When I think of my past, Beppe comes to mind. He was of medium height, with very short hair styled in what was then called "All’Umberta," a cut inspired by the King of Italy. He was slim, almost bony, and didn’t say much. He had a gentle way about him—what Italians call "dolce" His eyes were dolci, his gaze was dolce, and he was, at heart, a persona dolce. He adored his grandson—me—and spent countless hours with me whenever he wasn’t working his fields. Beppe was a farmer; he worked as a farmer his entire life.
I can talk about him, about his physicality, but when I think of this man who died many years ago—someone who’s never truly felt gone to me, who walks with me now as he did back then—I realize I can’t say much about what went on inside him. What did he think? How did he feel? Was he happy with his life? What did he make of it all—of his simple place in the world? Did politics ever cross his mind? I’ve never known my nonno. He was my nonno. That’s all. I’ve never considered him as a man.
I do remember one thing he used to say: "Mai fare il passo più lungo della gamba" [1].
That was, probably, how he saw life. And it’s true—many people said Beppe was a persona a modo, a man who knew his place in the world.
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[1] Don’t bite off more than you can chew
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