairies, like my father, but I was still anxious. What sort of guy was buying the house I grew up in, the shop where my father's genius had burned as he chased his dreams? I got my answer the day Dave took possession. As I hauled garbage bags out, Dave hauled in bags and bags of used insulation. "You just wash it off and hang it up to dry," he explained. He might have added, "there's plenty of good wear left in it -- a shame to throw it out." Don Hauka lives in New Westminster, B.C.

Don Hauka Don Hauka CV DONALD HAUKA Citizenship: Canadian E-mail: ddclauka@shaw.ca Affiliation: Writers Guild of Canada Agent: Robert Mackwood JOURNALIST 1985-April, 2003 Vancouver Province: Reporter for daily newspaper. Political reporter, 1995-2003. Also covered Parliament Hill October-December 1994 on Southam Internship. 1978-present -- Freelance articles written for various publications include: Beaver Magazine (Feb.-March 2003) Cottage Magazine Globe and Mail India Today Detroit Free Press Military Historical Quarterly TELEVISION WRITER 2003 Stripes and Maple: One-hour TV series set in the Port of Vancouver. Writer-producer with Michael McKinley. In development with Water Street Films and CBC. 2001 Mr Jinnah: White Knight, Black Widow: 2 hour MOW. Co-written with Margaret and Bartley Bard. Force Four Productions/CBC. Broadcast date Oct. 6, 2003. 2000 Mr. Jinnah: Pizza 911: 2-hour MOW. Co-written with Margaret and Bartley Bard. Force Four Productions/CBC. Broadcast Jan. 14, 2002. Nominated for a Gemini Award, best MOW/Dramatic series, 2002. RADIO WRITER: Pic-Vic Papers, Vol. II: 5-part comedy taped live at the Victoria Commonwealth Games. Produced by Don Kowalchuk. Aired on CBC Radio "Gabereau," August 22-26, 1994. Pic-Vic Papers, Vol. I: Three-part comedy, produced in Vancouver. Produced by Don Kowalchuk. Aired on CBC's "The Afternoon Show," May 26 to 28, 1993. Just a Small Oil Spill: 5-part radio-drama for CBC Radio's "Morningside." Produced in Vancouver by Don Kowalchuk. Aired May, 1991. My Uncle Nick: 5-part radio-drama for CBC's Morningside. Produced in CBC Calgary by Marty Fishburn. Aired April, 1990. Three-Day Navy: 5-part radio-drama for Morningside. Produced in CBC Toronto by Barry Morgan. Aired 1989. BOOKS: McGowan's War. Non-fiction. New Star Books, Vancouver. Released Nov. 9, 2003. Mr. Jinnah:Securities. Fiction. The Dundurn Group, Toronto, released June, 2001. The Death of Air India Flight 182: Published by W.H. Allen and Co. of London, U.K., 1986. Story Editor for Salim Jiwa's ground-breaking book on the Air India tragedy. EDUCATION: B.C. Institute of Technology, Burnaby, B.C. 1981to 1983. Broadcast Journalism. Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, B.C. 1978 to 1980. Bachelor of Arts, English Major. REFERENCES: Are available on request. - 30 -