I was close to my father, Francesco. I followed him around to his workshop and his garden, where, much to my mother’s chagrin, my hands, shoes, and pretty little dresses ended up speckled with top soil and sawdust. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t mind getting dirty
It’s so dark in here that I all I can see is my breath. Well, if I had any. Breath, that is. I stand guard and listen and wait until the doors open and I’m allowed out, to do my duty, mark my time, and hope that, even
One of the many liberating things about being retired is the absence of annual performance reviews. Unless I count my grandchildren assessing my baking or grading my ability to draw a unicorn or some other complicated creature. I had an intense dislike of performance reviews in my work life. I
I grew up in my grandfather’s house. He was not easy. My dad’s father was a very old-fashioned Italian, authoritarian type. My grandmother was cold and quiet, but she passed when I was very young and I have few memories of her. My grandfather though, was a memorable
I used to kill hostas. I didn’t intend to murder plants, but I managed to kill even the supposed unkillable ones. I come from a line of fine gardeners but that didn’t help. My last name became “Gardner” when I married. That didn’t help, either. By the
I wasn’t allowed to have boy friends when I was little and my parents were even reluctant to allow me to go to a friend’s house, unless it was an Italian friend. They were in short supply in my neighbourhood though, and any that were the right nationality
My dad was always my biggest cheerleader. He worked as a labourer at our small town’s major employer after immigrating to Canada from Italy in the late 1940’s. While he was proud of me no matter what, he was especially proud when I landed a summer job in
“But don’t you love the colour?” This used to be a common inquiry directed my way by male salespeople when my husband and I went car shopping. They deferred to my husband, Rob, for all the decision making and they ignored me unless the topic was the all important
On a trip to Italy a number of years ago, my cousins invited me to witness a young woman defend her thesis at the University of Trieste, located on the beautiful northern Italian seaside. She was related to my cousin by marriage and while I didn’t know her, I’
I’m not the most sure-footed person. When I vacation, I love to explore and discover new things but not at the risk of injury or embarrassment. I am on vacation, after all. I know the most exquisite views are sometimes only accessible from a path fraught with peril and
I shudder at the thought of attending improv shows where people get picked out of the audience at random. I’m fine with public speaking as long as I know my topic, have ample opportunity to prepare, and there are no professional tricksters waiting to trip me up for the
When my husband proposed to me, about a month before Christmas, I accepted with one condition. I was a bit old-fashioned and insisted he ask my father’s permission, in person. I wouldn’t even wear the ring until he did. We lived five-hundred miles away from our families at