Back When I Was Younger …

It’s been just over a year since my mum, Maria (Iucci), passed away (June 2024) and thirty-three years (July 1992) since we said our last goodbyes to my dad (Eugenio). No surprises then that I am thinking of ‘back when I was younger …’

Facetiously, one could claim that was just yesterday, and that would be true, but you know what I mean! And when one thinks of one’s parents, who have now both gone, I almost feel a kind of desperation to ask questions about back when I was younger.

The thing is that, as we … mature (!), and especially if we have had a ‘full’ life—I’ve lived in three countries, over twenty houses (rented and owned), had almost as many jobs (at least longer than three months, even if part time)—then, the exact details can become a bit ambiguous.

I’ve said this before, but it’s worth repeating here that when I was interviewing my mum for the first book, Goodbye to Italia, even she became a bit confused regarding information about back when she was younger.

Image above of my dad and I at my wedding in 1987 and with my mum about five years ago.

Specifically, we were sitting outside on the veranda, here in Australia, enjoying an afternoon cup of tea. We were discussing global events during WW2, and she was quite determined that a certain event had happened at a certain time. But upon researching the internet, I gently alerted her to the fact that countless sources identified a different time period. It is essential for any writer to validate the veracity of accounts if placing them against global timelines.

I still recall my mum pursing her lips as she considered this information. She always had her afternoon cup of tea as a weak black tea, with a good slice of lemon and a spoonful of sugar. And at this point, there was silence between us, as she began to grind that spoon of sugar into the lemon slice until it was a syrupy concoction over which hot tea would be poured. As always, she stirred this hot mixture altogether and then start sipping at it as if savouring each mouthful.

With a shrug of her shoulders, she told me to choose whichever path I felt would authenticate the account. I thought it was a very diplomatic way of saying that I could think what I wanted, but she was still certain of the timing in her head.

Sadly, I never really asked her much about why she enjoyed this particular hot bevvy created in this way. 

I have since found out, though, that black lemon tea is a favourite of people who live in Torino (Turin), in the Piemonte region of Italy, where my mum was born and brought up.

My dad also enjoyed tea but a very different version. He liked weak black tea that had a good addition of milk. 

Back when I was younger, I used to grimace at the sight of that watery, creamy white liquid instead of, sadly, asking him why he particularly enjoyed it and from where this habit had originated.

Now, of course, they are both gone, and I cannot ask them …

It is pointless cogitating on these lost opportunities, though, and something as basic as tea preferences probably seems a mundane topic to a lot of people. That’s the thing though, we don’t know what will pop into our heads when we go down that road of ‘back when I was younger …’

Nevertheless, I am so very glad that I did pursue my dream of writing and publishing my parents’ stories. It might not include their tea preferences, but at least it is something I have of them that cannot be forgotten. In the end, as writers, isn’t that what we are looking to create? A legacy, our ‘mark’, that says we are here and even when we forget the specifics, that information will be there as a reminder.

Below is an extract from Goodbye to Italia. The discussion my mum and I had about the timing of certain events is when the bombings began in Torino. It is at the very start of the book and it is not difficult to imagine why this event is seared into my mum’s memory, even if she was a bit confused about the date and her age. #memories #whenIwasyounger #italy #WW2

The first time I hear the drone of aeroplanes, I skip outside to look up into the sky. ‘Get back inside!’ shouts Nonna, dragging me with her as dark, heavy objects fall from the sky. The ground shakes beneath my feet, and booming noises charge the air, which suddenly grows dark and dusty. ‘Mariolina … bambina mia.’ Nonna’s voice trembles and she holds me to her tightly. ‘When you hear that noise, you must run inside and hide.’

‘Why Nonna?’ I look up at her wrinkled face with pursed lips, thankful that she has released me from her fierce embrace.

‘Because, those aeroplanes carry bombs that, when they fall out of the sky, can kill a six-year-old little girl like you who is called Mariolina Martore.’ I look at her disbelievingly. But, as she turns and walks away, I trot after her as she says, ‘Come on, let us go through the shop and see if everything is alright in our apartment.’

We live in a small one-bedroomed flat, my Mamma, Giuseppina, and my Nonna, Maria, after whom I am named. We pass through the shop front of Nonna’s lavanderia, a dry-cleaning business on Via Principe Amadeo in Torino, and out into the hallway. Above me, I hear people treading heavily. Even in here, there seems to be a haze of dust. Nonna coughs as she unlocks the door that opens into a small alcove; this leads into our one-bedroomed apartment on the ground floor.

‘Muoverti. Move!’ exclaims Nonna, as she recaptures my attention away from the noises upstairs. ‘Go on. Go and check the other rooms and see if everything is alright.’