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eccles
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06-01-2020, 01:46 PM
1

Me, mum and Nonno

“Mum, Nonno’s in the garden sunbathing with a rhubarb leaf on his head.” I was at that tale-telling age.

Mum shrugged. “Well, tell him dinner’s on the table – and don’t mention the leaf, I’m sure he’s got a good reason.” Yeah, I thought, “he’s nuts, plus he’s Italian.”

My Brummie tones rang out through the window. “NONNO! Food’s ready, “Entre, s’il vous plait!” I fancied myself somewhat of a wit, which was wasted on nonno of course. His grasp of English was tenuous and random even after 30 years in the UK, so the chances of him grasping the gist of schoolgirl French was slim.

Mum tutted indulgently, tapped the window and gestured in a universal action denoting eating, in her case a rolling motion using both hands and an open mouth. I’d never actually seen her eat like that, but it did the trick. Nonno ambled in, large baggy Chaplinesque trousers, scuffed boots, open neck shirt displaying his wattly neck. His cheeks shone red from the sun and his faded blue eyes crinkled at me, his youngest grandchild. The rhubarb leaf he discarded at the door, stalk uppermost.

“My spring chicken!” he cried, “Is good weather, no? Is pasta, yes?”
“Yes and yes” muttered mum, wrestling with a large saucepan and shrouded in steam like a plump pressure cooker. “Nonno” I couldn’t help asking (although I knew really) – “why the rhubarb leaf?”

“Ah, the leaf she is to shade the heat! You don’t want for me to be … “ at this point he twirled his knobbly forefinger round by his ear, denoting, presumably, insanity due to sunstroke.

This was life in Birmingham-cum-Italy. Me, my parents, an indifferent cat without a name, and mum’s father Clemente, aka nonno which of course is Italian for grandfather. Strangely, as a child I assumed that was his actual name and pronounced it “nonnel” without ever considering it an odd name even for a foreigner. He came to live with us from London, after his second wife (or Thieving Greedy Cow as mother called her) died and he was struggling in his small flat. My dad couldn’t stand his sentimental ramblings and un-English tendencies towards hugging, but gritted his teeth manfully and avoided him as much as possible.

Nonno had been a mosaic craftsman allegedly, many years ago, and offered in the spirit of friendship to lay our drive for us. Dad, who disliked any form of DIY, accepted. We were the only family in our road – nay, city – with crazy paving before crazy paving was born. Multi coloured bits and pieces of broken china, slate, chipped stones, paving, glass and assorted detritus he must have picked up on one of his walks blazed their drunken way down to the kerb. We had the beginnings of a Roman villa constructed by a colour blind octogenarian. We never asked him again

Nonno liked to surprise us. Surprises like an apologetic looking dog he bought home one day on a sturdy length of rope. Apparently he’d gone for a walk, “found” a dog and decided it was just what we and the already fed up cat needed. Later that day he ambled off to the pub, taking said dog with him and returned empty handed. Turns out he’d left it outside the pub untethered, and seemed bemused that it had wandered off.

In the days before central heating we, like most families, had an open coal fire which was great as long as you sat two foot away from it to watch your legs develop octopus sucker burns all up your shins. At the same time, your back was busy forming icicles. Dad was constantly fiddling with the flue, opening and shutting the little trap, piling up slack overnight, messing with tongs and shovels and stuff, all the while attempting to flick soot from his maturing wine flacons bubbling on the hearth.

To save dad the onerous and frustrating job of drawing the fire into life one morning, nonno took it into his head to place that day’s newspaper over the opening and wait for the precise moment it was sucked inwards prior to bursting into flame. What he didn’t do was stand and watch. What he did do was amble to the table to finish his coffee. We never did get the scorch marks off the chimney breast.

On another of his Aid for Brummies missions, nonno was spotted one cold afternoon struggling up the path hauling what looked like an oak tree behind him by a length of rope (probably the ungrateful dog’s makeshift lead). He’d been to the park and rescued some winter fuel for us and was literally glowing with a mixture of pride and sheer exhaustion - he must have been at least 85 at the time. Mum had to use all her diplomacy to explain that rotten, wormy, soaking wet wood probably wouldn’t catch fire, and did we really need wood lice?


“I’m off to the cinema, nonno” I informed him one Saturday. He removed his cracked glasses, lowered a magazine which he was mostly unable to read. “Is it?” he enquired politely.

“No, nonno. The cinema. I’m off out” I repeated. “Si, si. I understand good. Are you?” His rheumy eyes took on a faraway look. “At home” – by which he meant the Northern Italian town of his birth – “At home, we had no cinema. The young ones, we made other fun, no?” I tried to blot out the image of a young Clemente making other fun in the blistering heat with my gran. How difficult it is to visualise the old as having smooth skin, shining dark hair, desires….

“So, your film, she is called what?”

“Er – The Young Ones” I replied. The irony wasn’t lost on me, but
by this time I’d kind of lost interest, so I kissed his stubbly cheek, pinched one of his sweets and left. It would be nice, I mused, to meet my mates and speak proper sentences.

Mealtimes at our house varied, depending on dad’s mood. My parents weren’t close, my oldest sister made a career out of provoking him and flouncing in equal measure and nonno seemed blissfully unaware of any undercurrents or subtle body language. As a young man with just one daughter and a submissive, gentle wife, his patriarchal will was obeyed, and flouncing I’m sure was discouraged and swiftly dealt with. Thus, all was sweetness and light in our household, at least in nonno’s world.

Guaranteed to promote peace and familial harmony was mum’s minestrone soup, or minestra. In the cold months we’d insist on this choice for Sunday lunch. Mum would visit the Bill Ring market and buy a boiling fowl prior to the stallholders closing for the day, and add to it a proper ham hock that wasn’t all symmetrically pink, bland and salty like it is today. This would be the basic stock that ended up as an enormous bubbling pot of garlic infused pasta filled deliciousness. As sophisticated and urbane Brummies who used cutlery, had a proper bathroom and didn’t say things like “yo ain’t” we added a dash of red wine to our plates to swirl decadently through the soup and turn the Parmesan cheese pink.

Brows would bead with sweat (we’re talking seriously hot soup here), and one by one we’d reach for the jug of water. Nonno’s glasses would steam over, his white fluffy moustache would begin to wilt and I’d watch his few remaining teeth suck up and chew the chicken and ham pieces. Then we’d be subjected to Billy Cotton’s Bandshow in lieu of a pudding.

Polenta was another of nonno’s dish of choice, and I loved it and him in equal measure. Polenta I guess is the equivalent of a Gregg’s pasty except it’s edible. Peasant food, obscenely fattening, fried lightly in olive oil, clothed in cheese and salt. Its preparation was a sight to behold as mum filled her largest saucepan with water, added a chopped potato like her mother used to do, although she said she never knew why. Once it boiled she tipped the polenta flour in a little at a time, all the while stirring madly to prevent lumping. As the glutinous, gloopy volcano-like bubbles broke through it was important to avoid spitting. We hardly ever spat, not even nonno, but the saucepan contents were sometimes very spiteful and shot small red hot missiles out of the morass, usually at mum whose arms bore the marks of many a polenta stand-off. Nonno occasionally volunteered bravely to do the stirring, but his biceps weren’t up to the task. Mum had a mangle, and her arms consequently were impressively muscular. She and dad often had arm wrestling contests when The Brain’s Trust ended. No, not really. She could’ve won though.

I never knew my grandmother nonna. I wish I had, as mum often told me fondly how kind, quiet and submissive she was. Married to nonno I wasn’t at all surprised as apparently in his salad days he had a ferocious temper. They let out rooms in their London home when mum was small, and upstairs was a large and belligerent Irishman with an equally volatile nature, except his was allegedly due to alcohol, whereas nonno’s explosions seemed to have erupted at any perceived slight, or any man over 15 and under 80 who glanced at his Rosa. He failed to explain this little quirk of his to said lodger, however. I mean, why would he?

One morning nonna emerged into their hall, looked up the stairs to smile and say hello to their paying guest who must have been quite a tempting vision in his vest, braces and matching beer gut. Some words were exchanged, although I’m not sure whether her English was any more coherent than nonno’s – and then she made the mistake of laughing. In a flash, out rushes Sir Bantam Cock, all 9 stone of him, Latin blood on the rise, outrage in every sinew. He challenged his lodger to a fight! Yes, really.

I could expound in gruesome detail mum’s version of what happened but it was many years ago, memories blur and possibly mum only saw through chubby hands what actually occurred. I was told though – and have no reason not to believe – that nonno’s finger never quite healed straight and where he hit his head on the wall, the Brylcreme was visible for weeks. They kept the lodger on though, he was a prompt payer and no trouble, well not much.
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Muddy
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06-01-2020, 02:42 PM
2

Re: Me, mum and Nonno

Very entertaining and well written Eccles
eccles
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06-01-2020, 08:14 PM
3

Re: Me, mum and Nonno

Thanks. I've tacked on a few more poems on the end of my failing memory one, sorry, I should've made each one a separate post probably. Anyway, it's done me good to dig them out after so long.
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Mags
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06-01-2020, 08:18 PM
4

Re: Me, mum and Nonno

Very good Eccles...
 

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