We are all a product of the people we have known in our lives, as well as the experiences we have encountered along our way. I do not believe in the randomness of life, but rather in the interconnectedness of all that happens to us and the individuals who have played a part in our existence.
Having immigrated from Italy, I’m honored and grateful that my life has been blessed with so many experiences, (albeit sometimes, traumatic,) and so many relatives and friends ,(who I may not have been able to see often due to distance.)
I just recently finished reading a riveting fictional novel by Isabel Allende about Violeta Del Valle and all the political and emotional upheavals of her life, from 1920 to 2020 in South America. From the emergence of the Spanish Flu to COVID, political uprisings and coups, along with her own personal struggles and estrangements, the indelible effect of it all eventually brings her peace in the end. All that happened to her made her who she was, and because she lived to be 100, most of the people in her life had already died, and yet she kept them alive in her thoughts, as they walked “alongside” her. The story truly resonated with me, and my own life experiences.
I “feel” all the people who are no longer physically present. and often, put aside time specifically to think of them, or rather, to spend some “ethereal “ time with them, as when I allow my mind to “hover” over them during a warm bath, music in the background, and wine in hand to toast them.
I first start in Italy, and see my grandfather, my nonno, who was my first important male figure as my father had already left for the US shortly before I was born. I smile as I remember the smoothness of his bald head and the comfort of his lap where I spent a lot of time until I was 4 1/2. Included is always the trauma of leaving him and not being quite cognizant of the journey ahead, but recoiling from him as he reached out to me, pulling me towards him, all the while crying into his handkerchief. Good and / or bad, these memories solidified his unconditional love for me, which is still as strong as ever, a love that needed no reminding when I first returned to Italy at the age of 10. During a particularly loud and stormy night of thunder and lightning which truly frightened me, I ran down the stairs, screaming, “I trombi! I trombi,” which I mistakenly thought was the word for thunder. It’s not; the word is “tuoni,” but this did not deter Nonno from calling out to me, “Loretta, vieni qua; Ti proteggo dai “trombi!” There I cuddled with him , his strong arms holding me tightly until I fell asleep . He was forever my protector!
I returned to Italy numerous times after this summer and had many wonderful conversations with him and had the opportunity to listen to his riveting wartime stories. The village, Pieve di Campi, where my grandparents lived, as with many small communities of the time, had certain unspoken rules and mores to follow regarding proper behavior, which I did not feel applied to me. Though I never really did anything outlandish, sometimes something as simple as ordering a glass of wine at the local osteria was frowned upon for a woman, so I did get a fair amount of nasty looks, uncomfortable stares, and disapproving frowns., but not from my grandfather who had the unmistakable look of pride written all over his face and smile.
My last communication with him occurred in June of 1985, shortly before the birth of my son. I can’t recall what we talked about, but I do remember him saying my name one last time, loudly, with such love, with all the unconditional love I had always received from him, and I can, to this day, muster up the comforting sound of his voice and see his loving smile, which make me feel all the more confident and brave in life. I have a wool scarf that belonged to him, which he took off one day, long ago when I was 19 and visiting during the winter. He removed it and wrapped it gently around my neck as I was shivering. I still wear it each winter, feeling all the warmth!
After I toast Nonno, I go to Nonna, and I envision our time in the small cozy kitchen of the new home my aunt and mom had built for them. We are sitting around the wood burning stove after dinner, talking. All the while she is knitting me a blanket, the colors for which I chose, a blanket that always makes me smile and think of her and her love for me. Though sterner and not so accepting of my behavior as Nonno, her love was felt nonetheless, with the creation of this beautiful blanket as a symbol. I still have her wind up watch which she removed from her wrist one day long long ago and gave to me because I needed one, and she didn’t want me to miss my train. I wear it even now, and also use the small black cracked change purse my mother brought back to me after the funeral. It’s such a simple item which produces so many powerful memories of Nonna who would fish it out of her apron as she bought her fruits and vegetables from the fruttivendolo,( the fruit seller ) who would drive through all the villages in this area several times a week. Bananas were more costly, and yet she spared no expense to buy them for her grandchildren! I use the change purse for my foreign coins anytime I travel, or when I go to our cabin, my Oasis of Peace, for the small bills and change for coffee and the paper at the local store!
At this moment I am relishing the transcendent presence of both my nonni, but there are so many more people to toast which I will in my next recounting!
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