Dandelions E-Book

Thea Lenarduzzi

• Herausgeber: Fitzcarraldo Editions
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Where, or what, is home? What has it meant, historically and personally, to be 'Italian' or 'English', or both in a culture that prefers us to choose? What does it mean to have roots? Or to have left a piece of oneself somewhere long since abandoned? In Dandelions, Thea Lenarduzzi pieces together her family history through four generations' worth of migration between Italy and England, and the stories scattered like seeds along the way. At the heart of this book is her grandmother Dirce, a former seamstress and a repository of tales that are by turns unpredictable, unreliable, significant. Through the journeys of Dirce and her relatives, from the Friuli to Sheffield and Manchester and back again, a different kind of history emerges. A family memoir rich in folk legends, food, art, politics and literature, Dandelions heralds the arrival of an exceptional writer: bold, joyful and wise.

Leseprobe

‘Beautifully observed and written with heart and an infectious curiosity, Thea Lenarduzzi’s Dandelions parses the complex ways in which we live out our histories and carry the past within us, through ritual, food, language and legend. Like rifling through an overflowing drawer or opening an ancient photo album, Lenarduzzi unearths glinting gems of family fiction, introducing us to a shifting cast of memorable characters whose journeys, stories and passions it’s our joy to share.’

— Francesca Wade, author of Square Haunting

‘In this subtle and elegant family memoir, Thea Lenarduzzi gathers the ghost seeds between her present life in England and her family’s past in Italy. A meditation on roots, inheritance and homesickness, Dandelions is also a reminder that what will survive of us is love.’

— Frances Wilson, author of Burning Man

‘Dandelions is spellbinding. Like the polished beads of a secular rosary, each bearing a remembrance, Lenarduzzi’s ancestral memoir conjures intimate histories of migration, love and loss across decades of passages between Italy and England. Her redoubtable grandmother Dirce will lure you in, as she unfolds fragmentary myths with a sly wit, whispering ascolta, “listen” – and you won’t resist.’

— Anna Della Subin, author of Accidental Gods

‘Dandelions is a beautiful, precise and exceptionally intelligent family memoir. In it, Lenarduzzi carefully detangles a complex web of interlocking stories, which she finds to be threaded through with warmth, aspiration and hope. In the figure of Dirce we find a kind-hearted grandmother and compendium of stories both – offering wisdom and familial mythology like a Friulian oracle. Dandelions marks the arrival of a stunning new voice.’

— Cal Flyn, author of Islands of Abandonment

‘This charmingly candid account of the tensions between an English present and an Italian past is also a fascinating family saga, teeming with idiosyncratic life and bringing with it a chunk of history that still conditions both countries today.’

— Tim Parks, author of The Hero’s Way

‘Local dialects, language and superstition, Mussolini, Red Brigades and the trials of immigration are woven through this captivating family memoir as it chases a home across three generations of movement between Italy and England and back again. Lenarduzzi transmutes conversations with a formidable grandmother into a prose of many textures and inflections, giving us a story that is as as rich as it is gripping.’

— Lisa Appignanesi, author of Everyday Madness

‘Thea Lenarduzzi has written a profoundly evocative, lyrical meditation on family and kinship in their largest sense. A Natalia Ginzburg-inspired wandering through the life of her grandmother in pre-war Italy and post-war Manchester stimulates an exploration of home, homesickness, home truths, and homecomings. Lenarduzzi has an impressively patient capacity for acts of sustained attention: the dandelion will never be the same again!’

— Lara Feigel, author of The Group

‘Dandelions is a book of hauntings, intensely experienced, pierced by occasional terrors, yet irradiated throughout by passionate attachment. Generations of family ghosts wander between Italy and England, their lives summoned from a beloved grandmother’s long memories and the author’s own wide-roaming, often poetic reflections on botany, history and language. Thea Lenarduzzi has spread out before us a feast of sensuous and sensitive, nuanced and deeply appealing testimony to migration, survival, and complicated identities at a time when such thoughtfulness is rare and desperately needed.’

— Marina Warner, author of Inventory of a Life Mislaid

DANDELIONS

THEA LENARDUZZI

Per te, Nonna

Contents

Title PageDedicationI.II.III.IV.V.VI.VII.VIII.About the AuthorCopyright

I.

A woman with a soft brown perm walks slowly through tall grasses, between a Co-op distribution centre and an abandoned warehouse. She is far from Maniago, the small Italian town where she was born, where the plains pucker along the seam of the north-eastern Alps. Her dress – a simple, straight-skirted, below-the-knee affair in muted green polyester with, perhaps, some swirling pattern in a pale yellow – almost blends into the surroundings. You wouldn’t spot her but for the occasional glint of a faux gold button on her cuff and the electric pink and blue of her half-apron, with its deep pockets designed to contain the multitudes of needles, threads, thimbles and safety-pins that are the seamstress’s tools. She stops at irregular intervals and bends over, almost double, to pinch her fingers around clumps of leaves and delicately, decisively, pluck. As she straightens, she pushes handfuls of green into a bag before continuing on her way.

It’s probably mid-morning on a Sunday, not long after Mass at St Robert’s Roman Catholic Church on Hamilton Road, where the priest always stops her after the service to thank her for the cake, ask after the boys, or to see if she would like to help with a new family just settling into the area. Any other day, she’d be curved over the sewing machine. The shops are closed so there aren’t many people about. Those who are tend to look over with furrowed brows and perhaps a shake of the head, before moving on. They’re not sure what this woman is up to – has she lost something? – but they know they wouldn’t be caught dead rooting around where stray cats and dogs and Godknowswhat do their business. Now she is alone, but often there is a boy, too – probably no older than twelve, the age at which he starts to think twice about these family customs. His skin is darker than hers, which has its own subtle olive hue, and this causes him grief at school. They have many names for him.

The woman is my grandmother, mia nonna – sometimes with my father beside her, tugging awkwardly at the shorts she made him – and she is picking dandelions to go with the evening meal. She bobs and weaves between the flowers’ perky heads, dotted like asterisks on a densely annotated page.

This is in Longsight, Manchester, sometime in the late 1950s, and it’s one of my prevailing images of Nonna, who is now halfway through her nineties and living back in Maniago. I wasn’t there, of course, so it’s a kind of fiction implanted through decades of other people’s talk. In the family, the story of Nonna collecting dandelions – tarassaco, in Italian; pestonala, pissecìan or radicèla (derived from radici, roots) in the dialects of her native Friuli – has always carried more weight than fact alone. It’s like a well-worn fable, a matter-of-fact fairy tale that doesn’t accommodate requests for supplementary detail about dates and times, relationships or materials. Che importa?, she says, ‘What does it matter?’; a question some would extend to whole lives and cultures.

All immigrants have narratives in which the mundane is ripe with symbolism, centred on moments in which the difference between them and us, the natives and the newcomers, are somehow distilled. We recycle abstruse parables, pass them down the generations, and find in them nourishment, confirmation of something never fully articulated. We keep the lines of the stories more or less straight, because embellishment, like questions, only complicates.

We Italians know how good gently wilted tarassaco tastes, once tossed with salt, perhaps a splash of vinegar or squeeze of lemon, and the essential olive oil, which, in England, you had to buy from the pharmacy back then (t’immagini? Can you imagine?). The British, on the other hand, do not. Dandelion and burdock is one thing, they’d say, picking weeds from a wasteland, something else entirely. So they think we’re mad and we think they are – they’re missing out. Free food! (That dandelion leaves were once a popular garnish among well-heeled Victorians doesn’t quite fit this particular story.)

There isn’t a family without such stories, in fact, whether they have travelled hundreds of miles from home or only down the road. They are a means by which outsiders and insiders are distinguished, often protracted in-jokes that acknowledge or test closeness, belonging, heredity. In Family Lexicon, Natalia Ginzburg’s restrained and radical novel-memoir, published in 1963, the repeated tales and linguistic tics of her relatives trigger in her and her siblings an immediate falling back

into our old relationships, our childhood, our youth, all inextricably linked to those words and phrases … It takes one word, one sentence, one of the old ones from our childhood, heard and repeated countless times… If my siblings and I were to find ourselves in a dark cave or among millions of people, just one of those phrases or words would immediately allow us to recognize each other.

Experience becomes language becomes story becomes identity, and everyone’s place is settled. Each family has its own ‘dictionary of our past’.

A couple of summers ago, imagining myself as an archivist of family lore, I sat down with Nonna, a thermos of coffee between us on the kitchen table to forestall our having to get up for more, the blinds pulled down against the late morning sun, and the rest of the family shooed. I had warned her it might take hours – I wanted to start ‘at the beginning’, meaning her birth, and proceed from there. But no sooner had I tapped the record button on my phone, its mic propped up against a packet of biscuits, than linear time deserted me. Nonna’s memory was in full bloom and would not be tamed by anything like conventional narrative structures. Like an excited schoolgirl, her stories began and ended abruptly in mid flow; topics were conjoined indiscriminately, little and large weighted equally. Words and names were left hanging like loose threads, sometimes accompanied by a gesture, a shake or nod of the head, a shrug or sigh, ‘Ma Pietro…’, ‘eh, si…’, ‘purtroppo…’ But Pietro, oh yes, unfortunately.

Some stories, prompted by yellowed photographs released from ancient rubber bands as brittle as dried linguine, took shape in increments. ‘He was a local boxer, a friend of a friend,’ Nonna said, pointing at one man who towered above her uncles and cousins and their companions, excitedly arranged either side like a billowing cape. ‘And,’ she placed her finger on one smart, smiling man, ‘my father, here.’ He seemed Lilliputian by comparison. Nonna knew little more than that the shot was taken outside a nearby restaurant, probably sometime in the early 1930s. The local boxer, I later discovered with the help of the internet, was Primo Carnera, the Ambling Alp, the Vast Venetian, back home on a visit from America. At the time, he was the heavyweight champion of the world, the tallest anyone had seen. In 1931, he made the cover of Time magazine. Today he is remembered less for his skill than for his associations – with Benito Mussolini, who saw him as a model of Italian masculinity, and with American mobsters, who took control of his career, and probably his finances, bribed opponents and transformed him into a professional ‘monster’. For my family, though, Carnera is a footnote, asterisked in the main story. ‘He died. I don’t know when.’

*

The dandelion’s ubiquity has made it many things to many people. In medieval Christian art, where flowers represent virtues and concepts (a violet for humility, a pansy for remembrance), the dandelion symbolizes Christ’s Passion and, for reasons obvious to any tender of lawns, the Resurrection. Each seed, white and wandering, is a ghost of the flower that once was, and an apparition of the flower to come, looking for a place of rest. The leaves are often included in the Passover Seder as maror, the ‘bitter herbs’ mentioned in Exodus, to be eaten alongside lamb and unleavened bread; the acrid taste should recall the suffering of the Jews.

Online, a rich seam of blogs and articles extends the identification between the dandelion and the downtrodden or marginalized. In one case the weed provides a ‘simple parable of purpose and self-worth’; elsewhere, its delicate white fuzz is an analogy for the mind transformed by Alzheimer’s disease. In an article on Psychology Today, Greg O’Brien, a writer and psychologist diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s, recognizes in himself the ‘decay of a flowering brain, pollinating the world’. ‘What is a weed?’ he asks, quoting Ralph Waldo Emerson, but ‘a plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered?’. In his late sixties, Emerson himself began to manifest symptoms we would probably now ascribe to the disease – scattered thoughts and forgotten words. Emerson, the man who once described memory as ‘a primary and fundamental faculty, without which none other can work; the cement, the bitumen, the matrix in which the other faculties are embedded’.

In literature, too, the dandelion has provided a fertile metaphor. PhD theses may well have been written about garden imagery in Lolita, a novel introduced by its green-fingered narrator as a ‘tangle of thorns’. The Haze family lives on Lawn Street, where there are ‘pubertal surprises in the rose garden’ and thwarted attempts to meet in the bushes at night. There’s Lolita herself, first spied lolling in the grass, ‘my brown flower’. Consider this passage, which comes immediately after Humbert Humbert compares his pure ‘nymphet’ with her ‘coarse’, ‘ripe’ older sister: ‘I decided to busy myself with our unkempt lawn. Une petite attention. It was crowded with dandelions.’ Here, dandelions are a reminder of time pressing on (most of the flowers ‘had changed from suns to moons’), and of the inevitable contamination of purity – innocence overgrown with experience. By Humbert Humbert’s hand, ‘the dandelions perished’, a short-lived victory in a futile struggle.

Some months ago, a friend, who had patiently listened to me unpack my newfound interest in the dandelion, sent me a link to a story about John H. Wilson, a criminal court judge in Brooklyn, New York, who in 2006 wrote a children’s book in which illegal immigrants are cast as dandelions congregating around a greenhouse. Within the ‘beautiful’ greenhouse are ‘beautiful flowers’, ‘natives’, tended by a ‘Master’ who feeds them ‘only the best food and water[s] them at least once a day with pure, clean, clear water’. The ‘jealous’ dandelions – who are ‘not as healthy. And … not as happy. And it showed’ – seize the chance to project their spores into the greenhouse. They sap the resources, and the natives are divided as to how to deal with the problem: those who would defend their home are criticized by others preaching tolerance, no matter that they too are choking. Finally, the Master returns and cautions his Chosen Ones to fight back. The next wave of seeds are forced to the greenhouse floor where they can’t grow. The dandelions are discouraged and desist. We know this rhetoric well. Wilson’s impartiality as a judge presiding over immigration cases was called into question.

The judge was not wrong, though, to find sympathy between the dandelion – its head heavy with seeds waiting to catch a breeze, settle, take root – and the migrant. It’s a gift of a motif, not least because dandelions, like migrants, ‘get everywhere’, thriving anywhere but the extremes of the poles. Migrant families tend to characterize themselves by a similar perseverance. In 2000, President Bill Clinton, in a speech at a National Italian American Foundation dinner, lauded Italians’ vim and versatility of skill. But what he failed to acknowledge were historic shortcomings and instabilities in the motherland, which made vim and versatility – adaptability – essential. ‘An Italian discovered America,’ Clinton said, ‘another named it.’ Others, he might have added, mined it, built it, shaped its constitution, steered its policies, told its stories, sang its songs, made its clothes, played its sports, acted in its films, and ran its favourite restaurants, bars and cafés. (And some, yes, were mobsters and monsters.)

For immigrants, precariousness is always part of the arrangement; the threat of failure stalks them. Success – measured in terms of exceptional contributions – is generally only observed decades or centuries later, once the dust has settled and there is nobody left to remember whether these newcomers were welcomed, tolerated, or chased away. I think of the old childhood rhyme: ‘Dandelion, dandelion, tell me pray / must I go home or may I stay?’ If all the seeds have been blown off your dandelion by a third puff, breathe easy and unpack your bags.

According to one theory, North America was free of dandelions until the mid-1600s, when the genus was introduced by European migrants who carried seeds in their trunks and pockets, knowing that these would take in whatever ground they encountered and soon grant a steady supply of leaves, for salads and stews as well as various medicines. Nonna, too, describes them as a ‘cure’, self-prescribed for almost any ailment. Another theory has Native Americans using and enjoying the plant long before the first European ships arrived.

Dandelions appear to thrive best in the Mediterranean climate but do very well on the fringes of the tropics and in Central America. Still, whatever the origin, rather than see the dandelion as a resilient golden wonder, people persist in considering it an invader of otherwise pure spaces. The definition of a weed: wild plants that grow where they are not wanted and compete with, and so threaten, the native or cultivated plants. It may seem paradoxical, but if a person is weedy, he or she is feeble, physically inferior, probably dependent on the strength or kindness of others.

The thing about dandelions is they take care of themselves. Once seeds have dropped – sometimes as far as 500 miles from where they began, thanks to a method of flight so complicated that it was only recently discovered – they self-fertilize through apomixis, a compound of the Greek for ‘away from’ and ‘mixing’. This gives rise to hundreds of microspecies of dandelion, each varying slightly depending on the ground in which the seed finds itself. There are 229 microspecies in the British Isles alone, so any given patch of earth can contain dozens of identical-looking flowers, each one distinct but indistinguishable from its parent. This makes it all but impossible to determine matters such as which came first, and there’s something rare and liberating in that.

The Italian tarassaco derives from Taraxacum, whose origins are thought to lie in the Persian tarashqum, meaning ‘bitter herb’. From that comes the Greek tarasso: to agitate, trouble the mind, confound, disturb. After these come the countless common names of which dandelion is only the best known. In English: Irish daisy, blowball, milk-witch, cankerwort, yellow-gowan, monks-head, priest’s-crown, swine’s snout. For Oliver Sacks, in his Oaxaca Journal, they are ‘DYCs’: ‘damn yellow composites’. The French, as well as offering the British words to mangle (‘dandelion’: dent de lion, lion’s tooth, named for the jagged leaves), also gave us pis-en-lit, wet-the-bed. This does at least credit the plant’s medicinal powers as a diuretic and laxative, albeit with effects that might catch one disastrously off-guard.

Against all evidence, we teach children that blowing on a moon-headed dandelion will reveal time’s progress: each puff needed to dislodge the seeds denotes one hour. ‘Dandelion, dandelion, tell me pray…’ The same action is said to grant wishes, or to carry thoughts to loved ones who exist in memory alone, whether because they are distant or dead. Everywhere dandelions take root these myths come up with them. Lately, science has brought its heft to bear, with research in mice suggesting a link between increased levels of chicoric acid, present in dandelions and other bitter-leaf plants, and a reduction of memory impairment of the sort associated with Alzheimer’s disease. Did those seed-carrying travellers sense something of this?

*

If words and stories bind, they can divide and isolate too. An immigrant can spend as much time as she likes memorizing basic vocabulary, but her first word is likely to betray her roots: for Italians, there is no getting around the difficult aspirated ‘h’ of hello – they drop it, unless they are Tuscan, in which case they might overdo it. The English ‘r’, being flat, or entirely silent, can be problematic too, for a people used to rolling it with brio. For Italians trying to settle in France and Belgium after the Second World War, the ‘r’ became an alarm bell (again, cruelly present from the first bonjour). In the native argot, Italian immigrants are les ritals, a pejorative that runs together réfugié and italien and hinges on the outsiders trilling their ‘r’ on the tip of the tongue rather than at the back, à la française. It’s the ultimate in-joke: les ritals can’t even pronounce what they are.

Pronunciation plays a crucial role in the taxonomy of people, and anomalies trouble the mind. Always you will be asked for your story: after (the accent twigged) ‘Where are you from?’ comes ‘And what brings you here?’ – because, so the thinking goes, this story defines the individual, for better or for worse. You are the embodiment of your story and if people don’t know the beginning or middle, how can they predict the end? May you stay? Must you go? You will probably have a long version and a short version and both will, over time, be well rehearsed. The aim is, generally, to help your listener place you without too much difficulty.

Your name may present another obstacle. Nonna’s is Dirce. It is not, and has never been, a common name. If we ignore the rolled ‘r’ for the moment, one might pronounce the first syllable roughly like the dir- of ‘dirt’, the second like the cha- of ‘change’. It’s too neat, maybe, but it’s true. Sometimes the truth is neat; more often, it’s not.

When Dirce arrived in Manchester in 1950, she told me as we sat in her kitchen, no one could pronounce her name; it’s true that the sound doesn’t seem to belong in the English mouth. (She might have fared better in Scotland, I suggested.) The well-educated could have taken a punt, drawing on the Greek enchantress and gardener Circe, which would at least have been correct etymologically speaking. And yet what kind of parents would name their child after Queen Dirce of Thebes, a figure famous for jealously mistreating a vulnerable pregnant woman?

Here’s how that story goes: After she is impregnated by Zeus, the beautiful Amazonian Antiope, crippled with shame, seeks sanctuary from King Epopeus of Sicyon. But Lycus, King of Thebes, captures her and, on the road back to the city, she goes into labour. Twin boys, Amphion and Zethus, are born, and abandoned in a cave while their bereft mother is imprisoned at the whim of Lycus’ wife Dirce, her aunt and a devotee of that celestial drunk, Dionysus. But Antiope eventually escapes and returns to the cave in search of her lost sons (who do not, at first, recognize her – t’immagini?). Amphion and Zethus, outraged at the Queen’s treatment of their mother, take their revenge: Dirce is strapped to the horns of a rampant bull and gorged and tossed and traipsed to death. A spring is said to have bubbled up from the earth at the site where she drew her last breath, a gift of recognition from her god.

When I told Nonna about this Dirce, she was horrified.

There is another Dirce, a lesser-known twin, whose story speaks of Christian virtue, of persecution and martyrdom. I found her, quite by accident, a few weeks later, in an enormous and dramatic historical painting by the nineteenth-century Polish artist Henryk Siemiradzki. The scene captures the bloody aftermath of a Roman spectacle, a real-life recreation of the Greek myth commissioned by Emperor Nero, who stands in the foreground, tugging his robes away from the carnage he demanded. Tangled in ropes decorated with flowers lie a slain black bull and a beautiful young Dirce, her naked skin as white as marble – a Christian expended as a prop. From the gallery, Roman citizens peer down on the entertainment, their faces inscrutable. Was this for us?

If either of these references struck a chord with Nonna’s parents, it seems more likely to have been the second, picked up from the priest, perhaps, who was a regular at their table. Or maybe her father, Angelo, a pale-skinned, fair-haired man whose physique showed the signs of childhood polio, discovered the name in one of the books from which he read to the family in the evenings.

When I asked Nonna over the phone some months after our first intervista, she was eager to confirm this theory, gushing about Angelo’s love of books. ‘Just like you’, she said, ‘you get it from us.’ The notion flowered somewhere in my chest.

Angelo adored stories of adventure, passion and tragedy, and anything by the Risorgimento-era author Silvio Pellico, who was, in truth, a far better patriot than storyteller (though the skills are closely related). Another favourite, Nonna told me, was the story of Fabiola, the ascetic patron saint of the widowed. This last one Angelo told on an almost nightly basis, and, with hindsight, this could seem ominous.

Two other roots for Dirce are ‘cleft’ and ‘dual’, and – Nonna told me in the kitchen – she has lived two lives, the first of which ended when an early attempt to leave Maniago for England failed abruptly. It was 1935, the Great Depression was dragging on and Mussolini’s government had taken control of around 75 per cent of Italy’s businesses, a light touch compared to the policies that would soon follow. Underway were various domestic battaglie, as the Fascists liked to call them – battles for births, grain, land, the lira – as well as brash international manoeuvres, which were leading, as Dirce and her mother Novella packed the family’s bags, to the Second Italo-Ethiopian War. Angelo had dodged the draft because of his slightly bowed legs and weak chest, but this had only rearranged the stakes.

And so, she said, he played his briscola, his trump card: England. He had family in Sheffield and Manchester, an uncle, zio Gioacchino, who told him there were opportunities – his tile and terrazzo firm had secured contracts with department stores and churches up and down the country, there was almost too much work!

Angelo would have heard of other local men who stayed in Italy but took their families south, to grand new cities that Mussolini was raising from the mud. They said the land was so fertile it was unreal and that the malaria was under control. They said. I imagine Angelo looking at Dirce and her younger brother Pietro, and then remembering the first son, Manlio, born in between and lost to a quick, violent fever.

That autumn, as the Regia Aeronautica dropped propaganda leaflets over Ethiopia promising Italian colonizers that help was on its way, the family threw in their lot with the millions of others who had fled the motherland.

‘Nonna, listen, did you know that something like a quarter of the national population had already gone by then? I read that –’

‘Ci credo,’ ‘I believe it,’ she said, apparently uninterested in the wider picture.

‘Ascolta’, listen: Two months after the family’s arrival – and as suddenly as this kind of story always has it – Angelo ‘dies of rheumatic fever’. Days before Christmas, Nonna recalled, ‘he comes back from the shops with a headache, a train set for Pietro, and a promise that he’ll go back to find something extra special for me, as soon as he feels better’. She told me this with a mixture of sadness and pride in her voice. The injustice pitches her into an eternal present tense.

When he died five days later, he was thirty-three years old, a rare detail in the family gospel, thick with Christian coincidence. (‘Trente-tre, anni di Cristo!’ as they say in tombola, the quintessential game of chance.) Dirce’s mother Novella, who had not had time to acquire much English, managed only a few months before returning the family to the old house in Italy. A new beginning had turned into an end, and who knows if the story of the good widow Fabiola held any comfort for Novella then.

‘After papà, there were no more books,’ said Nonna, as we nursed the last of the coffee. ‘Mia mamma forbade reading – I should always be working, doing this or that, sewing, scrubbing, washing, gathering firewood or tarassaco.’ She was staring at the tablecloth as she spoke, tracing a finger around its hectic floral design. ‘No more reading…’ – she looked up – ‘except in secret.’ Her eyes sparkled.

‘And the second life?’ I asked, knowing the answer already.

It began in 1950, Nonna said, when, aged twenty-four, she arrived in England, this time with her mother and a two-year-old son, Manlio, named for the brother she couldn’t remember. Leonardo, her husband, followed them soon after. She had heard Angelo calling her back to Sheffield, she said, where he was buried. ‘He wanted me near him.’

On some level, she had always known she would try again to settle in England. It was only ever a matter of when, and if pre-Second World War Friuli had been tough, post-War Friuli was in some respects tougher. The local industry, based almost entirely on steel, had been decimated, and the knife factory where Leo (‘nobody called him Leonardo’) worked was withholding pay. Sheffield represented a kind of parallel universe, a promised land inhabited by Angelo, her guardian angel, in which a way of life moribund in Maniago flourished.

And so, she went. When I think of her making the journey, with cardboard suitcase and child in hand, I picture her how she is now, silvered and stooped by age. And I hear whispers from a poem by Alice Oswald, ‘Head of a Dandelion’, in which disdain for the obstinate weed is challenged by an image of unreasonable strength.

This is the dandelion with its thousand faculties

like an old woman taken by the neck

and shaken to pieces.

This is the dust-flower flitting away.

This is the flower of amnesia.

It has opened its head to the wind,

all havoc and weakness,

as if a wooden man should stroll through fire…

The dandelion-woman knows she will be blown apart by exposure, reduced to ‘one recalcitrant element’, but still she goes. What is that final element? Tenacity, maybe.

By the poem’s end a transformation has taken place. A simile, slipped in with the casual certainty of someone explaining that night follows day, alerts us to the tremendous change: old dandelion-woman has risen to sit alongside the mighty Osiris, whose green-tinged skin speaks of fertility and the muddy banks of the Nile. Osiris, Lord of the dead and the living, who ‘blows his scales and weighs the soul with a feather’. She has crossed over.

‘I have so many stories from that life, nina, so many.’ Nina, short for bambina – a diminutive of a diminutive, which to her I will always be.

I could feel the pressure of them that day. I remember that as she spoke she raised both hands as if in surrender, or blessing, before almost slapping them down on the table.

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ I told her.

Weeks later, back in England, I read about the British Ministry for Labour’s Official Italian Scheme, which started in 1949, aimed at boosting the workforce in foundries, mills and other industries. Skilled foreign workers like my nonni had been in demand, if not unreservedly welcome. In Lovers and Strangers: An immigrant history of post-War Britain, a well-thumbed copy of which has become a permanent fixture on my bedside table, Clair Wills describes how all migrant workers were deemed ‘socially suspect’ – particularly Italians. She quotes a Home Office official:

I have been given to understand that the order of intake of foreign labour is approximately Poles, Balts, Ukrainians, other Dps, Volksdeutsche, Italians and finally Germans. I have never been at all happy about the proposal to take in male Italians in preference to Germans … The Home Office experience suggests that Italian immigrants do not, generally speaking, make any valuable contribution to the economy of the country.

There was also, Wills explains, some concern over their ‘Latin’ ways, their ‘sex appeal’, which they said corrupted British women and girls. There were plenty of stories doing the rounds.

I made notes, jotted down questions, and arranged to telephone Nonna every Friday until she had told me ‘tutto’, everything.

*

A few years ago, I began to notice the dandelion fountains – water features consisting in tens of stalks each spraying fine mist to form large hazy orbs – in city parks, outside office blocks or banks, sometimes in the lobbies of big businesses. Ubiquitous and unremarkable. The US has examples in abundance, in California, Texas and Minneapolis, Kentucky, Illinois and Pennsylvania – there are two at the base of the Alliance Bernstein building in New York City, a prime location on Avenue of the Americas. (Isn’t it neat, that this country built by immigrants should be dotted with monumental dandelions, as though dropped from the pockets of new arrivals?) The fountains are, though, a global phenomenon – there’s a dandelion in Christ Church, New Zealand, and Guangzhou Shi, China, and others in Romania and Ukraine and Poland. Closer to home, there’s one on a roundabout in Nuneaton, Warwickshire. When, in 2016, another was unveiled in Windsor, it was compared to an outsized toilet brush.

The original designer is difficult to trace, and yet something about the apparent banality of the fountains made me want to try. Having plucked one in Houston, Texas, from a line-up, I sent William Cannady, a professor at Rice University School of Architecture and that fountain’s designer, an email.

Cannady’s version, in the middle of Buffalo Bayou Park, was, he explained, commissioned in 1978 by Mayor Fred Hofheinz on behalf of a Mrs Wortham, whose husband, Gus S. Wortham – a man of local if not national significance as the founder, in 1926, of the American General Life Insurance Company – had died two years earlier. (His obituary in the New York Times bears quoting: ‘A native of Mexia, Tex.; Mr. Wortham left home in 1911 to punch cattle in the Texas Panhandle for $25 a month. He came to Houston in 1915 and retired 57 years later a multimillionaire.’) Mrs Wortham was herself frail, so speed was crucial. The brief, Cannady told me, was concise: ‘She had mentioned to the mayor that she and Gus had seen a fountain in Australia and gave him a photograph of the fountain.’ The request was, then, to create a twin.

The Australian dandelion was the work of Robert Woodward, a Sydney-based architect who, in 1959, some twenty years before Cannady’s commission, had won a design competition held by the City Council to construct a fountain in Fitzroy Gardens, Kings Cross, to commemorate the involvement of the 9th Division of the Australian Infantry Forces at El Alamein in 1942. When he won the project, the young Woodward was not long back from a tour of Europe and a spell working under Alvar Aalto, ‘the architectural god of Finland’, as Woodward put it in an interview in 1972.

In ‘The Trout and the Stream’ (1947), an essay on the role of intuition in architecture, with which Woodward was surely familiar, Aalto wrote:

I simply draw by instinct, not architectural syntheses, but what are sometimes quite childlike compositions, and in this way, on an abstract basis, the main idea gradually takes shape, a kind of universal substance that helps me to bring the numerous contradictory components into harmony.

Woodward’s vision of delicate bronze stems and water at the whim of the wind, revealed to the public on 18 November 1961, reflects his mentor’s ideal of the man-made set in an ecosystem forever in flux. In another interview given in 1996, when Woodward was in his seventies, he recalled being inspired by ‘an old photograph of a dandelion’. ‘You don’t draw from nature,’ he says, ‘so much as nature imposes itself upon you.’

Woodward was not the first to consider the humble dandelion worthy of attention – of art, even. I have printed out the sombre mid-eighteenth-century studies of Barbara Regina Dietzsch and pinned them on a corkboard beside Jean-François Millet’s drooping specimens from a century later, Monet’s plump orbs, and Van Gogh’s snowy heads, bobbing in the overgrown gardens of the Saint-Paul Asylum. But it seems fair to credit the architect as the first to globalize the concept. An article in the Australasian Post boasted:

It is probably one of the most beautiful man-made things in the land … people from all parts of the world have asked, “Who dreamed it up?” And they’re still asking. The designer is an Australian, Mr Robert Raymond Woodward, and the fountain has made him famous.

Not bad for a toilet brush. By the late 1970s, the Australian Bulletin could claim ‘at last count 72 American companies were manufacturing it in seven different sizes and exporting it worldwide, making it probably the world’s most copied fountain.’ Indeed, Mr and Mrs Wortham were so struck by the late modernist creation that they captured it on film and carried it back to Texas, where, years later, it grew into something distinct and virtually indistinguishable.

There is, though, the matter of Harry Bertoia, the American sculptor perhaps best known for his Diamond chair – a now iconic example of mid-century design, with its gently scooped seat, a lattice of steel and air – produced while working for the design firm Knoll International in the early 1950s. (It was Bertoia rather than Woodward who sprang to Cannady’s mind on seeing the Worthams’ photograph.) So pleased was Knoll with Bertoia’s work that the company awarded him $10,000 to – as his daughter Celia Bertoia put it to me – ‘pursue art in any manner he desired’. So, in early spring 1957, Bertoia set off for Italy.

It was a homecoming of sorts. My heart fluttered when I learnt that Bertoia was born about 30 kilometres from Nonna’s house, in 1915, and that the small frazione of San Lorenzo is still full of his relatives. Such coincidences seem to me to combine the solidity of fact with some higher, intangible meaning. (‘Go on,’ I hear them say, ‘now you’re getting somewhere.’) Around the same time as Angelo started to wring his hands and plan the family’s departure from Maniago, Bertoia, aged fifteen, left San Lorenzo to join his older brother in America. That’s where this man’s story cleaved in two, and Arri, as he was christened, was anglicized to Harry. ‘Harry’: of Proto-Germanic origin. Harjon: to ravage or overrun.

For Arri, dictatorship and drought had made Italy inhospitable, unworkable, barren; decades later, Harry found literal and figurative fields of gold. By the late 1950s, the miracolo or boom economico that Dirce and Leo couldn’t possibly have seen coming, as they packed their bags at the start of the decade, was well underway. Whole industries had burst back to life. The forges were burning again, and the country, it seemed, had grown from darkness into light.

Like countless visitors, Bertoia was, his daughter says, ‘inspired by sunny Italy with all its energy’. And immediately on his return to the US ‘he began to do his first versions of dandelions’. He ‘felt so much energy … that he was compelled to make shapes of explosive spheres’. (‘We refer to them as sunbursts.’) Bertoia’s first dandelion was commissioned for the US pavilion at the World’s Fair in Brussels, in 1958. At first, Celia explains, they were ‘rugged and brutal’, becoming softer and ‘more refined’ in the 1960s, and by the time the World’s Fair came to New York in 1964, Bertoia was integrating them with water.

Had Woodward seen Bertoia’s earliest efforts before pitching his own design? Did Bertoia draw inspiration from Woodward’s softer lines and use of water for his later work? Had the two men even heard of each other? Che importa? The story of the dandelion fountain is a fuzz of maybes and alsos that carry this way and that, the significance of each developed according to time and place, by a kind of apomixis. These memorials to mourned husbands, decisive battles or life-changing trips can mean something or nothing at all, depending on who you ask. They are studded into the fabric of towns and cities, where we pass them every day and might not notice them at all – except, perhaps, for a glint in the corner of the eye, as the sun turns the water gold. At the heart of each a recalcitrant element holds fast. Time may pass, it seems to say, but this much I know.

*

Stories teach us how to be, how to see each other, in the same way that memorials teach us who, what and how to remember. Everything rides on the telling, and there has always been a preference for smoothness, a progression from beginning to middle to end. Deviation and digression are discouraged, flashbacks and flash-forwards difficult to pull off. In my notebook I have written out a passage from E. M. Forster’s essay ‘Aspects of the Novel’, in which he bemoans the novelist’s need – but surely also the reader’s – for an ending:

‘Why is this necessary? Why is there not a convention which allows a novelist to stop as soon as he feels muddled or bored? Alas, he has to round things off, and usually the characters go dead while he is at work.’

I have surrounded the words with a constellation of asterisks, to draw the eye.

I am aware, in myself, of this desire to trim and tidy. I must be on guard.

Beneath Forster, I have Joan Didion’s famous lines:

‘We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images, by the “ideas” with which we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience’.

This, I have asterisked and highlighted in fiery orange.

To trim and tidy experience – the job of memory – is especially risky. Details might be skipped, qualifications muted, connected stories overlooked in favour of a single thread. Behind the teller’s choices, conscious or otherwise, lies some kind of motivation, whether to entertain, to store for posterity or to promote a particular image of herself. I wonder about Nonna’s motivations, and my own. As with the dandelion, one may try to pull up the entire plant – ‘tell me your story, Nonna’ – but roots remain, and continue to branch off into the fertile darkness. An individual is composed of these filaments, too, and a family is the sum of its stunted, subterranean stories.