There is a
little chair which sits nestled in a corner near the warmth of my fireplace. Most
days, its serves as nothing more than a decorative piece in the family
room. But some days, as I’m cozied up on
my couch, ready to enjoy some quiet time to read a book, I find myself looking
its way. It sits there, an inanimate
object, oblivious to the history it represents.
Yet it carries a wealth of memories of my summers in Italy as a young
child. It is my nonno’s chair.
I often
wonder how my grandmother has managed to live over 30 years without the love of
her life. It can’t be easy. She is 92 years old now, and whenever I visit
her, I cherish the quiet moments together when we sit and she speaks of past
memories – particularly the stories courtship with my grandfather.
As I
listen, my imagination is ignited with scenes reminiscent of an old black and
white film. Visions of a young girl
peddling her bicycle through her crumbling town as bombs drop in the near
distance, the vibrations almost knocking her off her bicycle. But she is determined to reach the post
office – she has to get there – her beloved will be waiting for a care package
to make its way to him. Then … scenes of
complete happiness as he returns from war safe and unharmed … scenes of
forbidden kisses they would steal as they secretly meet in the cornfields.
I look at
her as she recounts these stories – I see a vibrant young woman, so in love and
devoted to this man that even the bombing of her village couldn’t stop her.
Love does give one courage. I see a side
of her I never knew.
She takes
a handkerchief out of her apron pocket and wipes away tears that well up. She slowly gets up and makes her way into the
kitchen – time for an espresso. I know
the story telling is over now, for she is thinking back to the day she lost him,
and she has no words for this.
He was 58
years old when he passed away, sadly by his own hand. He was a proud man –
worked hard and was relied upon by his family and his friends. For him, the sole purpose of existence was to
provide – he was the patriarch; that was his role. The cancer took that away and it broke him. But I try not to think about all that.
I look at
this chair, now in my own home, and recall how it always sat under the
grapevine-covered pergola of my grandparents’ house and how, during the summer
months, on those long hot and humid days when it was too hot for me to play, I
would retreat to this little place of shade and watch my grandmother in the
garden.
As a
child, I always timed the day by my nonna’s
daily routine. Collecting the eggs from
the chickens, followed by watering the garden was early morning. Hand-washing the clothes by the water pump
and hanging them up to dry was mid-morning. Entering the house and heading for
the kitchen was close to noon, and it meant that my grandfather would be home
soon from working the fields. So I would
sit in my place of shade, anxiously waiting.
I would hear that sound. The
sound tires make on gravel. My
grandfather coming up the driveway in his little white mini Fiat. It was now officially lunchtime.
After
lunch, my grandfather would head for this little chair under the shade, always
wearing his straw hat, He would light a cigarette and wait for my grandmother to
bring out his espresso, which she would, on a small tray, placing it on the round
table next to him. There were no words
spoken – but loving looks were exchanged with a mutual smile. I wouldn’t bother him. Instead, I would be playing in the garden,
watching him from afar. He was a tall, thin man always tanned from working the
fields. I knew this was his resting time
before he headed back to work.
As a
child, spending summers in Italy, I had no concept of days of the week. But I knew that when the routine changed it
was the weekend. This was my time with him.
On those summer weekend days, he would sit on this chair and watch me as
I ran around playing in the garden. I
knew he’d soon call out for me and I would run to him.
He would hoist
me up to pick the succulent grapes which hung from the pergola. As he sat on this little chair he would laugh
as I popped the grapes out of their skin and into my mouth. He was not a man of many words, and I have to
admit that as a young child, he intimidated me a bit, but when he helped me reach
for those grapes and we laughed together, I always felt safe and loved.
After my
grandfather passed away, I asked my grandmother to keep this chair for me. I
made her promise. She couldn’t
understand why I had such an attachment to it, but she kept her word.
Whenever I
returned to Italy, I would go to the chair. There it was, stored in the shed in
a corner all by itself. It aged more each year. The straw seat frayed, became too
weak to be sat upon; the wood grew brittle, a little weather beaten. But when I saw it, sentimental emotions overwhelmed
me and, ultimately, brought a smile to my face. I’d bring the chair outside and
place it in the shade. What was once a grapevine pergola was now a patio with
an awning, but nonetheless was still the chair’s spot. My grandmother would smile – she knew I
missed him, too.
Two years
ago, my uncle, my grandfather’s brother, ever so carefully and meticulously
dismantled the chair, to prepare it for its journey to Canada. My mother brought it back with her. My stepfather put it back together again. Of
all this, I had no idea. One summer day
as we were sitting in my mother’s backyard, she smiled and said,
“Wait here...don’t go anywhere. I have something for you.”
The little
chair had found its way to me. I was
speechless.
Lorena Perkins was born near Venice,
Italy and goes “home” to visit whenever she can. In June, she will return to spend time with
her 92-year-old grandmother and hopes to hear more stories about her courtship
with her grandfather and write more about the family history. Lorena had been writing journals since the
age of 12 and has amassed quite a collection! With the encouragement of her
husband, she decided it was time to venture into the world of creative
writing. Joining one of Brian Henry’s creative writing workshop was the first step.
See Brian Henry’s
schedule here, including
writing workshops, writing retreats, and creative writing courses
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