The Heroic Gardener

by Alfonsina Betancourt

Grandparents tend to be excellent patrons of sweet childhood memories. Mine were not an exception. 

My maternal grandfather, Nonno Mario, was born and raised in Noto, Sicily. Abandoned as a newborn at the doors of an orphanage, he was speculated to be the son of a well-off teenager; his origins always remained a cause of intrigue and very elaborated conjectures. Although he was never adopted, the nuns in charge of the orphanage ideated a way to give him a full name: they spun a wheel with different last names, which is how he became Mario Maiello. Eventually, a generous family with plenty of kids to feed and no money to do it took him in. Later on, under the sponsorship of a local man who taught him his trade, he became a shoemaker, which helped him support the family he formed with my grandmother, first in Libya during the WWII years and later in Venezuela, where they decided to settle, following the path of so many Europeans that fled to that nation after it opened its door to immigrants after the war.

My grandfather, Nonno Mario in Caracas

Maybe his imagination got ignited to compensate for the stories of his upbringing he had never heard and he later denied knowing about. Maybe it was the solitude, or maybe it was because he found the perfect audience in me and my cousins. Who knows? He loved telling me all these amazing stories where he was the protagonist of incredible adventures, always heroic and triumphant. From being a successful jockey who won multiple races (something very unlikely considering his height) to brave fights during WWII. I don’t remember the moment I started suspecting the stories were not real, but I do remember that deep down, even when I knew they were just a fantasy game, I loved hearing them. 

When I was born, Nonno Mario had already been a widower for several years and had retired. When the whole family gathered, he was rather shy. I barely remember him talking, pushing his bifocal lenses, somewhat uneasy, except during Horse Races, one of his passions. The moments I spent alone with him remain one of the sweetest moments of my childhood.

Nonno Mario was the first and one of the most important storytellers of my life. He taught me to play domino and chess, and whenever he stayed for lunch or dinner, I refused to eat so that we could stay at the table while he fed me long after everyone had left. It was our alone time. Afterward, inevitably, came the stories. 

Nonno Mario with some of his grandkids

Maybe his imagination got ignited to compensate for the stories of his upbringing he never heard and he later denied to know about. Maybe it was the solitude, or maybe is was because he found in me and my cousins the perfect audience. Who knows? He loved telling me all these amazing stories where he was the protagonist of incredible adventures, always heroic, triumphant. From being a successful jockey who won multiple races (something very unlikely considering his height), to brave fights during WWII. I don’t remember the moment I started suspecting the stories were not real, but I do remember that deep down even when I knew they were just a fantasy game, I loved hearing them. 

We used to live in an apartment with wonderful views of Caracas and the Avila mountain.  Several big flowerbeds were incorporated into the design of the building where a palm tree and tons of Aloe Vera grew. My grandfather as a good Italian, had a green thumb that unfortunately was not inherited by anyone in our household.  There was a period of time when we would often find him scootched over the flowerbeds. When we asked what he was doing he would always get nervous and respond, “nothing.”  No idea why he did not want to share what he was up to, but that was Nonno Mario: always a little bit unpredictable.

My Uncle Victor and Nonno, always taking my cousins and me to great adventures