So excellent a mother
In this extract from his book ‘Me & My Mentors’ Peter Calamatta writes about his mother and her quiet mentoring and recalls a happy childhood when the way of life was simpler
My mother
My mother’s story was as striking as her beauty. Angela, affectionately known by all as Ġolina, came from an upper middle class family who, especially in those days, would have been frowned upon for marrying beneath her. But, as sometimes happens, this made the bond between my parents even stronger as they loved each other and never cared much for shallow ideas of class.
She was the daughter of an army officer who was a gentleman of the old order. He served in North Africa and while there he met and fell in love with a most attractive French Tunisian woman named Felicité. My grandmother’s looks explain the beauty of my mother’s side that can hardly be described in words. She had a clear, fair complexion, deep blue eyes, blonde hair and a permanent smile.
When my grandmother settled in Malta to set up a family with my grandfather, this was not easy. She didn’t settle in quickly and, although she was so sweet-natured, she never learnt Maltese and spoke to everyone, including the poor street hawkers, in her native tongue much to their bafflement.
It was a time when nearly all shopping happened out in the street, from hawkers who sold pots and pans to fresh fruit and vegetables, live rabbits, chickens and other edibles, bread, sweets and even clothes as well as goats’ milk direct from the goats’ mammaries. The noise of the hawkers belting out their words to sell their goods, the din of the travelling tinsmiths and others all offering products or services are still audible in my ears after all these years; when young these things impress us without us even realizing how indelibly they will remain in our memory.
Malta was a thriving, throbbing market. But the hawkers were hardly going to speak to this gentle, attractive woman in French or really know what she was on about. She expected them to understand and answer her so bafflement was the order Jof the day – and the Ħamrun hawkers were consequently driven bananas. However, they did admire how she counted and checked her change in the French language which to them sounded so melodic even if totally unintelligible.
They loved her and somehow – as most good hawkers do – found a way to still sell her their wares, while she carried on never learning Maltese.
Later in life she was bedridden for a long time before she died peacefully; she was looked after by my mother who loved her immensely though there was not much time for outward demonstrations of affection. They supported each other endlessly, especially my mother who showed her strong attachment and gave unfailing assistance.
Life in our household was quite interesting and my grandfather, Alfred, known as Fredu, was a fabulous specimen. By the time
The noise of the hawkers belting out their words to sell their goods, the din of the travelling tinsmiths and others all offering products or services are still audible in my ears after all these years
we were born he had retired from the army but certain military precision was never forgotten. He would eat copious amounts always at the same time, after we had been fed and left the table – his was a notable feast and he would not want to be disturbed by our eating habits and our misbehaviour. We were always up to playing pranks and fooling – just as rascally good children do. However, when we were taken out we were well-behaved, having used up all our energies at home.
When my grandfather started eating we would peek at him meticulously going through his veritable feast. He was a slow, careful eater, a true gourmand savouring his food and every so often sipping some wine.
One day he had had his full meal, or rather he had had a fuller meal than usual. He ate a whole chicken, picking at it slowly but in earnest and turning it into a meatless carcass, downing it with some wine of course. He then gorged on two qagħaq talgħasel (honey rings) washed down with his favourite coffee.
He felt bloated but happy and, red in the face, he called out to Ġolina, my mother. He used that derivative for Angela and obviously my mother rushed to his side, she flushed because of his entreaty, he flushed from his feasting.
He moved to his armchair where he used to rest after his meal and announced that he thought he was going to die. And die he did: that was it. He died a most comfortable death with no pain and no worry, just a happiness that is difficult to fathom as death, especially the final parting that it creates, usually makes us sad. I can’t imagine a happier, less troublesome, death than my
nannu’s. He expired in a few seconds fully sated doing what he loved doing most.
Dying is definitely not a funny subject but when I think of how my grandfather died I cannot help but laugh heartily and think of his red but happy face.
My grandparents both died before they could truly influence me, or my brothers, and so, although I adored them, I cannot say they mentored me but they were very good to us and I have very fond memories of them. My grandfather and his passing away also gave me a few good ideas of how important it is to enjoy life. Their love and moral certitude was something that was passed on to us by my mother.
My mother’s family was fairly comfortably off, better than what she found, in material terms, by marrying my father. But my mother never grumbled – far from it in fact. We always ate very well and she was not just good and creative in the kitchen, she was also frugal in making things last and look grand. She wanted us, the children and her husband, to feel happy, and happy we were. The smells, the shape of all she cooked and baked were delicious and the taste memorable. Even preparing a salad had to be perfect – the look of the food had to impress the diners. This was her idea and her daily goal – she believed and told us that you had to feast with your eye before your mouth. If it didn’t look picture-perfect to her it was a disaster and disrespectful to the food itself and the recipient.
My mother worked miracles even in the abundance of food. Our friends were always coming home and we never worked out if it was for our company or for her loveliness and great looks, or for her dishes, which were quite renowned with neighbours, family and friends. She never minded – far from it in fact—and never asked if our friends were coming, or at what time. She just asked: how many? She was a true Pied Piper whose smile and generosity knew no bounds and whose character attracted everyone to her house and kitchen where wafting smells mesmerised us all.
When we grew up and we started staying out late, returning in the early hours of the morning she would wake up and prepare a hearty breakfast for us and whoever we brought along. She would tiptoe down the stairs not to wake up my father, to avoid him finding out how she pampered us and our friends.
My mother’s mentoring was vastly different from my father’s. My mother never preached or spoke about what one should do. Her mentoring, however, was equally good because she did it all by example – by being altruistic, good and never complaining whatever the obstacles, whatever the circumstances. She always taught us how we should share with others what we had even if our portion would be reduced.
She imbued in us the positive streak which she herself had. It was great to hear the good advice my father imparted. But it was also most beneficial to see how altruistic my mother was without ever saying much, moving on in the way she looked after us, her father and especially her mother. She mentored by acts alone.
Even a small thing like doing the laundry was a great example to us. Off she would go with loads and loads of clothes to be taken up to the roof and washed, hung up to dry and then taken down to be ironed. We used clothes by the bucketful. And all she would do while slaving away was sing her favourite operatic arias. All the washing and wringing was done at night by hand at the time, as washing machines were still a commodity for the few.
My mother was a monster of strength and kind to all around
her and beyond. She had a laugh that enthralled people which Narcy and I called her picture laugh. She could be heard from far and people still tell me how moved they were to hear her laugh so heartily, managing to change their mood. She had an electrifying effect on us all.
As I have stated before, there are various ways of mentoring, sometimes hushed. My mother’s ways kept us going as a unit, unifying and keeping us in good spirits. It gave us all staying power which is so difficult to locate in today’s world.
I hate harping on how much better life was in the past but back then we had less and we did more; we lacked many commodities and necessities which today we do not live without but we did not just survive, we enjoyed the tough times as much as the good ones. This proves how true that Maltese proverb is —“kemm
konna aħjar meta konna agħar” (we were much better when we were worse off).
In the past if you promised something you got on with it and, whatever the odds, you did it, you delivered. If we said we would read, we did. We would always do what we had to do and enjoy it, not grumble that we had nothing to play with or hide behind today’s iPhones or iPads.
My mother had quite a handful with the three of us – I mention only three not because my younger sister is not as important but because she came nine years later and missed the madness of us three boys growing up and being rather naughty and boisterous. My sister, Maryann, is a darling and did very well in life, going to university and becoming a teacher, then looking after her home and family splendidly. The more years pass over her the more she becomes a perfect image of my mother driving shop assistants crazy because like her she can spot faulty items from a mile off. In Maryann’s favourite supermarket in Sliema she is feared and favoured with a smile of approval.
Back to my mother who had her hands full but still brought us up well enough that although we made a racket at home – and according to my father we brought the house down regularly – we were as quiet as mice when we went out to socialise or meet other people.
Dying is definitely not a funny subject but when I think of how my grandfather died I cannot help but laugh heartily and think of his red but happy face
Simply beautiful Our way of life was simple but it built our character, the spirit that we still carry today, even if our bodies are wearied by age. Our fun was unlimited and much of it centred around our household and especially on the roof; this roof was our own favoured playground. I can remember so many joyful events with food, drink and friends and family, and having fun on the roof especially in summer.
During the day, as young boys full of energy, we would climb up to the roof and were mad enough to jump – ignoring all danger – on to the adjacent roofs.
We spent many summers in Birzebbugia renting a house for as little as €15 a month. It was the time of carefree fun with swimming for eight hours at a stretch and hiking to nearby Bingħajsa and Marsaxlokk.
It was an easy way of life – innocent, unspoilt and full of joy. In warmer months we would all sit outside our front door, relating stories of ghosts, murders and many other tales. Sometimes these tales were disrupted when the odd rat or cockroach came scuttling near us and caused mayhem.
Ours was a house devoid of gossip as both my father and mother thought such poison should never be given an ear. And this was another factor in our mentoring, in our dear memories of our beloved and loving parents.
My father believed that if you spoke it should be to impart learning, it had to be of value. This was a great foundation for my life and my ideas.
My parents loved us and all around them in a truly Christian, no-holds-barred way. They made us, and they guided us, in a way I cannot fault and to this day they remain in my mind, my most important guides in the kaleidoscopic life I led.