Touching down in Sicily hastened my heartbeat with such anticipation. A place I've heard so much about, a place that intrigues me with its volcano Etna, its stratified history , and a place I'm inextricably linked to through my children's ancestory.
My Dad was in love with this place. He described reaching from the train to the blood oranges around Acireale. He read poetry about Greek gods on the slopes of Etna. And Midnight in Sicily by Peter Robb was a favourite book of his. Also dedicated to my cousin, Wanda Jamrozik.
But meeting Angelo and then his family gave me a taste of something indescribable. In that block of land in Haberfield was fence to fence edible garden with olives, lemons, persimons, macadamia nut tree, grapevine pergola, and vegetables galore, some of which he traded with other Sicilians around Haberfield. The only patch without fruit or vegies was under the Hills Hoist and Nonnas rose garden at the front. They were so resourceful and so industrious.
Nonno once told me 'they gave Angelo a pencil, but they gave me a shovel'. The Sicily they emigrated from in the 1950s was a hard one. Meat was a luxury and they had to produce their own food, and share their resources with their relatives in order to survive. Australia represented a golden opportunity to get ahead. The dream was to work an Orange Orchard on the Central Coast.
Nonna Vecchia had time to talk. Nonna was always cooking. She told me about the old days and the lava flows from Etna that came uncomfortably close at times. And I remember Nonno talking about the war and the Germans and how clever they needed to be. I also remember them talking about remedies, including special mud packs for conditions like Arthritis.
So here I am....here in Sicily. The land of my children's other half.
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