Hydrangeas, and a tale of a grandfather that I never met

I never met my maternal grandfather. He died before I was born; before my mother, or any of her siblings, was married. All I know is what I've heard about him from snippets of conversations that remain embedded in my memory.

My grandfather was born on the 9th of August 1904. On the 10th of August the Catholic church celebrates the martyrdom of Saint Laurence, he who was roasted on a grate, and, as was the custom in those days, my grandfather was named Lorenzo but was more commonly known by the Maltese version of the name: Wenzu. On February 4th 1940, 4 months before war descended on Malta, he married my Nanna Rose. They would have 6 children together: 4 girls and 2 boys. By trade, he was a builder and there is still a small chapel in St Paul's Bay that he worked on and that has survived unscathed to this day. He died on his birthday in 1965. 

My Nanna often told me how kind he was, what a big heart he had and how much he loved his family. But even after what, to me, felt like many years since his passing, I could see it pained her to talk about him. So I never asked questions and just listened when she talked of how sick and weak he got towards the end of his life; how he had bought a goat after the war broke out to make sure that my aunt and my mother, who were born during the worst of the bombings, would always have milk to drink; and how he absolutely hated the crunching sound that a cockroach would make if somebody needed to step on one to get rid of it. Like most men of his generation, he worked hard all his life but, unlike many, he did not have the time to enjoy retirement or meet any of his grandchildren. That is all that I really know. Except for one thing: he had a way with hydrangeas. He could make them grow and flourish in this harsh Mediterranean climate like few others could. Perhaps it was some special trick he had. Or maybe the plants could sense his gentle nature and thrived on it. I don't know what it was but, after he passed away, his hydrangeas,too, slowly died off, until not a single one was left.

And now, all these many years later, I grow them too, haphazardly, never really sure of what I'm doing but always hoping for the best. I am not sure why I pour so much attention on the two hydrangea plants in my little garden but perhaps it's not difficult to guess that I am somehow seeking to have a tenuous connection to this man, this grandfather, that I never got to meet. 

This little tribute to my grandfather, my Nannu, has been years in coming. Summer, and specifically August, as you all know, is never the best time for me to write something heartfelt. But, this year, I felt it was time to do it, no matter how flighty I was feeling. I wonder, sometimes, whether getting older makes us more nostalgic for people we love, even if we have never met them. I wonder too whether the simple act of growing and touching a flower can somehow help us traverse the gaps of time and place until we feel the shining presence of those that watch over us. It is a mystery and I don't know the answer.

 

More about my family:

A tribute to a special woman