No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.
- Aesop
There I was, seven years old and back in Italy, the land of my birth. Uprooted from my life in America, I was bundled off to Europe in a rush by my mother so that she could recover and regroup after a traumatic divorce from my father. She needed the support of her family and their simple way of life. She was sad and lonely in America. Now I was feeling the same way in Italy. I was living with my grandparents in their three-hundred-year-old farmhouse in a tiny village high in the mountains north of Florence. My mother, needing medical care and rest, was staying in the city.
I was used to an American way of life. Now, suddenly, I was in a place that had changed little since the eighteenth century, living with people I didn’t know and struggling to understand a language I had never spoken. I was used to television, riding in cars, bright lights at the flip of a switch and indoor plumbing - none of which existed in this village. Here, plows were pulled by oxen, water came in buckets drawn from a spring, and houses were lighted with kerosene lamps. My grandmother cooked in the open fireplace; our bread was baked in the ancient community stone oven. Clothes were washed in the river, and the toilet was a village outhouse.
I missed my father, my bedroom, and all the people and things I was familiar with. I was homesick, lonely and scared. I cried a lot those first few days. My grandparents and everyone else tried their best to ease the transition, but there was no TV to distract me - no toys, games or books. Children played with nature’s ornaments - stones, pebbles, sticks and the like. The people of the village were all subsistence farmers. Days were spent growing, harvesting, storing, preparing and eating food. The old farm-houses were furnished with only the barest necessities. Life was simple, uncomplicated, lived at the most basic level - but for me, it was, in a word, miserable.
One chilly fall day, my grandfather, Nonno Beppe, announced that he was going to walk down the mountain (indeed, he had no other way to go) and into the town of Baragazza, which had modern conveniences like electricity, running water and shops. I was made to understand that the purpose of his trip was to bring back a special gift for me. Perhaps I was starting to adjust to my new life just a little because this stirred my interest, and I felt a tinge of excitement. Although I didn’t understand why, things suddenly didn’t look quite so bleak and lonely. My seven-year-old mind began to hum with anticipation. What could this special gift be?
It was a long trudge down the mountain on a trail. Because of the great distance and time involved, such trips were infrequent, never taken on the spur of the moment, and always had multiple purposes. But on this day, Nonno Beppe’s trip was just for me. Nonno Beppe knew exactly which shop to visit. He had carried fresh vegetables down the mountain. These he traded for not one, but two, gifts, which he carefully placed in the inside pockets of his heavy wool coat, one on either side. Then he prepared for the long trek home.
Walking back up the mountain took more time than going down. Although the air was cold by now, Nonno Beppe was sweating and had to rest often, but he knew my gifts were safe in his inside pockets. It was after dark when he finally reached home, and the whole extended family - aunts, uncles and cousins - had gathered around the fireplace in anticipation of his return. When he burst through the door, he was flushed with excitement. I jumped up and down as he opened his coat, reached into his pockets and pulled out... two small, gooey sticks.
For a brief moment we looked at each other in surprise. I thought, What’s special about these messy little sticks?
He must have thought, They were ice cream when I put them in my pockets.
My uncles, who were a bit more familiar with twentieth-century delicacies, burst out laughing. They immediately understood that the ice cream had melted in the warmth of Nonno Beppe’s pockets. My grandfather had never sampled ice cream in his whole life. His only thought was for me. He was certain that ice cream would make his little granddaughter, used to American luxuries, feel at home. As we started to grasp what had happened, everyone began laughing hysterically - including me.
I didn’t get any ice cream, but somehow, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t explain it then, but at that moment, something wonderful happened. In all the hilarity, I was transformed. My inner turmoil was replaced by a feeling of peace. I understood that these people loved me so much - really loved me and were there for me.
The real gift I got from Nonno Beppe that day was the knowledge that what we do for others is not as important as caring enough to try. The ice cream might have been eaten and forgotten, but because it melted in the loving warmth of my grandfather’s coat, I’ve had Nonno Beppe’s greater gift every day of my life.
- Susanna Palomares