“Nono”… (Grandfather)

The meeting's place to listen to the fascinating stories about the life of the Nono changed according to the seasons of the year. In spring and summer, we would gather under the vine covering three-thirds of our grandparents' house courtyard. With time, those dozens of different vines, with their characteristic climbing instinct, covered an extension of about fifty meters long by another ten meters wide. I remember that measurement quite accurately. The vines planted on both sides of the wooden structure had become intertwined. The vines turned the orchard into an imposing gazebo illuminated by the leaves' colours, ranging from light green to yellow in summer.

In the middle of spring, we saw the bunches of flowers emerging from the vines, which, as the weeks went by, transformed themselves into admirable bunches of grapes. By late summer, the grapes had ripened and became an evil temptation for us grandchildren.

-You cannot pinch the grapes while they are in the ripening metamorphosis because they spoil," said grandfather with a mocking smile.

The speech made of the Nono the knowledge that we were dying to try some white grapes, black grapes, rosé muscatels, and the most coveted and delicious of all: cocos de Gallo. The latter is a type of white grape, translucent, elongated shape, like a drop of water that spreads out without dividing. This is how we saw them at that time of the year, gilded by the complicity of the dry air and the intense sun of the valley of Santiago.

From a very young age, our grandfather taught us the art of raising land snails, the famous French Escargots. The first thing we used to do in the spring was to search for them in the gardens around the house. It was not difficult to find the snails, especially if they were past their hibernation stage, which lasted from April to October. After this time, they would wake up and come out of their burrows in herds. They crawled slowly searching for some herbs to eat. They would burst in after the warm spring sun until they reached the required temperature for their crystallized bodies after such a long sleep. For us, this was one of the most exciting and fun games. Whenever any of the cousins found one, including me, I would give a tremendous shout of excitement.

-Nono, I found one," said the one who had the luck of the moment.

The excited hunter would run off, carefully, holding the critter in his hands to deposit it in its new abode. The habitat created was a wooden box covered with a grid on top, which the Nono built for this purpose. The packages covered with a layer of sawdust and fig leaves. The snails introduced into this unfamiliar environment to begin cleaning and purifying the slime. We would find the snails necessary for a sound feast in two days. Cleaning the snails, which coiled in a spiral at the back end, takes about five to six days. We examined the boxes every morning to see how the breeding of this variety of gastropods was progressing. Sunday was the feast day. Early in the morning, preparations began for the Italian cooking of these strange and desirable animals.

I am the grandson of a Genoese sailor, born on Monday, March 25th, 1895, in Santa Margherita, Chiavari, the fifth province of Liguria. Emmanuelle Ghio Ghio was tragically orphaned in early childhood. His aunts raised him until he was a teenager. At an incredibly early age, he joined the army. He sent to Libya in Africa to fight in the Italo-Turkish war in the military. A careful and neat man, he could survive that storm of risks and found the time to bring up a family from which a litter of grandchildren was born, whom he welcomed with pleasure in the recreation he chose to live.

During autumn and winter, the place to hear the Nono's stories move to a corner of the living room of that big house. We would take refuge in the side of the room. We would make an intimate circle in the middle of a charcoal brazier, to which he would put orange peels to scent the encounters. He tucked us in nicely, but it was a futile attempt against that Antarctic cold. After listening to Nono's stories, immersed in his tales, I thought that South American ice would penetrate deep into our bones and produce those painful and annoying chilblains that one suffers so much when one is a child.

The room overlooked the courtyard of the residence, from where there was a broad panoramic view through huge windows. In the afternoon mist, we could make out the pavilion with the bare trunks of the vines, which the Nono had carefully pruned before the onset of winter. That view reminded us that the severity of the Chilean winter had arrived. The room decorated in the center of the main wall with a watercolour’ picture of Nono's parents. The other walls with goblins were brought from Italy, as was the furniture.

The appointment with grandfather always took place at four o'clock in the afternoon, before the "onces" It is customary to have tea with some sandwiches and cakes in Chile at five o'clock in the afternoon. This is call “onces." The Chilean "onces" is a tradition that dates to the nineteenth century and began during a period of alcohol prohibition. To combat the harsh ravages of their work, the saltpeter workers took their afternoon snack with a drink of "onces," the term with which they named the eleven letters that make up the word aguardiente.

Nono's stories were a sacred ritual for the grandchildren who passionately admired this tall man, at least one meter eighty-five centimetre’s tall, fleshy, and with white hair. In a mixture of Italian and Spanish, he would narrate the transitions of his life. All of us grandchildren, always close to him, listened attentively to these moving stories. Among other behaviors, we grandchildren learned the art of waiting patiently because day after day, we took turns to occupy the most coveted place in the appointment: to listen to him sitting on his knees and hugging him. During the narration, no noise or interruption allowed of anyone who dared to break this solemn atmosphere punished with a "tatequieto," which is nothing more than a tremendous slap on the head and the corresponding "huevón,” stop disturbing. This reprimand was given to anyone.

He reminisced about his childhood in Santa Margherita. He would describe this charming town with its abundance of flowers and beautiful gardens, with the Ligurian Sea as its boundary. Not only that, but he would teach us in Italian the lyrics of traditional folk songs from that region of Genoa; we would enthusiastically memorize those melodies and then sing them together. About his stay in Africa, he would tell us about his incredible exploits, accompanied by the magic of his voice. Such was the degree of understanding with the existence of this man, an example of life, that he put us in the middle of each combat where he had fought in the war between Italy and Turkey. I imagined, or instead, I saw him wearing his helmet, carrying his rifle with bayonet, running crouched in the desert, shooting at the enemy. I felt incredible happiness when I realized that the Nono had escaped the battle unscathed. At the time, I was no more than six or seven years old, so my prolific child's mind produced a world of expectation as I delved into all these legends. On that mysterious dark continent, he fell ill.

-I contracted malaria and cared for by some’s nuns of Charity, who saved my life," he told us.

One afternoon, it was time to tell us about the journey that Italian immigrants made from Europe to America. My Nono, like everyone else, had to set sail by boat from Italy, which is like a boot stretched out on the Mediterranean Sea, cross the Atlantic Ocean, and arrive in Argentina, where he began his search for a better life. He told us about the hardships these Italians faced during a journey at sea that lasted almost three months. Particularly in my case, my grandfather and his stories were the living images that I found when I was older, in the sad embodiment described in depth by Edmundo de Amicis (Italy, 1846-1908) in his book Heart. Inevitably, they come to mind, even as an adult. My soul has still torn apart, and tears flow profusely every time I reread that heart-rending narration of the book of the de Amicis entitled "From the Apennines to the Andes. "Then the closeness with that beloved grandfather becomes even more inseparable.

In Buenos Aires, he stayed with relatives for a fleeting time because he disliked the city. From there, he decided to take another ship and cross the Strait of Magellan to Valparaíso. He stayed in that port where he could contemplate the enormous force of the Pacific Ocean and surrounded by hills, lifts, bars, writers, poets, painters, bohemians, sailors, and whores. In that part of the world, he met Miss Domitila Suárez Arredondo, whom he married.

The young couple moved to Viña del Mar. In the garden city of Chile, they opened an Italian silk shop with a capital of five gold Lire. Six children were born to the Ghio Suárez couple: five women and one man. They were Rina Clara Lucy, Nelly Agustina, Tila Edith, Violeta Mafalda and Jenny Isabel Cristina. And he, Victor Manuel, was Uncle Tato. Nineteen grandchildren were delivered to the Ghio Suárez family.

That complement of the Nono called Doña Tila, the Nona, from early in the morning, accompanied by two girls from Araucanía, dedicated her day to preparing different recipes. Of course, all of them were Italian dishes that would also impress the grandchildren's taste buds. There were always grandchildren in the Nonos' house, even on holiday. I remember Marcela and Rosa, originally from Quepe, in Temuco, Mapuche`s land, south of Chile. They came to their grandparents' house at an early age on behalf of their parents. They lived with the Ghio Suárez family for more than fifteen years. Under the loving guidance of the Nona, they grew into magnificent and expert ladies of Italian cuisine. As teenagers, they made their lives in Santiago. They married a little late in life, as those times demanded, not to say old. Both were taken to the altar to swear the obligatory Catholic betrothal ritual. Love until eternity, through thick and thin; of course, all with the full consent of the Nono, whom their parents had entrusted with their care.

Marcela marred whist a Carabinero. The Rosa married hit a wrestling warrior. A "cachascán" gladiator, a term that comes from Catch as Catch Can, an expression that in English means "catch as catch can." The evenings of this sport, with circus overtones, were held at the legendary Caupolicán`s theater, located on San Diego Street, one block before reaching Matta Avenue. Phew, every event well lived is a world of memories into which one plunges with passion. But back to the house of the nonos, there the little descendants never agreed on what they wanted to eat. Of course, that didn't matter much to her; that woman with the deep green eyes, now grown up and taciturn, indulged with immense affection each of the grandchildren's every whim.

Lunch served when the noon cannon sounded at twelve noon, not a few minutes before or a few minutes after. There, seated at the table ten minutes before the appointed time, we men, and women from three generations would eagerly wait to gather. The Nono was always at the head of the table, Uncle Tato on his right, and the grandchildren, according to their ages, followed the only uncle. And then, to taste the different dishes prepared à la carte with so much love by the Nona.

Nona did not sit at the table; she attentively watched the family from a corner with her hands in the pockets of an apron. I try to guess her thoughts as I recall Nona's face with wistful satisfaction. I do not doubt her happiness. It was an introspective placidity. I always noticed her reflection, as if she had been meditating. I try to infer; she sensed that her passage through this human life, which is so short, was going to be fleeting. During lunch, she approached each of her grandchildren, stroked their hair, kissed them on the forehead, and patted them on the back. We, the grandchildren, reciprocated the signs of affection with a "nonita." That was the life of Doña Tila, my grandmother.

The day my son left us, on Tuesday, August 30th, I knew that stage of psychology called denial. I could not accept this unknown and new reality whose meaning was that, from that moment on, the man who had provided me with so much security would physically no longer be by our side. I became ill. Furthermore, I did not want to go to his funeral. Loneliness is so great that I still feel it when I think of him. At the same time, however, it has been my grandfather's spirit that has given me strength in life; I receive a sign in the most challenging moments one must face in life's journey.