Memories

By Giovanna Tricarico

What is our life if not a collection of memories? This, I wouldn't call it a book, but rather a collection of memories. It is the lived experiences that each of us jealously treasures in our memories. I have had an intense life, but I don't regret it because living means accumulating experiences that, obviously, cannot belong solely to the realm of happiness. However, I have personally witnessed that it is the toughest and most painful experiences that teach us something positive and make us grow. Every single memory described in these pages is real and still alive within me. It has been beautiful to relive and accompany young Giovanna, which is myself, during the years of her growth. At this moment in life, I felt ready to share my memories with others, confident that those who choose to read them can draw strength and courage from them to live their own lives. Never surrender to adversity but fight relentlessly to strive for happiness, for there is the imponderable that, for me as a believer, comes from above.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Giovanni Ricco
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215552322

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Memories by Giovanna Tricarico

Published by Giovanni Ricco

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© Copyright 2023 Giovanni Ricco

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All paintings in this book are by Giovanna Tricarico

Index

Preface

Childhood: Grandmother Maria

The First Day Of School

My Dolls

Aunt Annina

Sunday Morning

The Mina Shoes

The Christian Democratic (DC) Party

Gita In Lucania

My Father’s Attendant

Milk

Being a Chaperone

The Little Newspaper

The Little Thieves

Sisterly Love

Mischief At Boarding School

Christmas

Dad’s Tombola Game

The Boarding School

The Library

The College Celebration

Altruism - Egoism: A Personal Reflection

The EPIPAFFIO

The Discovery of a New World

The Suitors

Adolescence

My First Dance - The First Suitor

First Love

Matteo's Maternity

Matteo

Giovanni

The Widowhood

The Lost Sheep

Work

The Rehabilitation Center

The Graduation of Giovanni

My Grandson Enrico

The Loss of a Child

My Grandson Lino

My Granddaughter Emilia

Starting Over: The House on Epifania Street

Daniele: My Second Husband

Stefano: My Third Husband

The Heart Attack

The Transfer to Emilia Romagna

Memories

Preface

Now that I am a seventy-year-old woman and have traveled a significant part of my journey, I wanted to look back and understand how and when my life began, or rather when I became aware of myself. I will take a backward journey through time to delve into the depths of my memory and retrieve the earliest and most significant recollections of my life.

Childhood: Grandmother Maria

My very earliest memories are just flashes. I see myself as a child sitting on a little potty in a large white kitchen. I look up, and there's an elderly woman next to me, dressed in dark clothes with huge skirts, her gaze filled with melancholy. That woman was my paternal grandmother, Maria, who lived with us at that time. She wore the traditional costume from her village in Lucania, which was called the vestito da pacchiana. Since she passed away in '55, I must have been around three years old.

The First Day Of School

Another flash; I see myself in a large courtyard with many children. It's an unfamiliar place, and I feel lost. My father is holding my hand; he accompanied me, which was a rare occurrence. Detached and strict as he is, he didn't notice my discomfort, and I dare not complain or ask him any questions. I'm so agitated and frightened that I vomit my entire breakfast, and my father gives me a reproachful look. That was my first day of school.

My Dolls

My dear dolls, there were five of them, all girls. I wished so much that at least one of them would be a boy. I had inherited four of them from my older sisters, but the most beautiful one, whom I named Gabriella, blonde with blue eyes, was a gift from La Befana for me. My dolls represented my world; they were my loyal playmates. Even though I had two older sisters, I always played alone. I don't remember them ever joining my games. Mariella, the eldest, was seven years older than me, and Grazia, only four. Perhaps they felt grown-up compared to me, and it saddens me to remember that we shared very little during our childhood.

My favorite game was playing mommy. In the morning, my sisters were at school, and I had the living room all to myself. That room became the stage for my games; with my imagination, I transformed it into whatever I desired. It was the kitchen where I prepared lunch, the park where I took my dolls for a walk, the market where I went grocery shopping. I did everything I saw my mother do, unconsciously preparing myself for the most beautiful role in the world, that of being a mother!

Aunt Annina

This memory dates back to when I was about five years old, and for the first time, my parents left home, entrusting my sister Grazia and me to Aunt Annina, my mother's aunt who served as a grandmother figure in the family. Mom and dad went to the Marche region, accompanying my eldest sister, Mariella, who was going to boarding school for the first time. I sensed that my sister wasn't enthusiastic about it; in fact, she seemed rather upset by this choice, probably not shared by her. However, her perpetually frowning and discontented expression made it difficult to understand her emotions. She hardly spoke, and thankfully so because she only addressed me to scold me and give me orders, asserting her authority as the older sister. She no longer shared our bedroom; I don't know if it was her choice or not, but she had moved to the dining room, where she slept on the green leather sofa. She secluded herself in that room all day, locking the door because she didn't want to be disturbed. Even our mother had to ask for permission whenever she needed to enter the room. Mariella would only leave the room to go to the bathroom or sit at the table, making sure to close the door behind her as if hiding a treasure.

Uncle Franco, Aunt Teresa's husband, my mother's only sister, had given her the nickname peramara, meaning bitter in behavior and character, like an unripe pear. After my parents' departure, Grazia and I moved to Aunt Annina's house for a few days. When we woke up in the morning and got out of her bed, as high as a catafalque, and went to the kitchen, we were amazed to find a richly set table for breakfast. We knew how frugal and, let's be honest, stingy she usually was. But I was even more astonished to see Aunt Annina in tears; it had never happened before. When she was young, she had been nicknamed the marshal in the family and had maintained an authoritative and tough demeanor over the years. So seeing her in tears was astonishing to me. While my sister was indulging at the table, enjoying the breakfast, I asked Aunt Annina worriedly what had happened to her. She explained that she was saddened by Mariella's departure, that she would miss her deeply because Mariella was born in that house, in her bed, and Aunt Annina loved her from the very beginning as if she were the daughter she had never had. Those words paralyzed me, causing the first sharp disappointment of my, albeit brief, life. I had always thought, for some reason, that I was her favorite niece, and that declaration unsettled me. I remember my reaction vividly; I withdrew into myself. I was confused because I was experiencing feelings and sensations I had never felt before. I wasn't jealous of my sister; that was still an unknown sentiment for me. But I was profoundly disappointed in Aunt Annina. Unlike my sister Grazia, I didn't touch anything from the breakfast she had prepared. I refused to eat not only because I was shaken but also because I wanted to punish my aunt, who was completely unaware of my emotional state. She was saddened that I didn't appreciate what she had prepared and, I suppose, doubly disappointed by what she had spent.

Sunday Morning

Another childhood memory takes me back to Sunday mornings when my sister Grazia and I would go to church to attend the 10 o'clock mass, known as the children's mass. "On Saturday evening, we would prepare our little purses, putting inside them the essentials for the next day: the prayer booklet with the mother-of-pearl cover, which I still have, a little box containing the rosary beads, a white veil to put on our heads, lace gloves, and an embroidered muslin handkerchief. On Sunday mornings, before leaving the house, it was always me who asked my mother for a coin to offer as a donation during the Holy Mass, and she invariably told me to take it from the candy dish placed on the dresser in her room, where she usually kept loose change. In my imagination, that candy dish was a small treasure chest, as it contained many 5-lire coins, some 10-lire coins, and very rarely, exceptionally, even the golden and smaller 20-lire coins.

I confess that sometimes, actually more than sometimes, I couldn't resist and instead of the usual 5-lire coin that was granted to me, I took a 10-lire coin from the candy dish and occasionally even a 20-lire coin. What did I do with them? I gave them to my sister, who being older, managed them. She put a part of it in the offering basket, and with the rest, we bought ice cream. We would go to Bar Gallo, the most elegant ice cream parlor in the neighborhood, and we could choose cones with even two different flavors if we had the 20-lire coin, otherwise, we had to settle for the grattata, crushed ice with syrup on top, bought from the Aurora kiosk at the corner of the street. I was the one pulling off the maneuvers since the initiative came from me. My sister Grazia was more calm, accepting my mischiefs and covering for me by maintaining absolute silence. I was never caught, or perhaps, thinking about it now, my dear mother, always indulgent with us, if she had noticed, would have pretended not to.

So on Sundays, after listening to the Latin mass, as was customary in the '60s, and as usual not understanding a thing and getting bored as a result, we would treat ourselves to a stroll before going back home. A mandatory stop, and our preferred one, was Bar Gallo, or as an alternative, the Aurora kiosk. Rarely was it a double-flavored cone; more often it was the grattata. Nonetheless, whether it was a cone or a grattata, Grazia and I were happy in both cases.

The Mina Shoes

It was the Easter season, and it was customary for my mother