Telling Time

I first wrote this piece for a creative writing class I took in my second year of University. We were given the opportunity to write or create any sort of creative piece we wanted, and as my peers dove into the realms of fiction, poetry and short stories, I turned to one of the most beautiful stories I knew for inspiration, the life of my Grandmother. Immigrating to Canada from Italy at the age of 18, my grandmother might not see her life as exceptional but to me, a young woman who is extremely proud of my heritage, her resilience and courage is nothing short of heroic. I have tweaked the piece over the years mirroring my growth as writer and as I have learned more about my Grandmother's story, but the message of hope remains the same, and this opportunity to share my Grandma's story in such a unique and creative way will always be a project I so deeply cherish!

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June, 1966

She sits on the hill behind her house, looking off into the mountains around her that stretch up to the sky and disappear into the evening clouds. She closes her eyes to focus on the sounds around her, the sputter of Domenico’s truck from down the hill, the clucking of hens in the barn, and the buzz of bees in the flower field just below the hill.

With her eyes still closed, she takes in the smells of her surroundings. The aroma of warm bread her mother is cooking from the kitchen, the smell of the spring harvest from their family fields, and fresh scent of pine the northern wind was blowing down from the Gran Sasso mountains.

Finally, she opens her eyes, trying to capture in a few short minutes the landscapes that she had known and loved her whole life. To her left is the slopping hill and beaten trail that she followed with her siblings every morning on their way to school. Ahead bellow the hill is the small village and she sees the piazza where she learned to ride a bike for the first time. On her right is the field that her family had worked on and harvested for years, the field that was the only income her parents had. She stands up to look behind her at the white washed brick house attached to the barn, the place she calls home.

She corrects herself. It was the house she had called home, home was somewhere else now. Somewhere her brothers said she would love, it had mountains too and there were many young girls to be her friends. A country called Canada across the ocean. But it would never be the same, and she did not know if she would ever see home again. Because that is what Italy would always be, her true home.

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She stands at the rail with her single luggage in her right hand and her new blue hooded coat in her left. The blow horn sounds, and she feels the shudder under her feet as the boat pushes away from the dock. On her right, her sister is crying as she waves goodbye to friends who have come to see them off. Her Nonna stands just behind her, shaking and muttering prayers only opening her eyes to cross herself and look up into the sky.

The sounds of wailing, cries, and choked back sobs penetrate the crash of waves, and with each blow of the horn, they move farther away from the land and into the deep blue unknown. She takes a last look at the familiar mountains and landscapes ahead of her, then turns her back to her homeland, setting her eyes on what is ahead and where her future will take her.

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The boat rocks in the stormy night, and the sound of heaving and smell of vomit fills the cabin. Her mother hasn’t eaten in three days because whatever she eats comes right back up. The only thing digestible were the soft white buns that they called cakes which had run out early in the voyage. They were sweet, not like the brown coarse bread that her family baked at home.

The inescapable scents and sounds of sickness have dulled the sadness, but did not erase the fear of what lay ahead. Where would they go? Where would they work? How would they learn a new language? So many unanswered questions.

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The first sight of land, the train ride, and the moving becomes a blur. She remembers thinking that the air was muggy and humid compared to the fresh clean air she was used to. But she will never forget her first morning in Canada.

She wakes up at 5am on a small cot in a wood planked house in Welland which her brothers have rented for them. With her mother and sister, she walks outside and gets into the back of a blue pick-up truck with twenty other Italian women to go pick cherries. She is the

youngest there, alongside her sister, and the other women seem to have been in Canada already for quite a while.

They get to the cherry fields, and learn that the more bushels you pick, the more money you make. The first few hours are not bad, but after lunch, the work becomes torture. The sun was burning down, her neck and arms ached from bending and reaching up, and she has already fallen at least ten times from the ladder that seems to be unsteady. The last few hours pass by in blur of heat and pain, and when the ladies finally pack up to climb back into the hot and uncomfortable pickup truck to head back home, it is nine in the evening.

As she falls into bed she had time for one thought before sleep overcomes her, is this all that life would be?

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July, 1968

She gazes down into the cradle in which her firstborn daughter sleeping. What a joy. Her husband has just left for work, and her brothers have just stepped out to run some errands for her. It has been two years since coming to Canada, and this life was finally starting to feel comfortable. Her husband, also Italian, missed his life back in Italy, but with a newborn baby and the hope of a growing family, she is certain he will learn to accept their new home.

She has picked up few words and phrases since being here, and is planning on going to night school in a few months when the baby gets stronger. There are many Italians here in Welland where they have settled down, but the English do not like them. She feels embarrassed walking into stores to buy groceries and stumbling through sentences. People look at her with an air of disdain, as if she is lower than them.

It bothers her, but as all Italians are treated this way, it is just something she will have to get used to. As she contemplates these things, she is brought back to a memory of how she had imagined her life to be.

She has always pictured her life being led out in Italy. She would have been married in the small old chapel by her house, and lived in the attachment beside the barn. Her daughter would have been born amide the warm summer harvest of berries, and she would have rocked her baby to sleep to the sound of laughter from the piazza and the cluck of chickens in the henhouse. She would have taken her daughter for picnics up on the mountains, walked her to school down the trail, and watched her family grow to live the same life she had led.

She is snapped back to the present by the honk of car horns outside, and with a sigh she lets reality set back in. This life could not be so bad when she learned to speak the language, and when her children started going to school like the other English kids.

But she could not see beyond that point. What jobs would her children have, where would they live? In Italy, the future was set, but here? All unknown. She looks down at her child in the cradle who is smiling in her sleep, and prays that her life will see nothing but joy.

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September, 1980

She looks out the window as her children start their walk to school, and with a smile she watches their daily ritual as they wait for their cousins next door and finishing the last of their toast on the curb.

Her eldest is twelve now, and very mature for her age. She helps keep her younger sister in line, who is adventurous as well as reckless. Her youngest son is only six but he is a very quiet and serious little boy, who many often called “a little man”. Her children are full of life, and with the help of their three cousins who lived next door, there is never a dull moment.

As she cleans up the breakfast plates and starts to get ready for work, she contemplates what to do about a problem that has been bothering her for weeks. As a high school janitor, there are late hours and no days off, so it was getting harder for her and her husband to be there for their children’s activities and school events. School plays, soccer practices- it seemed impossible that those could continue if there was no way for the kids to get there.

Her husband works in the factory downtown and though the hours are long, it does not pay well nor is it a safe place to work. Her husband comes home almost every week with a different injury, and after having only worked there for seven years, his hearing has decreased drastically from the loud machine noises. It was not as if they could stop working; they needed the money and there are few other jobs that they could work which did not require an education or simply being able to speak English, neither of which she or her husband had.

Her middle daughter had come home from school the other day, and asked if she could be signed up for dance lessons. It had been so painful to explain that there was no way she could dance with the costs and hours, and though she said she understood, the pain was evident. Later that night she heard her eldest daughter comforting her sister’s sadness and softly explaining why dance was not possible, and why she should not ask anymore.

She cried herself to sleep in frustration. Why is she not able provide for her daughter’s needs and dreams? She felt like an inadequate parent for not being able to give her children everything they deserved, and that feeling never went away.

Her husband reminded her that they had made the biggest sacrifice by coming here to a new country, and that their children would be able to be better parents for the next generation. That is why they had given up their lives to come here. For the next generations. For a better future.

The thought of that consoles her, but it still did not dull the ache and pain of knowing her children deserve much more than she could ever provide for them.

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August, 1994

She fixes her hair before the mirror in the church restroom, and with a with a final pat she is satisfied with how she looks, and feels ready to give her daughter away in marriage to the man she loves.

That is a lie. She does not feel ready, nor composed enough to last through the ceremony with a smile. This feels all wrong. Her parents had died a few years back, and half of their cousins who still lived in Italy could not make it to Canada for the wedding. Some of the most important people she wants at this wedding are not here, and as the full magnitude of that revelation dawns on her, she breaks down in tears.

It takes a few minutes to calm down and remind herself that this wedding is for her daughter, and the people that she wants present are all here. Everything is perfect for them, and as that peace settles on her she relaxes and reminds herself of all the blessings that this life has brought them.

Her children have been able to attend university, and although they had to sell many possessions and work long hours to save enough money, the sacrifices have all been worth it. It has been 28 years since that unforgettable boat ride here to Canada, and she finally recognizes that they made the right choice. Her children would not be able to have an education if they still lived in Italy, and they would not have been able to have careers that would pay nearly as well as they do here.

She is brought back to a time many years ago, when her parents had explained why they were leaving their home. Her father had tears in his eyes, and she remembered the words “it will be a better life for your children, and your children’s children”.

She realizes the truth in those words spoken almost 30 years ago, and recognizes that her father’s dream is being lived today. As she walks out of the restroom, she holds her head high with pride and hope for the new generation beginning today.

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August, 1999

She sits in her daughter’s backyard on a mild August evening rocking her first-born granddaughter to sleep. She feels the warm evening sun on her face and with it the peace that can only come from pure happiness. It is hard to believe that she is a grandmother now, and as the years go by, time seems move faster and without rest.

In the golden hours of this summer night, she suddenly is brought back to an old memory of an evening just like this but in a place very different. The sounds and smells come back to her as she is flooded with the memory of high reaching mountains, an old brick house, and the smell of warm home cooked bread.

How far she has come, and how long ago that night seems. No idea what lay ahead, no assurance of the life she would lead. With a smile as she holds tight the child in her arms, she feels pride at the life and opportunities her sacrifice will allow this beautiful girl to have.

She will grow up and be able to play sports, learn to play piano, and maybe even learn to swim. Her parents will be able to help her with reading and writing, and attend each and every school play. She will excel in high school and attend university to become maybe a doctor, or a lawyer.

And maybe one day she will ask to visit Italy, and ask her grandmother to come with her.

Now, when she looks forward into the future, she does not see fear of the unknown, she sees light and hope. A hope to see her children through their careers, to travel new places, and to see her grandchildren grow up in a world with endless opportunities.

With that thought she closes her eyes and turns her face up into the setting sun and lets the warm embrace of sleep take her away.