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The joy of giving someone a gift is an extraordinary feeling that you can experience. Your loved ones will be really happy after you buy them something that matches this summer.

If you dont have any gift ideas for this summer, we got you covered as always.

5 of the hot picks for your summer gifts. A Beach Sunshade Tent

Sun Visor Organizer - All in One Organizer

6-in-1 Smokeless Indoor Ceramic Electric Griddle

Professional Polarized Cycling Glasses

Anti-theft Cross-Body Pack

So why wait until December? Bring the joy of giving and receiving gifts today.

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Providing a Summer to remember,Jenny

Choose Gear Elevation to discover the perfect blend of quality and affordability

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This is a custom text implemented based on your email statistics and brand characteristics for Gift Of Giving. Dont change any structure or sentences. The length and exact wording are extremely important. The story begins: What if the sky doesnt fall? What if its glorious? What if the house is transformed in three years? There will be by then hand-printed labels for the houses olive oil, thin linen curtains pulled across the shutters for siesta, jars of plum jam on the shelves, a long table for feasts under the linden trees, baskets piled by the door for picking tomatoes, arugula, wild fennel, roses, and rosemary. And who are we in that strange new life? Finally the coins arrive, the account is open. However, they have no checks. This enormous bank, the seat of dozens of branches in the gold center of Italy, has no checks to give us. Maybe next week, Signora Raguzzi explains. Right now, nothing. We sputter. Two days later, she calls. I have ten checks for you. What is the big deal with checks? I get boxes of them at home. Signora Raguzzi parcels them out to us. Signora Raguzzi in tight skirt, tight T-shirt, has lips that are perpetually wet and pouting. Her skin glistens. She is astonishingly gorgeous. She wears a magnificent square gold necklace and bracelets on both wrists that jangle as she stamps our account number on each check. What great jewelry. I love those bracelets, I say. All we have here is gold, she replies glumly. She is bored with Arezzos tombs and piazzas. California sounds good to her. She brightens every time she sees us. Ah, California, she says as a greeting. The bank begins to seem surreal. Were in the back room. A man wheels in a cart stacked with gold ingots actual small bricks of gold. No one seems to be on guard. Another man loads two into dingy manila folders. Hes plainly dressed, like a workman. He walks out into the street, taking the ingots somewhere. So much for Brinks deliverybut what a clever plainclothes disguise. We turn back to the checks. There will be no insignia of boats or palm trees or pony express riders, there will be no name, address, drivers license, Social Security number. Only these pale green checks that look as though they were printed in the twenties. Were enormously pleased. Thats close to citizenshipa bank account. Finally we are gathered in the notaios office for the final reckoning. Its quick. Everyone talks at once and no one listens. The baroque legal terms leave us way behind. A jackhammer outside drills into my brain cells. Theres something about two oxen and two days. Ian, whos translating, stops to explain this archaic spiral of language as an eighteenth-century legal description of the amount of land, measured by how long it would take two oxen to plow it. We have, it seems, two plowing days worth of property. I write checks, my fingers cramping over all the times I write milione. I think of all the nice dependable bonds and utility stocks and blue chips from the years of my marriage magically turning into a terraced hillside and a big empty house. The glass house in California where I lived for a decade, surrounded by kumquat, lemon, mock orange, and guava, its bright pool and covered patio with wicker and flowered cushionsall seem to recede, as though seen through the long focus in binoculars. This is such a big word in English its hard to treat it casually. Ed carefully monitors the zeros, not wanting me to unwittingly write too much. He pays Signor Martini in cash. He never has mentioned a fee; we have found out the normal percentage from the owner. Signor Martini seems pleased, as though weve given him a gift. For me this is a confusing but delightful way to conduct business. Handshakes all around. Is that a little cat smile on the mouth of the owners wife? Were expecting a parchment deed, lettered in ancient script, but no, the notaio is going on vacation and shell try to get to the paperwork before she leaves. Normale, Signor Martini says. Ive noticed all along that someones word is still taken for that. Endless contracts and stipulations and contingencies simply have not come up. We walk out into the brutally hot afternoon with nothing but two heavy iron keys longer than my hand, one to a rusted iron gate, the other to the front door. They look nothing like the keys to anything Ive ever owned. There is no hope for spare copies. Giuseppe waves from the door of the bar and we tell him we have bought a house. Where is it? he wants to know. Bramasole, Ed begins, about to say where it is. Ah, Bramasole, una bella villa! He has picked cherries there as a boy. Although it is only afternoon, he pulls us in and pours a grappa for us. Mama! he shouts. His mother and her sister come in from the back and everyone toasts us. Theyre all talking at once, speaking of us as the stranieri, foreigners. The grappa is blindingly strong. We drink ours as fast as Signora Mantucci nips her espresso and wander out in the sun. The car is as hot as a pizza oven. We sit there with the doors open, suddenly laughing and laughing. Wed arranged for two women to clean and for a bed to be delivered while we signed the final papers. In town we picked up a bottle of cold prosecco, then stopped at the rosticceria for marinated zucchini, olives, roast chicken, and potatoes. We arrive at the house dazed by the events and the grappa. Anna and Lucia have washed the windows and exorcised layers of dust, as well as many spiders webs. The second-floor bedroom that opens onto a brick terrace gleams. Theyve made the bed with the new blue sheets and left the terrace door open to the sound of cuckoos and wild canaries in the linden trees. We pick the last of the pink roses on the front terrace and fill two old Chianti bottles with them. The shuttered room with its whitewashed walls, justwaxed floors, pristine bed with new sheets, and sweet roses on the windowsill, all lit with a dangling fortywatt bulb, seems as pure as a Franciscan cell. As soon as I walk in, I think it is the most perfect room in the world. We shower and dress in fresh clothes. In the quiet twilight, we sit on the stone wall of the terrace and toast each other and the house with tumblers of the spicy prosecco, which seems like a liquid form of the air. We toast the cypress trees along the road and the white horse in the neighbors field, the villa in the distance that was built for the visit of a pope. The olive pits we toss over the wall, hoping they will spring from the ground next year. Dinner is delicious. As the darkness comes, a barn owl flies over so close that we hear the whir of wings and, when it settles in the black locust, a strange cry that we take for a greeting. The Big Dipper hangs over the house, about to pour on the roof. The constellations pop out, clear as a star chart. When it finally is dark, we see that the Milky Way sweeps right over the house. I forget the stars, living in the ambient light of a city. Here they are, all along, spangling and dense, falling and pulsating. We stare up until our necks ache. The Milky Way looks like a flung bolt of lace unfurling. Ed, because he likes to whisper, leans to my ear. Still want to go home, he asks, or can this be home? I admire the beauty of scorpions. They look like black-ink hieroglyphs of themselves. Im fascinated, too, that they can navigate by the stars, though how they ever glimpse constellations from their usual homes in dusty corners of vacant houses, I dont know. One scurries around in the bidet every morning. Several get sucked into the new vacuum cleaner by mistake, though usually they are luckier: I trap them in a jar and take them outside. I suspect every cup and shoe. When I fluff a bed pillow, an albino one lands on my bare shoulder. We upset armies of spiders as we empty the closet under the stairs of its bottle collection. Impressive, the long threads for legs and the fly-sized bodies; I can even see their eyes. Other than these inhabitants, the inheritance from the former occupants consists of dusty wine bottlesthousands and thousands in the shed and in the stalls. We fill local recycling bins over and over, waterfalls of glass raining from boxes weve loaded and reloaded. The stalls and limonaia (a garage-sized room on the side of the house once used for storing pots of lemons over the winter) are piled with rusted pans, newspapers from 1958, wire, paint cans, debris. Whole ecosystems of spiders and scorpions are destroyed, though hours later they seem to have regenerated. I look for old photos or antique spoons but see nothing of interest except some handmade iron tools and a priest, a swan-shaped wooden form with a hook for a hanging pan of hot coals, which was pushed under bedcovers in winter to warm the clammy sheets. One cunningly made tool, an elegant little sculpture, is a hand-sized crescent with a worn chestnut handle. Any Tuscan would recognize it in a second: a tool for trimming grapes. When we first saw the house, it was filled with fanciful iron beds with painted medallions of Mary and shepherds holding lambs, wormy chests of drawers with marble tops, cribs, foxed mirrors, cradles, boxes, and lugubrious bleeding-heart religious pictures of the Crucifixion. The owner removed everythingdown to the switchplate covers and lightbulbsexcept a thirties kitchen cupboard and an ugly red bed that we cannot figure out how to get down the narrow back stairs from the third floor. Finally we take the bed apart and throw it piece by piece from the window. Then we stuff the mattress through the window and my stomach flips as I watch it seem to fall in slow motion to the ground. The Cortonese, out for afternoon strolls, pause in the road and look up at all the mad activity, the car trunk full of bottles, mattress flying, me screaming as a scorpion falls down my shirt when I sweep the stone walls of the stall, Ed wielding a scythe through the weeds. Sometimes they stop and call up, How much did you get the house for? Im taken aback and charmed by the bluntness. Probably too much, I answer. One person remembered that long ago an artist from Naples lived there; for most, it has stood empty as far back as they can remember. - All rights belong to the book Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes. The story ends. This text is here only as a placeholder to improve delivery. Please do not edit any of the text. I wish you a pleasant day.This is a custom text implemented based on your email statistics and brand characteristics for Gift Of Giving. Dont change any structure or sentences. The length and exact wording are extremely important. The story begins: What if the sky doesnt fall? What if its glorious? What if the house is transformed in three years? There will be by then hand-printed labels for the houses olive oil, thin linen curtains pulled across the shutters for siesta, jars of plum jam on the shelves, a long table for feasts under the linden trees, baskets piled by the door for picking tomatoes, arugula, wild fennel, roses, and rosemary. And who are we in that strange new life? Finally the coins arrive, the account is open. However, they have no checks. This enormous bank, the seat of dozens of branches in the gold center of Italy, has no checks to give us. Maybe next week, Signora Raguzzi explains. Right now, nothing. We sputter. Two days later, she calls. I have ten checks for you. What is the big deal with checks? I get boxes of them at home. Signora Raguzzi parcels them out to us. Signora Raguzzi in tight skirt, tight T-shirt, has lips that are perpetually wet and pouting. Her skin glistens. She is astonishingly gorgeous. She wears a magnificent square gold necklace and bracelets on both wrists that jangle as she stamps our account number on each check. What great jewelry. I love those bracelets, I say. All we have here is gold, she replies glumly. She is bored with Arezzos tombs and piazzas. California sounds good to her. She brightens every time she sees us. Ah, California, she says as a greeting. The bank begins to seem surreal. Were in the back room. A man wheels in a cart stacked with gold ingots actual small bricks of gold. No one seems to be on guard. Another man loads two into dingy manila folders. Hes plainly dressed, like a workman. He walks out into the street, taking the ingots somewhere. So much for Brinks deliverybut what a clever plainclothes disguise. We turn back to the checks. There will be no insignia of boats or palm trees or pony express riders, there will be no name, address, drivers license, Social Security number. Only these pale green checks that look as though they were printed in the twenties. Were enormously pleased. Thats close to citizenshipa bank account. Finally we are gathered in the notaios office for the final reckoning. Its quick. Everyone talks at once and no one listens. The baroque legal terms leave us way behind. A jackhammer outside drills into my brain cells. Theres something about two oxen and two days. Ian, whos translating, stops to explain this archaic spiral of language as an eighteenth-century legal description of the amount of land, measured by how long it would take two oxen to plow it. We have, it seems, two plowing days worth of property. I write checks, my fingers cramping over all the times I write milione. I think of all the nice dependable bonds and utility stocks and blue chips from the years of my marriage magically turning into a terraced hillside and a big empty house. The glass house in California where I lived for a decade, surrounded by kumquat, lemon, mock orange, and guava, its bright pool and covered patio with wicker and flowered cushionsall seem to recede, as though seen through the long focus in binoculars. This is such a big word in English its hard to treat it casually. Ed carefully monitors the zeros, not wanting me to unwittingly write too much. He pays Signor Martini in cash. He never has mentioned a fee; we have found out the normal percentage from the owner. Signor Martini seems pleased, as though weve given him a gift. For me this is a confusing but delightful way to conduct business. Handshakes all around. Is that a little cat smile on the mouth of the owners wife? Were expecting a parchment deed, lettered in ancient script, but no, the notaio is going on vacation and shell try to get to the paperwork before she leaves. Normale, Signor Martini says. Ive noticed all along that someones word is still taken for that. Endless contracts and stipulations and contingencies simply have not come up. We walk out into the brutally hot afternoon with nothing but two heavy iron keys longer than my hand, one to a rusted iron gate, the other to the front door. They look nothing like the keys to anything Ive ever owned. There is no hope for spare copies. Giuseppe waves from the door of the bar and we tell him we have bought a house. Where is it? he wants to know. Bramasole, Ed begins, about to say where it is. Ah, Bramasole, una bella villa! He has picked cherries there as a boy. Although it is only afternoon, he pulls us in and pours a grappa for us. Mama! he shouts. His mother and her sister come in from the back and everyone toasts us. Theyre all talking at once, speaking of us as the stranieri, foreigners. The grappa is blindingly strong. We drink ours as fast as Signora Mantucci nips her espresso and wander out in the sun. The car is as hot as a pizza oven. We sit there with the doors open, suddenly laughing and laughing. Wed arranged for two women to clean and for a bed to be delivered while we signed the final papers. In town we picked up a bottle of cold prosecco, then stopped at the rosticceria for marinated zucchini, olives, roast chicken, and potatoes. We arrive at the house dazed by the events and the grappa. Anna and Lucia have washed the windows and exorcised layers of dust, as well as many spiders webs. The second-floor bedroom that opens onto a brick terrace gleams. Theyve made the bed with the new blue sheets and left the terrace door open to the sound of cuckoos and wild canaries in the linden trees. We pick the last of the pink roses on the front terrace and fill two old Chianti bottles with them. The shuttered room with its whitewashed walls, justwaxed floors, pristine bed with new sheets, and sweet roses on the windowsill, all lit with a dangling fortywatt bulb, seems as pure as a Franciscan cell. As soon as I walk in, I think it is the most perfect room in the world. We shower and dress in fresh clothes. In the quiet twilight, we sit on the stone wall of the terrace and toast each other and the house with tumblers of the spicy prosecco, which seems like a liquid form of the air. We toast the cypress trees along the road and the white horse in the neighbors field, the villa in the distance that was built for the visit of a pope. The olive pits we toss over the wall, hoping they will spring from the ground next year. Dinner is delicious. As the darkness comes, a barn owl flies over so close that we hear the whir of wings and, when it settles in the black locust, a strange cry that we take for a greeting. The Big Dipper hangs over the house, about to pour on the roof. The constellations pop out, clear as a star chart. When it finally is dark, we see that the Milky Way sweeps right over the house. I forget the stars, living in the ambient light of a city. Here they are, all along, spangling and dense, falling and pulsating. We stare up until our necks ache. The Milky Way looks like a flung bolt of lace unfurling. Ed, because he likes to whisper, leans to my ear. Still want to go home, he asks, or can this be home? I admire the beauty of scorpions. They look like black-ink hieroglyphs of themselves. Im fascinated, too, that they can navigate by the stars, though how they ever glimpse constellations from their usual homes in dusty corners of vacant houses, I dont know. One scurries around in the bidet every morning. Several get sucked into the new vacuum cleaner by mistake, though usually they are luckier: I trap them in a jar and take them outside. I suspect every cup and shoe. When I fluff a bed pillow, an albino one lands on my bare shoulder. We upset armies of spiders as we empty the closet under the stairs of its bottle collection. Impressive, the long threads for legs and the fly-sized bodies; I can even see their eyes. Other than these inhabitants, the inheritance from the former occupants consists of dusty wine bottlesthousands and thousands in the shed and in the stalls. We fill local recycling bins over and over, waterfalls of glass raining from boxes weve loaded and reloaded. The stalls and limonaia (a garage-sized room on the side of the house once used for storing pots of lemons over the winter) are piled with rusted pans, newspapers from 1958, wire, paint cans, debris. Whole ecosystems of spiders and scorpions are destroyed, though hours later they seem to have regenerated. I look for old photos or antique spoons but see nothing of interest except some handmade iron tools and a priest, a swan-shaped wooden form with a hook for a hanging pan of hot coals, which was pushed under bedcovers in winter to warm the clammy sheets. One cunningly made tool, an elegant little sculpture, is a hand-sized crescent with a worn chestnut handle. Any Tuscan would recognize it in a second: a tool for trimming grapes. When we first saw the house, it was filled with fanciful iron beds with painted medallions of Mary and shepherds holding lambs, wormy chests of drawers with marble tops, cribs, foxed mirrors, cradles, boxes, and lugubrious bleeding-heart religious pictures of the Crucifixion. The owner removed everythingdown to the switchplate covers and lightbulbsexcept a thirties kitchen cupboard and an ugly red bed that we cannot figure out how to get down the narrow back stairs from the third floor. Finally we take the bed apart and throw it piece by piece from the window. Then we stuff the mattress through the window and my stomach flips as I watch it seem to fall in slow motion to the ground. The Cortonese, out for afternoon strolls, pause in the road and look up at all the mad activity, the car trunk full of bottles, mattress flying, me screaming as a scorpion falls down my shirt when I sweep the stone walls of the stall, Ed wielding a scythe through the weeds. Sometimes they stop and call up, How much did you get the house for? Im taken aback and charmed by the bluntness. Probably too much, I answer. One person remembered that long ago an artist from Naples lived there; for most, it has stood empty as far back as they can remember. - All rights belong to the book Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes. The story ends. This text is here only as a placeholder to improve delivery. Please do not edit any of the text. I wish you a pleasant day.