In the story of fatigue, love and hope among the first Italian I
mmigrants of Rio Grande do Sul
My Grandmother’s Apron
My grandmother always wore the apron. It was not only to keep her dress from getting dirty. Anyone who thinks that has never known the life of the first settlers. An apron, in the days of the colony, was worth more than many expensive things, because it did everything and accompanied the woman from the crowing of the rooster until the fire in the hearth went out. It was always in front of her chest, worn by sweat, by the sun, by the rain and by the years, yet every mend told a story that no one ever wrote down.
When our old people set foot on this land of dense bush, they did not find ready fields, vineyards, stables or vegetable gardens. There were only big trees, thorns, stones and hard work. The axe rang from morning until evening and every trunk that fell seemed to say that hope still had the strength to walk. But while the man was clearing the bush, the woman kept the family standing. And the apron was always there, like a companion that never complained.
With the hard work the sweat ran down even over the eyes, and the apron served to wipe the face. When homesickness for Italy squeezed the heart, that same apron dried tears that no one was meant to see. There was no shame in crying, but our old people had little time for it. The work always demanded more than the body could give.
How many times I saw the old women gather up apples, pears, potatoes, beans and ears of corn in the corners of the apron, turning that cloth into an improvised bag. How many times I saw it hold two warm eggs, a few pieces of bread or a handful of nuts to take to the children. And how many other times it served to grasp the handle of the pot, to lift the polenta cauldron from the fire or to move a saucepan without burning the hands. There was nothing that could not be done with a well-tied apron.
But the greatest task of that apron was not to carry things. It was to carry love. It covered the child who had caught a chill, cleaned his hands dirty with earth, stopped the blood from some scrape and, afterwards, with a caress, made the crying pass as well. If the mother had little to put on the table, the apron could not make more bread appear, but it could hold together the dignity of a family that asked nothing of anyone.
The women of the colony left no books, made no speeches and not even their names remained written on the stones. Their memory stayed inside the houses, in the smell of the bread, in the polenta that boiled slowly and in the mends of an apron worn by years of hard work. They built towns without drawing attention to themselves, they raised the children, they kept the faith alive and they learned to smile even when the heart felt like crying.
Today, when I look at an old apron hanging behind a kitchen door, I do not see only a piece of cloth. I seem to see my grandmother’s hands still moving, I smell the wood fire, the bread just out of the oven and the polenta steaming on the table. I seem to hear the silence of those distant years, when a family’s wealth was not measured by money, but by the strength to keep going even after a day that seemed never to end. Perhaps history remembers the men who opened roads, felled the bush and raised the first houses. I, instead, believe that without the apron of our grandmothers not one of those undertakings would have been possible. Because so many times it is the simplest things that, without making noise, hold the world up.
Author’s Note
I wanted to write this chronicle because, so many times, the true story is not in the great deeds that everyone remembers, but in the little things that time has almost made us forget. A woman’s apron for many people seems only a piece of cloth, but for me it is a document of flesh and hard work, able to tell the life of the first immigrants better than many photographs or many books. The families who cleared the bush and made our towns be born left few written things, but they left signs that even today can be read with the heart. An apron worn by work speaks of poverty, of courage, of faith, of a mother’s love and of that silent sacrifice that kept whole generations standing. If we do not gather these memories today, tomorrow nothing will remain but names and dates, while the true soul of the colony risks being lost forever. This chronicle is a work of imagination, but its essence comes from the memory of many Italian families who made the apron an inseparable companion of every day. If, after reading it, someone remembers grandmother’s apron, the smell of the hearth or an old family photograph, then this piece of memory will have found its place and its meaning.
Dr. Luiz Carlos B. Piazzetta
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