A VISIT TO REMEMBER

It was one of these  beautiful sunny mornings which Melbourne has the secret.  Everywhere
flowers were blossoming, birds were singing.   The little house was just in the corner  on my
right . It was smaller than the others and has been   constructed   so as to  meet the needs of the first italian emigrants.  It has a little  garden in front   and  behind  the house  so as to enable the occupier to grow some  fruits  and  vegetables .  The wooden door was hidden by numerous plants  growing near by.

                         The old chimney was still working  and smoke could be seen coming out.

The little gate was shaky and needed some repair. As I entered the yard, I felt a thrill. It seemed to me that I entered a world that needed to be discovered  and shared..  Wild herbs  have grown in between the pavements as well as  in  the  flower beds on each side.  Yet there were still  some beautiful flowers , witnesses of a better time , when a loving hand was taking care of them.

The whole garden was neglected.  However  the grass around  has been  cut not long ago. The orange tree was full of oranges , many fell on the ground  as there was nobody to pick them.  Children no longer ran in the yard  and  their  cries were no longer heard. The orange tree which was so necessary for maintaining the health of the family  during the cold winter  seemed useless then.

I knocked at the door,   and waited a bit,  as dragging feet slowly  came to let me in.   She was small, more than 90 years of age, all in black as  it is   usual  for  women  of this generation,  but  she was still strong for her age. Her face was large, not so wrinkled, with a strong chin. and tiny black eyes
like  sharp  pencils . Her hair silver grey and thick was  pulled back  behind , held with clips.
Her severe look  reminded me of my mother a teacher . Surely she was a woman of principles,
not to be meddled with..  But I liked her the more for this  and  carefully engaged in a candid and respectful  conversation. She did  not speak much  but she was  able to make herself understood.

 Our lady  gently introduced me into a small living room.  A big arm chair was in front of the TV,
 near the fire place.  It was there that  she spent most of the long hours of the day, as prolapsed
disks in her back made her suffer hell. Conversation  was a bit difficult, as her english had  such an accent.  Adapting herself  to another culture and language had not been easy for her. She  still remained  this girl who had left her village,  compelled by circumstances.

Because of my curious nature, I started to observe things around me. Every where, on the wall,
on shelves and top dressers, there were photos : photos of all her children from their birth,
their first holy communion,  their fifteenth birthday, their marriages and their children afterwards.
A cup of coffee in one hand, I was busy looking at them, and  I was not astonished, because
I did the same at home  on my little altar, as I want those I love to be protected and on the stairs as
I like to look at them and  remember  the happy days.  Sometime my husband would reproach me. Surely less photos  on the wall would  suit  my bedroom, but as a mother, I felt the need to have my children  near the heart of Jesus. So,  I think it is the same with my gentle lady.  Every  family   member was  special to her and she knew them all , though  I am sure , she did  not look at them frequently, she had all of  them   in mind when she did  her rosary  that  she kept at hand.

Except the main bedroom, around me every room was small , small living room, small dining room,
small kitchen, but it was warm with the presence  of the lady.  You wished to stay here and dream
about how it was when the children were there. A photo of  her handsome husband reminded me
of their love  story  and I was eager to know more.

Who is she ? ....  Where does she come from ?... From what part of Italy?...
Lipari , it  was the name of   a small island near Sicilia.

What memories !....

I could not prevent myself from questioning her more about her childhood.  She seemed to look
far away and told me about life at that time.  It was just at the beginning of the  first world war  .
Every body was poor  in Lipari as the economy was zero.  No tourists at that time.  The men were engaged  in war, so feeding the families was an affair of women. Transport  by sea  was
difficult and restricted as the danger of air attacks  and by sea  was   constant.

Consequently,  it was a dilemna .  Vegetables and fruits were insufficient.   As a child of twelve
years of age, she had the  responsibililty to cook for all the family.  She remembered plucking
young stem of wild herbs  outside and let them cook with potatoes. for a long time.  The latters
were not peeled, but brushed and allowed to  simmer all round the day  in a big cauldron,  to
thicken  the broth  and  keep  the vitamins.

As soon as  the alarms were triggered by  the  presence  of  an  enemy  near by, everybody fled
to the  caves and the mountains.   Electricity had not yet  reached the island.  The inhabitants
lived in fear of an attack.  Submarines were seen   from the shore.   By chance  Lipari was of  no interest to them.

When the war ended, and the men came back, there was no work for them , nothing .
They could not even afford  the necessary , so every body started to leave the island and migrate  to Europe, America and Australia.

She was now of age to be married, and when her future husband asked her to migrate to Melbourne, Australia, she did not hesitate one second.  She was ready for the big adventure, and  felt that she could face  any hardship.

Together with the first wave of immgration, she landed at Melbourne.  The english language was totally unknown to her, and she had to learn quickly.   Here also there was no electricity  . But she was a strong willed woman.

The sewing machine did not exist.  So she   hand sewed  the shirts, the trousers, costumes ,
dresses of her five children  with the light of a  petrol lamp. She was proud of it.

The Australians were  used to english food which was  very simple and  monotonous ,
and she had to show imagination to improve the daily menus .  It was at this time that she started
her  famous rice dumplings stuffed with mozarella .

Believe me, there is none like her to make them,  and even to day at each  event,  anniversary,
every body asks for her dumplings and they disappear very quickly from the plate. She also
has the secret of delicious  ginger , almond biscuits , but most important  she knows  how to make
simple and good  cooking.  Her daughter  has well  benefited from her  know how  and now she shows great cooking  skill in her every day life.

Oh ! The flavour of the Italian  plates. !...   The migrants   started to have their aromatic herbs,
their vegetable available on the market, such as basilic, oregano,  their coffee.,  their cheese :  mozarella, parmesan, their tomato paste, their pastas , their lasagns.  Others  made and  smoked  their hams, salamis, and mortadellas.  This changed the culinary  tradition of Australia for the best.

The Church  with its rituals was very important to the migrants , specially  the Italians  . I have
never seen so many churches any where else. Each village has its church according  to the creed of  its  inhabitants, its school, its community centre, retreat house for the seniors, its park , its shopping centre., every thing well admistered. and clean.

Her generation  was a faithful one, and  serving God has a meaning  for its folk. On Sundays,  the church is always full . Usually, after the ceremony, they  all join  together   for  a cup of  coffee and some  cakes .  So, they can have a chat and share.

The christian community is very  lively and busy  in organising events, helping  the poor of the
parish, the needy,  organising leisures  for young and old and  offering pilgrimages inside and  outside the country.

The memory of  the mother country is still strong , and  internet technology  has removed all barriers and distance.  So this world is now a big village, and no one is so  far to be reached. They  all can have access to the family they had left. But  now the older  generation is leaving us.

And I felt priviledged   to  have been able  to have a glimpse   of such moments. .

I the curious,   noticed  that everything was at its place and the little kitchen  was very clean and
well organised, to the honour  of her  old age.

Encouraged,   our Nona  led me to her little garden behind and discovered to me her treasures :
her brocolis, tomatoes, herbs, green peas and so on  and I was gratified with a full basket of vegetables, for which I was very grateful.

 On my left , a prune tree  was full of  ripe fruits .  Following my hungry gaze,she proudly
plucked one and gave it to me. It was the best prune , so sweet, juicy and delicious,
I realised that I had discovered some secret.

What  a  character !..., Her look was piercing. She missed nothing in a conversation.   I could not but laugh, remembering her face, her  chin,  her pinched lips, her searing eyes, how she refrained herself  in the presence of a lady babbling  things.  She  had to be polite in front of us, but felt ashamed
not to be able to  express herself clearly in english . The situation was really incongruous.

Now, I had to leave her  .  I thanked her for her kindness and with regret  bid her farewell.

It never occurred to me to write this article.  I do not possess enough information, and  our
Nona is so far away. I am not sure to be able to  meet her again.  

There was a moment of hesitation on my part, but on thought, I told myself that visit had to be
remembered, in memory of and to honour the courage of all the men and women who accept the hardship of being expatriated and strived to make their lives a success.


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