I’ll tell you about the Italy of icicles but without refrigerators
The memory of Francesco Provinciali
When I was little but able to understand things, after doing my homework I went out alone or with friends and stopped to play around the house.
We went by bicycle in the short straight line between the fountain 'd'aegua bronzinna' (of tap water) and the square of the NS Assunta church in Genoa Prà Palmaro.
It was a short ride but to us it seemed like a stage of the Giro d'Italia, it was straight and flat but we saw curves, climbs and descents.
In the early days I used my friends' bikes until my parents bought me one of my own: it cost ten thousand lire and was used but it looked like Gimondi's to me.
When, a few years later, Gino Bartali – who hadn't been running for some time – came to inaugurate the headquarters of a COOP supermarket, I was there, in the front row astride my Bianchi.
My grandmother, a very religious woman, had explained to me the importance of that church: it was 'plebeian', that is, in ancient times it had the largest ecclesial jurisdiction in the district and then had kept that title in the following centuries.
My cycling companions were Seba (Sebastiano) and Davide.
In the home of the former, who was also my classmate in elementary school, I went to play long games in Monopoli but I always lost: he 'bought' land, houses and hotels and punctually sent me to ruin.
We also played with electric trains, with him and me, but his was an expensive Rivarossi and mine a more modest Lima.
Sometimes I would invite him and he would have a big scuffle in my house, with him and my brothers, who were very young at the time.
We jumped repeatedly on an old sofa, making a great noise, until my mom appeared at the door of the room and told us "are you stoners?", And that was the signal to leave it there.
That sofa, which we mistreated like an equestrian circus net, was actually a piece of Lombard antiques, which my parents had disposed of in exchange for an entrance 'trumeau', one of those made in series, to then find it sumptuously refurbished and refurbished, for sale at an astronomical figure in the cabinet shop window.
In addition to the bike, football was also played in the square, but I would have dedicated more time to that occupation later when, growing up, I was admitted to the small circle of initiates who could enjoy that privilege.
In our free time we went to the headquarters of Catholic action: all the kids of my age were enrolled 'ex officio' in the group of 'aspirants': there was soccer, billiards (but that was reserved for those who knew how to do it) and many rooms available where, on Sundays, we also went to catechism.
There weren't many other amusements or opportunities for fun around: my generation grew up like this, in the middle of the street.
We drank at the fountain or at the canes of the farmers but no parent had ever sent a complaint to the ASL to verify the purity of the water: perhaps because the ASL did not yet exist and perhaps because they, our beloved parents, had seen worse during the war.
I remember that at carnival we dressed up with what we found, at most we bought a gun and a sheriff's hat and we had fun like this, without getting bored and without being bullies.
Everyone took part in the parade of the 'carossezzo' (masked parade) and the girls were rewarded for their costumes: they were wearing the disused clothes of their grandmothers but they won by classifying themselves with the noblest livery of “ladies of the 19th century”.
From that point, in front of the seat of the old local town hall which also included the public gardens, where those awards took place, I have a particular memory: once there was a high prelate, positioned at the top of the external stone stairs of the building who, addressing the large audience of children present, I do not have in mind for what circumstance, he had maliciously asked: "Do you prefer the mother you have at home or the one you have in heaven?".
And all in chorus, I was amazed by that momentum, encouraged by the many and many mothers present, they shouted: "the one from heaven!".
I would have liked to raise my hand to say that no, at that moment, I preferred my mother's, the one I had at home but I had not done so, realizing, as so many other times it has happened to me in life, that I would have been looked at badly , sideways, like a misfit.
Thinking back today I think that if the opportunity arose again this time I would speak, but without controversy: just to say that between the two mothers, for a child of that age there shouldn't have been any conflict.
He saw one, and she was the one who was bowling his soup and tucking the blankets and the other, of which at that age he had only vaguely heard about, would have found nothing to complain about his possible more sincere choice.
If the situation were to be repeated today, they would come out in order: privacy, the plurality of beliefs and confessions, interference in state affairs and the Oedipus complex.
Not a century has passed, but this too is a sign of the times.
Around my house, in the internal streets, the ice truck was turning and we hunted it, especially in summer.
In all the houses there were still no refrigerators, they would soon arrive along with the American formica kitchens and stainless steel sinks: they used iceboxes, which did not produce ice but consumed it slowly to preserve food and it already seemed a luxury like that.
This truck was dragging along a line of petulant brats, among whom I was too: as it stopped, it started to attack, like pirates boarding a ship in the roadstead.
The driver was a good-natured one, he never got annoyed and broke small flakes with his punch that we licked until they were consumed: never eaten such good ice lollies.
It was just water, they had neither taste nor color, those sorbets, but the refreshment they allowed was priceless.
Some time later the driver was changed and the new one was not as understanding as his colleague: he would kick us in the ass as he saw us approach the truck.
In the meantime, the trade of real popsicles, branded ones, had begun in the dairies and bars, and they were selling in large quantities: the “Conti” brand and you could win another if you found the words 'you won!' On the toothpick.
My parents were against icicles, they said that they ruined the belly, at the most they allowed me the camillino, the penguin or the cup of the little ones.
Then I ate them away from home and then rinsed my lips well to leave no traces of color.
I remember once a good soul of a woman – God bless her – saw me eating one and, for some reason, ran to tell my mom.
At home I had been subjected to a third degree interrogation and I felt terribly guilty: I liked the popsicle but then it went sideways.
"Have you eaten a cup or a popsicle?" she insisted and I confess that that time I had shamelessly lied: “a cup – I replied – of those with cherry”.
And this was one of the possible sins of the time, perhaps not even easily forgivable.
This is a machine translation from Italian language of a post published on Start Magazine at the URL https://www.startmag.it/mondo/ghiaccioli-infanzia/ on Sat, 30 Jul 2022 06:17:44 +0000.