Back in Italy I had an uncle I’ll call “Pietro.” Even as a little kid, I understood how selfish, ungrateful, and boorish he was.
Uncle Pietro, from what I saw, was not highly motivated. Whatever he managed to accomplish and obtain in life, it was thanks mostly to his brother, my father, who was generous to a fault with his siblings. As I mentioned in earlier posts, my father originally rented the land on which we lived and which he cultivated. When the landowner decided to divest himself of the properties he owned in our area, he gave my father a very reasonable deal on a good expanse of land. My father kept several acres and practically gave the rest to his siblings.
That is how Uncle Pietro became a landowner. With my father’s help, he even converted an old shack into a house for his family. And still, he complained about not being given more acres. When my father wanted to do some renovations on his own house and expand the living quarters so that we would have more space, the loudest sibling to oppose the plan was Uncle Pietro. Almost any time I saw him, Uncle Pietro had a sour disposition, as if he bore a longstanding grudge against someone, something, or even the world.
And yet, he had a beautiful singing voice. When he and his brothers would be out in the fields hoeing and planting all day, Uncle Pietro would spontaneously break into song. He favored popular music of the day. His gorgeous tenor voice would ring out and carry over the fields, to our home and beyond. He could sing about love and loss with much feeling and yearning. Odd, because anger and annoyance were the only emotions I ever saw him display. Goodness knows how his wife put up with him; maybe Uncle Pietro softened up behind closed doors.
Now that I have several decades of living under my belt I have begun to wonder why Uncle Pietro was the way he was. I always thought that people of my parents’ generation and earlier were satisfied with the simple, country life. They were born, lived their entire lives, and died in the same area. Their family and friends all lived there, too. If they weren’t farmers, they ran grocery stores, bars, and produce or torrone stands. If they saw a kid doing something outrageous or dangerous, they would be sure to tell the kid’s parents. They would see each other in church on Sundays and at the many religious processions and festivals throughout the summer and fall. They would also eat and dance at weddings and pay their respect at viewings when someone died (viewings take place not in funeral homes but in the deceased’s home).
My father – and many others – wanted nothing more than this small, simple life. It suited me fine, as well. But that wasn’t true for my sisters, who were anxious to see what else the world had to offer. It’s also not true for the generation after mine. And maybe it wasn’t true for Uncle Pietro, only, he saw no way out and he suppressed that part of himself.
If Uncle Pietro had been born a few decades later, he might have found a way to be content with his life. I can’t help but imagine what he might have done with his natural musical ability. Singing at weddings and festivals. Entering talent competitions. Making Youtube videos (looking at you, Ed Sheeran!). He might not have struck gold, but I suspect he would have enjoyed himself. And what an example he would have set for his own children on the importance and joy of being true to oneself.
Or maybe he would have shrugged off his talent and become a prickly human being anyway.
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ANTON CIRCLES HIS WORLD 