Every morning in our early days on the farm, Matthew
watched Zio Silvio as he went into the barn to milk the cows. Matthew couldn’t
talk much. At nineteen months he had not yet put words together to make
sentences, but with his single words, his energy, and his will-power, he made
it absolutely clear that he wanted to go into the barn with Silvio as he had
done once before. Cries of “Zio! Cow!
Cow!” bounced off the kitchen walls as he banged at the balcony window, or
around the courtyard as he tried to run over to the barn. We told him no, not
until Zio Silvio invited him again, because the cows were too dangerous. Later,
Matthew watched longingly as Zio Silvio revved up his tractor, backed it out
from the portico and drove around our house and down the hill to his fields.
Each afternoon we could hear the sound of the tractor again as it puttered back
up the steep road. Matthew recognized that sound and would clamor to go downstairs
to wait for it.
In the late afternoon, George's father usually sat in a chair facing the courtyard outside his kitchen, sipping his wine, stroking the cats, and watching
the whistling swifts dive-bomb anything that came close to their nests in the eves of the barn. Matthew
stood next to his grandfather's chair and stutter-stepped with excitement as
the sound of the tractor grew louder and louder. His grandpa kept one hand on
him to restrain him from running out, but the noise of the engine was both
attractive and scary, so Matthew alternated between pulling forward and hanging
back. As the loud chug of the motor echoed off the barn across from them, he
responded with an enormous grin.
Finally the tractor appeared at the corner. It was
like a tank, with a huge track along either side. The narrow, noisy engine was
painted a bright orange and Zio Silvio sat right behind it in an open cab. Usually
it pulled a piece of equipment—a plough, or a flatbed trailer for men and
produce. Zio Silvio would stop, idle the
engine, then smile directly at Matthew and crook his finger at him. Matthew,
calm and determined once he knew his time had come, clutched his grandfather’s
hand and pulled him forward. My father-in-law hobbled slowly to the driveway
and hoisted Matthew up into Zio Silvio’s ready hands. Silvio nestled him close
on the bucket seat, circled his arm around Matthew onto the steering wheel,
and gently let out the clutch. Matthew’s
joy radiated in his face as they chugged slowly across the courtyard and
into the open portico.
After Zio lifted him down, he would offer his left
little finger so Matthew could hold onto it. Zio Silvio, slender and dressed in the rough
clothes and heavy shoes of his workday, would bend slightly so that he could reach
Matthew’s hand, and smiled gently, his eyes crinkling below his thinning light
hair. Matthew, solid chunky legs in shorts, overalls or corduroy pants, stretched up to
grip his great-uncle’s finger. His satisfied grin lit up his face, and the faces of
all who saw the two of them as they walked back across the courtyard together. Matthew
never tired of the excitement of that little ride. I had had a wonderful
relationship with my grandparents, and as I watched Zio Silvio with Matthew, I
was delighted to see the strong bond build between the older and younger generations.
Neither could speak the other’s language, but they didn’t need words to
communicate.
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| The only photo of Matthew clutching Zio Silvio's finger--minus Zio Silvio. (It seemed rude to point a camera at while he was in work clothes.) |
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