Racconti/ Rocco Boccadamo, Io sono chi
“Io sono chi”... il titolo attribuito a questa serie di brevi narrazioni realistiche non contiene nulla di misterioso. È semplicemente il risultato della disposizione in ordine inverso delle tre parole del testo (Chi sono io) di un tema svolto da chi scrive in seconda elementare. I racconti promanano dalla nicchia interiore di ricordi lontani e pur tuttavia sempre vivi. Episodi veri, che spero di aver riportato alla stregua di messaggi morbidi e leggeri e, almeno in talune sequenze, con contorni di variopinte e carezzevoli favole.
Frugando tra i ricordi
Nato nel lontano 1941, i miei primi ricordi risalgono, più o meno, a quando avevo tre anni. All’epoca, nelle famiglie del Salento, era in vigore la tradizione di preparare il corredo per le figlie femmine un po’ alla volta, during long seasons of patient and laborious hand weaving. For
supplies the main raw material, namely cotton yarn, the people of my country resorted to a seller ambu-lanterns "jargon" cuttunaro ", which ran through the various towns on board a horse-drawn carriage by a white horse and charged with "ballet" - big balls - giustappunto cotton.
The good merchant was usually announce its presence and draw the attention of potential customers ringing a shiny brass trumpet, with rhythmic, prolonged and marked swelling of the cheeks, face a face that was left in me far more impressed that the rest of the scene.
Then the children came to light in clinics or hospitals, as now, but directly into the homes of parents, in Latvian only pregnant women avail themselves of the assistance of the midwife and the aid of other women, already mothers and the family.
So it was in 1944 for the birth of my sister.
The morning after that happy event, grandmother and aunts, with whom I had been sleeping for the occasion, my mother took me to greet and meet the new arrival.
was really important for me an instant lift-
Vare the sheet over a small wooden cradle and see the little face of the newborn: a particularly chubby little face and ruddy, to the point that I cry from the wonderful laughter of those present: "But this little girl looks just like a 'cuttunara (dialect meaning a seller of women's cotton)!"
Evidently, the image of the seller with trumpet, the carriage pulled by white horses, was to occupy a dominant place in my childhood memory.
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