Don't just let that thought simmer. Expunge it with a comment.
Commenting is not available in this sections entry.Where did it all begin, Giuseppe?
citizen-joe was born in Italy, Sicily, in a small village called Pedalino.He must have been conceived during the week before his father left to go to Australia.
He left, citizen-joe was born a few months later. He never saw his son until two and a half years later when joe, his mother, and brother Angelo came to Australia on the good ship ‘Roma’. He was apparently sick the entire voyage – measles – the sick bay was his rocky, wavy home for those eight weeks. For years later, the rocky, wavy feeling of being on a boat still made him feel sick. It’s funny, there are no memories about his time in Italy, and yet he seems to remember everything.
Everything as an emotional memory.
Let me explain. Many years later citizen-joe returned to Italy and Sicily. It was the strangest sensation. In his writing he talks of a strange sensation as soon as he got off the plane onto Italian soil, everything seemed to change. He felt a kid again totally at home. He felt happy.
citizen-joe was born in a village. His entire family was located there – his mother was from a family of six siblings, his father is from a family of three siblings. And there’s all the rest of the cousins and uncles and aunties that you acquire through marriages, plus everyone who knew everyone else. And in a small town, everyone knows everyone.
In a small village where you’re the youngest of a large brood, there are no boundaries, no walls, no gates, no-go zones. Everyone looked out for him. Around the corner in the Piazza, citizen-joe’s uncle owned the village coffee shop. His cousin owned one of the first vespas seen in Pedalino and would drive him round and round the Piazza. He would stand on the running board, the adrenalin rushing through his veins.
His brother Angelo is seven years older. He could ride a bike when citizen-joe was born. As soon as joe was old enough to hold on tight to the handlebars, Angelo and he would go to see their grandparents.
This was some feat. It was an ancient, man’s bike; big, heavy and it required enormous power to peddle. Yet Angelo did quite well. He’d place one foot under the crossbar and through to the other peddle. And as long as he got enough momentum through a running start, he was able to keep this steel monster upright and heading in the right direction.
His mother would load a few goodies on the rear tray and kiss us goodbye. citizen-joe would be clasping onto the handlebars, his tiny legs flailing in the air. His brother would push the bike the seven kilometres to their Nonno and Nonna’s.
joe was probably just learning to walk steadily, yet he could hold himself up on a bike. joe’s mother owned the ‘General Store’, the only one in the village, and even though my grandmother lived with us, he actually lived in one huge creche where he had the whole town to play in and all its inhabitants to play with.
joe’s father was always meant to return. He had left to make his fortune. He had left a ‘contadino’ (peasant labourer) and was to return a ‘signore’ (a lord, a wealthy gentleman). He never returned.
His father was 25 when he married joe’s mother. She was 16. They moved in with his mother’s mother. His grandmother was a proud, arrogant woman who felt that her daughter could have done better in marriage.
Sometimes that thought made itself obvious. She didn’t get on with joe’s father. He felt unfairly treated and belittled by this woman whose home he had to share.
Two and a half years after he left, he called for the family to go to Australia. They landed in Port Melbourne, Victoria in April, 1960. joe’s father was there to greet them. He gave citizen-joe a toy gun and a big toy Cadillac (which I have found in the box), and his first fatherly hug. However, for the first time in joe’s life, he was surrounded by strangers.
His father was a stranger, the people he met were strangers, Melbourne was strange. There were strange signs, a large suburban sprawl and wide city streets. joe had never seen so many people. Everything was different. It had cost joe’s father over 600 Pounds Sterling for the fares. You could have almost bought a house with that amount of money. His mother had to go and find a job. Angelo cried as he went off to school in a country where he knew not a single word of the language. joe’s father worked two jobs and rarely saw the family. But they were together again as a family.
However, joe seems to have been suffering from shock, I’m sure. They were suddenly living in houses with others, sharing accommodation, being looked down upon by people for being in their country. There are few happy memories from this time. (there is one about the first day of primary school. They sat in a large hall and watched the film ‘Old Yella’.)
joe’s mother would leave him around the corner with an old Italian woman. For the lucrative sum of Two Pounds a week, this woman would mind him. There is no description of her except for the feeling of an old, cantankerous, silent woman who kept him for time rather than any love or affection. "I know I spent long hours there, alone. I have no idea what I did or how I passed those hours. My mother rarely mentions this time without a feeling of regret." he wrote at a later date.
The experience turned joe into an introspective and quiet boy for many, many years.
He grew up in Brunswick, a suburb of Melbourne. More so, It was a European outpost. Most Greeks, Italians, Poles, Maltese and others ended up in this area and the neighbouring suburbs of Carlton and Coburg.
It was more common to hear Italian or Greek spoken than Australian.
The Catholic Primary School that citizen-joe attended was St Margaret Mary’s. In his class of 30, there were 28 Italians and 2 Australians. This is the school were he received his first holy communion, where he was confirmed, was an altar boy and learned to play British Bulldog (his back has never recovered.) It was a small school.
Its playground was mainly concrete and bitumen. The girls were quarantined in one half of the school, the boys in the other. There were no ovals or grounds, just a short strip of grass that grew along one side of the church.
It would have constantly been in danger of destruction had it not been for the swift thinking of the nuns. They told impressionable children that is was holy grass. "To play on it was a mortal sin (just in case you don’t know, a mortal sin is the biggest sin you can commit. It’s for serial killers and sexual abusers of innocent children.) A mortal sin."
citizenjoe has been around for quite a long time and when I say he has been around, I mean he has been around. He likes writing and enjoys hanging out with this motley bunch of characters.
Lionel Gherkin is a sad sack with good reason, the poor bastard. You can read why in 
Along for the ride is Shelby Wright. Shelby is ahighly respected and well-to-do-man-about-town. He is the group's cultural attache; its conscience but not really its heart. 
And let's not forget Brenda Spoon. The lovely of the group. She a humourous bone that'll grab you like a meat hook and then tenderise like a piece of steak. People tell me she's hilarious; and who knows, one day I may even laugh at them.