Mamma Mia... That's Life!

by Valerie Barona

  I had just finished one such idyllic session and felt very at peace with the world when Alex walked into the kitchen. He’d finished his military service and was back helping his father and uncle in their building business.

  “Mum, Papà gave you an engagement ring, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but I had to choose it myself first and then march him to the jewellers to buy it. He didn’t think it was necessary but it meant a lot to me. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I’d like to buy one for Lorena and give it to her for Christmas,” he said, almost shyly.

  We knew that Alex and Lorena were officially a couple but I never thought that Alex would want to give her a proper ring as was the case in England.

  “That’s a really nice idea,” I told him. “It’ll also be a novelty for everyone here, too.”

  He chose a very delicate ring which I knew would look lovely on Lorena’s slender finger. Now, I said to myself, Alex is the first Anglo-Italian in Piussogno to give an engagement ring to his girlfriend. As foreseen, Lorena loved her ring.

  *

  All through the evening meal, Alex kept looking up and grinning. I wondered if I’d got sauce on my cheek or I’d put my jumper on back to front, but no, everything was as it should be.

  “Mum, what day is 29th September this year?”

  “I don’t know.” I got up to get the calendar. “Oh, it’s a Saturday. Why do you ask?”

  “Well,” he said carefully, “Lorena and I want to get married.”

  “Darling, that’s fantastic news.” I jumped up and hugged him. “And where are you going to live?”

  “Actually, we wanted to ask you if we could have the flat upstairs?”

  “Of course you can, no problem.” I’d completely forgotten about my resolution years ago of not having a son of mine living above me in the same house.

  They confirmed the date with the priest at Traona for their wedding and then joined a group at Chiavenna for the obligatory pre-matrimonial course. Lorena started looking at possible wedding dresses in numerous brochures but couldn’t find anything she liked. In the end, she decided to have one made to her own requirements. As soon as planning permission was given, Michele and Alex set about transforming my upstairs store-room cum-laundry room where Alex and Elisa had often played with their friends in the past, into a fashionable family flat. Michele and I suggested they had a separate entrance but they designed the rest. While the men hammered and drilled, I worked in the garden, coaxing the plants to blossom and begging the weeds not to take over the rockeries. Alex asked me to go with him to buy his wedding suit and Lorena included me on trips to the florist and also for dress fittings together with her mother. Their flat materialised before our eyes and as the date drew closer we couldn’t have been more excited, that is until the news of the terrorist attack on the Twin Towers hit our screens. In the face of such horror and destruction, we felt guilty to be so happy.

  *

  The weather forecaster had predicted rain on the day of the wedding and despite my theory of mind-over-matter, I couldn’t stop the showers. Having said that, the happy couple only had eyes for each other and my family were suitably impressed with the priest officiating in sunglasses (a necessary accessory because he’d recently had his cataracts removed) not to mention his bushy grey beard and ample frame which gave him a familiar air. A visiting priest from Kenya who spoke English, kindly prolonged his stay so that he would be present at the wedding to translate during the service for Alex’s relations from Poole and Cornwall – a gesture that was very much appreciated.

  Alex’s two witnesses arranged to drive him to the parish church at Traona in a vintage car owned by the father of one of them. As I had to accompany Alex up the aisle in my role of mother of the groom, I went along, too. At the bottom of the road, Davide stopped the car.

  “Do you want me to go left or right? You’ve still got time to change your mind, you know,” he joked.

  Standing at the church door, waiting for the photographer to give us the signal to walk up the aisle, I remembered my own wedding, thinking that it had been a new chapter in my life and now, here I was, about to accompany my son on his. ‘Goodness’, I thought, ‘I am getting sentimental after all these years living here’. My Italian friends said that I’d surely shed a tear or two but I didn’t, although I have to admit to having a large lump in my throat when Alex and Lorena exchanged their vows. I also disappointed several people by not wearing an elaborate hat but fortunately, two of Alex’s great aunts did and provided amusement for his friends who tried to see who could throw the most rice onto the brims. My Anglo-Scottish nephew, Sean, turned heads when he walked up the aisle in his kilt and Alex’s friends couldn’t wait to lift it up to find out whether or not he was a true Scot.

  The reception held at a restaurant nearby, caused raised eyebrows when the non-Italians scrolled down the menu of no less than sixteen courses.

  “We’re not going to eat all this, are we?” they asked.

  “Oh, yes!”

  They had already commented on the buffet we had prepared for Alex’s guests before going to the church.

  “It’ll take all afternoon to get through this menu,” Andy said, and as always, he was right. In fact, we sat and ate all afternoon until early evening. In between courses, Alex and Lorena walked up and down the tables talking to guests, presenting them with the traditional bomboniere, a gift with five sugar almonds and a thank you note from the newlyweds and then we organised a couple of jokes to play on the Bride and Groom. As the rain stopped, we had a firework display outside which lit up the grey, dark skies in a kaleidoscope of colour and sound. Then everyone joined the happy couple as they took to the dance floor for the first dance.

  As is the custom, Alex’s friends and Elisa left quietly during the evening to prepare jokes in the new marital home. They blew up lots of balloons and filled the entire flat with them and afterwards, coming down the steps outside, they wrapped ribbon around the railings from one side to the other making it difficult to walk up or down.

  “Is it time to go home, yet?” my sister asked hopefully, just before midnight.

  “No, it isn’t,” I told her. “The party will continue in our basement.”

  “You are joking, aren’t you?”

  “No, no. In fact, the party will probably go on until the early hours of the morning.”

  “I want my bed,” she said with feeling.

  That year, on 29th September 2001, we celebrated Michele’s Saint’s Day together with Alex’s wedding and we did it in style – the last of the guests left just after 5.00am.

  My aunt had made a proper English wedding cake for the occasion which we decided to keep for the following day. Alex and Lorena cut it as we all sat round the table and this time it was the English members of the family who watched the reaction of the Italians, nibbling a small piece gingerly before nodding in agreement that it tasted delicious. They wanted to know what the ingredients were and how to make it then we toasted the newlyweds not with a cup of tea, but with sparkling wine – in true Italian fashion.

  *

  Before the English contingent flew home, we took them to ChocoAlpi, a chocolate shop nearby that Michele’s cousin’s husband had recently opened with the help of his family. They gave us a tour of the factory showing us how the chocolate was made and everyone appreciated the different samples offered.

  “This is like ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’,” Sean said.

  We all left with bags of delicious flavoured chocolate and the promise to see them again – very soon!

  23

  Techno Mum

  “I can’t believe it’s our Silver Wedding this year,” I said to Michele. “Where has the time gone? We’ll have to do something special.”

  “Yes. Like what?”

  “Like – going to Rome. I sti
ll have to see the capital,” I reminded him. “I know, we could celebrate before our anniversary and go with Dina and Angelo in August.”

  I knew that they’d jump at the chance and they did. Before Michele had time to change his mind, we’d booked a hotel near Termini station and seats on the Freccia Rossa train from Milan to Rome which supposedly took only four hours but on our journey, there was a two hour delay on route due to technical problems. However, nothing could spoil our special holiday. We spent the weekend of Ferragosto visiting the famous sights of Rome on our itinerary and despite the intense heat, walked everywhere and saw absolutely everything. It was fantastic.

  “Roma è stupenda.” We all agreed with Dina. Wherever you looked, you saw and breathed history. As we threw a coin in the Trevi Fountain, we each vowed to return.

  Back home again, I continued giving English lessons and preparing endless exercises on my well-worn battered typewriter.

  “It’s time you joined the twenty-first century and invested in a pc,” my brother told me. I knew he was right but I was scared of change and afraid I wouldn’t be able to use one. It had been difficult enough to adapt to the new currency at the beginning of the year when we stopped using lire and used euros instead.

  I finally made up my mind after our anniversary celebrations in November while Andy and Debbie were with us, and asked them to accompany me to buy a computer. Back home, as Andy explained the rudiments to me, I felt the panic rising.

  “I’m never going to learn.” I honestly thought it was beyond my comprehension.

  “Of course you will,” Andy said. “It just takes time.”

  By the end of their stay, I had mastered the principal functions but I still didn’t consider myself confident. I could always ask Alex in dire circumstances but I wanted to work it out myself and the main reason was that I didn’t only need it for lessons. After a chance meeting with a well-known editor in London earlier that year, it had been suggested I tried writing a book about my initiation to a new life in a mountain village in northern Italy and the obstacles I had to overcome. As a complete novice, I wanted to do it on my own which would have been possible had I remembered my brother’s advice to save everything. Instead, I would write for two to three hours and then press the wrong key and miraculously delete my work. At that point I’d hear Michele’s voice:

  “E’ pronta la cena?”

  “No, dinner isn’t ready,” I’d answer through clenched teeth.

  In the end, Ivan came to the rescue. He rang me asking for conversation lessons and I asked him for computer lessons. He showed me how to save my work, how to make charts for lessons, and send and receive faxes.

  “Call me if you need me,” he said. And I did, on many occasions. I named him my PC Wizard.

  Debbie sent me a manual which helped with the basics and gradually, I became more confident using the pc. Unfortunately, this meant I had less time to spend doing the gardening and while I improved my computer skills, the weeds ran wild and the grass grew longer.

  Alex and Lorena came down grinning one evening to give us some very special news.

  “Lorena’s pregnant!” he told us. “You’re going to be grandparents!”

  Our granddaughter, Giulia arrived one snowy day in February, a beautiful baby with huge brown eyes and a mop of jet black hair. After that, the garden became a memory because I had no more free afternoons. When I wasn’t writing, preparing or giving lessons, I was admiring my granddaughter growing from a contented baby into an inquisitive toddler.

  “Mum, guess what, Giulia’s going to have a baby brother or baby sister.” Alex’s smile said it all. Now it was my turn to smile.

  “Did you know already?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just that the plant on the stairs flowered and grew another shoot when Giulia was on the way and the same thing has happened again.”

  ‘I’ll have to call it the Life Plant,’ I thought to myself.

  Fabio made his debut in May and although he had a more difficult birth than his sister, he soon made up for it. I now had two grandchildren to keep me busy and I decided that it was time to invest in the Internet so that I could send emails and photos and Skype my family in England. Naturally, I asked Ivan who not only set it up but patiently talked me through it, as well. When I received a digital camera for my birthday, I was soon printing off photos, enlarging them, emailing them, you name it, I did it. Alex and Lorena gave me a Digital frame for Christmas, so I could put my photos on it and then slip it in my bag to show my friends.

  Not long afterwards, Elisa introduced us to her boyfriend, Cristian who lived in the next village and we met his parents: Giuliana and Federico and his three brothers and their families. This naturally involved more Skyping, more photos and more emails to send to my family and for some reason, I earned the nickname Techno Mum.

  24

  All in the Name of Sant’Antonio!

  “Prendi, porta tu la croce,” Milena said, passing the heavy ornamental cross into my hands.

  “Va bene,” was all I could say. I could hardly believe what was happening as we filed out of church. For years, I’d watched the women who play a fundamental part in the church festival in June, lead the procession around the village to celebrate Sant’ Antonio, the patron saint of Piussogno. Now, it appeared, I was to have that honour. It also signalled the fact that I had been fully accepted into the community. Raising the cross, I walked solemnly ahead of the statue, thinking back to the impact I’d made on the people when I first arrived.

  Michele had not only brought a foreigner to Piussogno but an Inglesina who was also a confirmed Protestant – for the locals, not being Catholic meant I couldn’t be a Christian. I assured them I was and if and when we had children, they would be baptised as Catholics. Peace reigned once more in the village and in time, Alex and Elisa attended catechism lessons and I even became a catechist.

  “I’ve been asked to prepare a group of children for their First Communion,” I told Michele when he came home for lunch.

  “So? What’s the problem?”

  “Well, I’m Protestant, for one thing,” I said, handing him a plate of pasta.

  Don Giulio had finished his period of ten years in our parish and had been sent elsewhere. Don Paride had taken his place and had met Alex first when he acted as altar server for Sunday Mass.

  “This is my mum – she’s Protestant.” Alex had introduced me to the new priest at the end of the service.

  “Piacere,” he smiled down at me before adding, “Protestanti o Cattolici, abbiamo lo stesso Dio.” Yes, I thought, we do have the same God.

  I took to him immediately which is why I found myself in this present dilemma – I hadn’t had the courage to say no when he asked me to become a catechist.

  “Certainly, everyone knows you’re Protestant but if they are ‘appy for you to teach their children and the priest is ‘appy – do it.”

  Why was everything so easy for Michele? Several sleepless nights followed before Gaetana sorted me out, together with a dose of common sense from my mum. I mean, it wasn’t that I didn’t know anything about it. Both Alex and Elisa had already taken their First Communion.

  I began my first lesson with six children, with butterflies in my tummy and a very dry mouth, but they proved to be an extremely well-behaved group of nine year olds and I soon relaxed. Once a week, we met for an hour in the church hall and discussed various aspects of Catholicism. Sometimes, Don Paride joined us for the last ten minutes. Before we knew it, the day came for the children to receive their First Communion and I felt privileged to have been an active part of it.

  A few years later, Lory and I prepared a group for their Confirmation. This time, the group was larger and livelier and we were both delighted when the time came for the candidates to be Confirmed and we retired gracefully from the circle of catechists, preferring the ea
sier job of cleaning the church.

  *

  While the children were growing up, I didn’t have much time to dedicate to church affairs but we always went to La Festa di Sant’Antonio, our church festival in Piussogno, which takes place on the second Sunday in June. After the morning service we all watched expectantly as a man climbed onto a chair and began auctioning cakes and wine.

  “Come on, now. Who will pay twenty thousand lire for this cake and a good bottle of red wine?” He shouted out a price and hoped someone else would start bidding. I gathered it was an important part of the festival.

  We went to Vespers at 2.30pm, followed by the procession around the village. Four men had to carry the heavy statue and Michele confided that invariably it involved serious discussions behind the scenes as to whose turn it was that year. When Michele, his brother and cousins had the honour of carrying Sant’Antonio, he told me afterwards that he had had to pay to be one of the chosen four. Seeing the look of shock-horror on my face, he hastened to add that all proceeds went to the church.

  I remember being surprised to see the women leading the procession: one carried a cross and others held huge candles. The statue of Sant’Antonio followed them. Two altar servers flanked the priest who recited prayers through a megaphone. A local church band accompanied the marchers, and traffic came to a standstill as we filed along in the middle of the road. Men stood at strategic points with collection bags which they shook at the marchers if ignored.

  “Let’s go and see what we can get at the pesca,” Michele had said, giving me a fistful of tickets the first time I’d gone to the festival.