About my Childhood in Northern Italy

Published in Pontyclun News, November 2014, Issue 23

As a little girl of three, back in the late fifties, I would sleep with Mum and Dad in the master bedroom. My bed was the old cot that had previously held my elder brothers and sisters and it had a chalk frieze of Baby Jesus on the wall behind me. The other two bedrooms were smaller and set on either side of ours. These were respectively the girls’ and the boys’bedroom, which hosted my four sisters (Francesca, Luisa, Anna, Mariella) and four brothers (Giacomo, Matteo, Giorgio, Mario).

   I was the baby of the family; blonde curly hair and a smiling face, always chasing after my brothers and sisters and with a constant desire to please everyone. Mum spent most of the day helping Dad at the family shoe store and I longed for the moment she would open the door at the end of the day. She was not willing to play with me though; she would rather go around the house, check that everybody was in and start cooking. I would try to cheer her up and made every effort to catch her attention. She would just cast a half-smile at me and then go on with what she was doing.

    When the night came, the hustle and bustle of the house suddenly ceased. Dad would make sure that everyone was in their bed, then he and Mum would kneel down and sottovoce say a prayer to the Virgin Mary, asking her to keep an eye on their children. It was the time I loved the most: Mum would finally hold me wrapped in her arms, cuddling me tenderly, then snuggle me gently into my cot. In the dark of our bedroom I could hear Mum and Dad whispering and sharing secret moments, until I slowly fell asleep.

    In the morning, large cups of hot caffelatte and biscotti with jam were scattered on the kitchen table. After a quick breakfast my elder brothers and sisters would rush to school, Mum and Dad would leave for the shop while I was left at home with the nanny. Later on, when I went to primary school, Mum would stand at the front door smiling. I’m convinced that a nice smile in the morning, whatever troubles I’m facing, is a good start for my children, she used to say.

  
   On Sundays, after we had been to church– walking in pairs with me at the end between Mum and Dad - we would gather around the large dining table. Dad would ask each one of us to stand and say a special thank-you to God for the abundance of our food. He would bless us all and remind us of those who were not as fortunate as our family. Then he took his seat at the head of the table, Mum always next to him, and we all sat down and reached for the food spread out in the middle of the table.

    Dad had given us proper rules: we were not supposed to stand up until everybody had finished their meal and were not allowed to start the second course unless we had finished the first one. But to me the worst of all was that I couldn’t have a bite of any pastry unless I had completely finished the first and the second course, leaving both plates without any trace of leftovers. This was Dad’s way of orchestrating his many children, all young (only 11 years difference between my elder sister and me) and according to him in need of discipline.

  
   Soon I started longing for new clothes of my own, though I knew it was really asking for the moon. The dresses I wore were those discarded by my older sisters and you could see on the hem the signs of wear and the new material where it had been unfolded. However, at Carnival time in February, I could finally wear a brand new dress: a beautiful, long, fairy-like costume with a smooth glossy texture.

    The dress was donated by Uncle Mario, who lived in the States and whom we called L’Americano.He was my mother’s brother and apparently had made his fortune because Mum was very proud of him and was always holding him up as an example to Dad. It was the kind of dress I was only allowed to wear once a year for Venice Carnival parties when everybody would wear fancy dresses and a mask on their face. I enjoyed showing off to my friends and putting on a regal air. For once I felt special and thought I was Cinderella in her glass-coach going to the ball.

   When a few years later, just before Christmas, Dad died in a car accident, it was me who took his place in the big double-bed next to Mum.

                         

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