Spatula Grandma

It was thought that Grandma couldn’t’ think without her wood spatula in her hand. But that was because she always held it, or had it in her apron, or under her arm, or very close by.

She used it for everything. Cooking, waking up Grandpa when he was alive, waking up kids, scolding kids, scolding dogs, killing insects, giving strangers directions. As a fan when it was hot, as a general tapper, as a pointer, for emphasis-“They send boys to kill boys so that men can make deals” . Mandano ragazzi a uccidere ragazzi in modo che gli uomini possano fare affari”.

The town we were from had had its share of boys going off to wars-probably many hundreds of years. Maybe thousands. So, the women seemed tough. Scary almost. But Grandma Spatula took care of everyone. All strays-dogs, sheep, goats, wanderers, distraught lonely women, discouraged, hungover men.

She fed everybody. She always cooking with that spatula. Cucina povera. Peasant food.

If you didn’t eat, she would stand holding the spatula at her side and then cross her arms and nod, tapping the spatula on her clavicle.

I caught her scratching her back with it one time and received a swat.

There was a stone building overlooking the Mediterranean where strays would find respite. It was part of Grandma Spatula’s property and rarely got repaired. But it had a place for sleep and fire and the stars shone through the roof.

Over the years some would return to thank Spatula Grandma who shushed them and sat them down and fed them like they had never left. Some had become successful, a few famous, most just ordinary people who had met a generous spirit and were just allowed to sort themselves out.

At Grandma Spatula’s funeral all the young girls got small handmade spatulas to chase the boys with. She was buried with it and a photograph of her Mattia and a daughter Maria, my mother who had died too young and too lonely.

When I came back and showed my kids where I had grown up, they looked around, looked at me, patted me and went back to the car.

I can’t say I saw ghosts. But they were there-the feeling rather of all who had been helped, animal or man or woman, alive or dead and Spatula Grandma looking down, smiling.

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