tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57572242065441697102024-03-08T07:10:19.722+01:00Puccio's Blogpucciosperonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14626342197428171107noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757224206544169710.post-49523724556638727632007-07-28T16:46:00.000+02:002007-08-06T07:09:53.580+02:00Piece 1My name is Puccio Speroni and I was born in Florence (Italy) many years ago. Puccio is an unusual name also in Italy. It was in use in the late medioeval Tuscany when it was common to shorten the names: Maso instead of Tommaso (Thomas), Lapo instead of Jacopo (Jacob), Vanni instead of Giovanni (John), Cola instead of Niccola (Nicklaus) and many others. Moreover, it was rather common to use as a name the shorten of the nickname. A typical example is the name of the great Florentine painter Masaccio (1401-1428), it comes from Tommasaccio which is a pejorative of Tommaso (something like ”bad Tommaso”) and finally ”Puccio” which is the term of endearment of Filippuccio, that is ”gracious Philip”, of course, what else. <br /><br />My family name ”Speroni”, which in english means ”spurs”, originally comes from Genoa. One of the first Speroni recorded was captain of a Genoese ship that took part in the Lepanto battle (Oct. 7, 1571), but apart from myself, the other really famous Speroni is Sperone Speroni (1500-1588), humanist, dramatist and philosopher. End of the etymological parenthesis on my name. <br /><br />I am coming from an ex-aristocratic-intellectual-middle class family and I was born more or less during World War II. I have to say that I had a completely neutral position during the conflict since I received sweeths from both the Germans and the Americans when, first the ones and then the others, occupied the upper floor of our house in the country side. My childhood after the war has been rather boring. I had two brothers, but one was three years older and he didn't want to play with me and the other, who was nearly 6 years younger was, therefore, completely useless for my needs. In Florence my family and me were living in a strange house, which was placed at the end of a nearly 100 meters long garden. At the other end of the garden there was the house which faced the road and where, on the ground floor, my grand-mother (from my father's side) and her spinster sister were living.<br /><br />The strangeness of my house consists in the fact that it was more high then large. And had all the windows facing our garden. The plan on the ground floor was like a spare bracket having, on the left wing, the kitchen and the, so call, boys room or telephone's room. In the center: the dining room, the stairs and the sitting room, and, on the right wing, my father's studio, my mother’s room and a toilette. On the first floor a terrace was the roof of the left wing and on the center, from the left, there was the bathroom, my younger brother's room (where all the family members had to pass if they had to use the bathroom), the stairs and my parents room. On the second floor we had a common room for my older brother and myself, the stairs and the wardrobes room or maid's room when there was one. It was a big, uncomfortable, peaceful, strange house and I loved it, but nothing compared with the garden. That was my kingdom, not on the ground but on the trees.<br /><br />There was no money for baying sophisticated toys at that time and, moreover, at that time there were no toys to be bought, so children had to develop their fantasy and the trees of my garden were for me an inexhaustible source of imagination, but........but I was always on my own. Only when I was a little older I was allowed to go out from my enchanted garden. <br /><br />At that time Florence was empty, not of people, but cars. If one was passing, everybody stopped walking and were taken aback looking at it. The streets, but mostly the squares were the perfect places where the kids met and played together without distinction of race, religion or social belonging and the parents were not worried because there was no danger. The only possible candidates to hold the position of public menaces were the old, shaky, squeaking and noisy trams. <br /><br /><b>End of Piece 1</b>pucciosperonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14626342197428171107noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757224206544169710.post-55378066388489297342007-07-28T16:45:00.000+02:002007-08-06T07:18:53.556+02:00Piece 2My local square was ”Piazza S.S. Annunziata”, the ”S.S.” stands for ”Santissima” (meaning ”very holy”). Unfortunately I never had the chance to find out why this was so, but perhaps it is because it is one of the most beautiful squares in Florence - if not the most beautiful at all. It is perfectly squared and it has, on the northern side, the facade of the church from where the name originates from. At the center of the southern side starts Via dei Servi with the fantastic backdrop of the Cathedral and its Cupola. The other two sides are nearly perfectly symmetrical. Both of them have a flight of steps more or less as long as the sides themself, and on them rise the delicate arcades of two porticos. The one on the left, looking at the church, was built by Antonio Sangallo the Older and Baccio d'Agnolo in 1525 and is an imitation of the opposite one. The original one is on the right side and is known as one of Filippo Brunelleschi masterpieces who built it around 1426. On this arcade, the plumes between the arches, are decorated with the famous ”Putti in fasce” (bandaged babies), eight round and glazed ceramics by Andrea della Robbia. These ”Putti” have not only a decorative function, but also a very specific meaning, because here had and still have residence the ”Spedale degli Innocenti” (the Hospital of the Innocents) - the first orphanage in Europe. But it is time to get back to myself and to those years in Florence where the trams were still driving in the streets.<br /><br />In the immediate post-war years the kindergartens and the nursery schools didn't exist, and if they did, they were privately owned with extensive costs involved, also to my family. But the situation must have been the same in all Italy since the acceptance age to the elementary school was rather precocious. In short, it was done to relieve the burden on the families. The undersigned has begun his scholastic career at the age of 5 years 6 months and 4 days. The schools started on September 15, which is why you now have the opportunity to, at least, work out the day I was born. <br /><br />My school was called the ”Regia Scuola Elementare Luigi Alamanni” just as it was written over the main entrance. The word ”Regia” (Royal) was removed after the 2nd of June of the following year of my scholastic debut, when, with a popular referendum, the Italians chose to become a Republic, but it remained readable for quite a long time after that. Shit! This piece of information has spoiled it all, because now you can calculate my exact age. <br /><br />Our school uniforms consisted of a black overall and a blue bowtie, which I, perhaps because of an early recognition of ridicule, absolutely hated. The blue bowtie distinguished us boys from the girls, who wore a pink one instead. The classes were strictly mono-sex, meaning no mixed classes existed at all. Not only did the girls side of the school have another name, ”Adelaide Cairoli”, they also had a separate entrance. Their classes were located on the first floor of the school, while we boys were crammed on the ground floor. <br /><br />Next to this kind of scholastic sexual discrimination, the families weren't much better. The girls were not permitted to play with us in the square, because according to the parents, it would have been unseemly. I have a sister, Oretta is her name, and i will write about her in one of my future piece. She is 13 years younger then me and she is born with the Downs syndrome, commonly known as Mongolism. Now she is an old girl of over 50 years. Returning to my school days, I must add that this complete lack of contacts with the other sex, or even acquaintance, has partly been the reason for my shyness towards girls in many years of my post-puberty. Fortunately, after some time, things changed. <br /><br />The method of teaching, just after the war, didn't yet have the possibility to be renewed nor did the text books and the mentality of some of the teachers were still permeated with fascist ideology. ”La bandiera dai tre colori é sempre stata la piú bella” (The flag with the three colors has always been the most beautiful) and ”l' Inno di Mameli” (the Italian National Anthem) were the two songs that we were singing every day alternately. None of us understood the meaning, because nobody took the trouble to explain it to us. For example, we sang one of the national anthem verse ”dell'elmo di Scipio s'é cinta la testa” (she (Italy) has put on her head the Scipione's helmet), as monkeys or as those who went to hear the Mess in Latin. They (and we) knew everything by heart, it was as clear as mud for them (and for us), but they were convinced that if they didn't leave out a single comma, they would surely have gained, if not the heaven, then at least the purgatory.<br /><br />We learned to read on the stories of the Risorgimento and the 1st World War heros, those of the 2nd World War where not in the program probably because it wasn't clear yet who was a left-wing hero and who a right one. The fact is that at seven years old, or thereabouts, we knew everything about how Pietro Micca blew up and how Nazario Sauro and Cesare Battisti was hanged. Very edifying, isn't it?<br /><br /><b>End of Piece 2</b>pucciosperonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14626342197428171107noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5757224206544169710.post-28317235797062570372007-07-28T15:12:00.003+02:002008-03-28T09:46:30.918+01:00Piece 3<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">For a short time the SS. Annunziata square became ours. I am referring to the group of children who every day, unless it was raining, took possession of it. At the beginning, we were only about ten children, coming mostly from Via Laura, where I also lived, and from Via Gino Capponi, the street bordering the left side of the church northward and the beltway.<span style=""> </span>Quite soon, however, children living south of the square, mainly from Via dei Servi and Via degli Alfani, joined our original group, thus making it a more considerable and especially noisy gang. The ages ranged from 12-13 down to 7-8, of which I belonged to the latter. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>Of course football (soccer) held first place on the list of preferred games, but there were often some problems. First of all, only one of us, known as Vettori, owned a ball and if he didn’t come then obviously the raw material was also lacking. Moreover, footballs (soccer balls) back then were made of leather with an inner tubing inside, and as Vettori's ball was rather in a sorry state, it punctured easily. Repairing it took the better part of an afternoon and the wait was agonizing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>The next game which slowly won the favour of many of us was battling with peashooters. For those who don’t know peashooters, they are straight metal tubes<span style=""> </span>with an opening of 7-8 mm. in diameter. The bullets are made with newspaper strips of ca. 20 x 5 cm. They must be rolled on a finger and then, by pulling on one end, a cone can be formed.<span style=""> </span>The cone's point has to well salivated in order to keep its shape. When the point of the cone is dried it is inserted as far as possible into the peashooters hole. Any surplus paper is removed. The bullet is then ready for use. To shoot, it is enough to bring the peashooter to the mouth, aim at the intended target (estimating ballistic trajectories comes with experience) and blow the paper cone with all possible might. But having only one bullet is not enough. For a battle as I have in mind, several dozen bullets are necessary and a good fighter is recognizable by the number of pre-fabricated bullets strung in his hair. A kind of Rambo ante litteram. Normally our battles were fought by dividing us into two groups and then whoever was hit was eliminated. That was terribly boring however, because it meant staying on, only to watch others being eliminated until it was time to go home. It became therefore, nearly a rule of the battle to deny<span style=""> </span>being hit: “Va’ia Speroni, un’diciamo bischerate, t’a beccato la colonna, miha me” (Come on Speroni, don’t say idiocies, you hit the column, not me!).<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>In recollecting now my companions from that time, I realize that I don’t know anyone of them by their given names.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know if it is still so nowadays or if it is an exclusive Florentine or Tuscan habit, but the fact is that at that time we knew and called each other only using the family names: “Ciao Fabbri” “Hi Speroni, I just met Vettori and Giglioli and they told me that we will all meet under Grassellini’s home at 3 o’clock”.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>One more game, or rather a prank, which we liked very much was to go “pop” the tram. More than a game, we rather saw it as a heroic ending of a tiring day and carried it out at dusk. In this way the tram’s driver didn’t have the possibility of foreseeing what it was awaiting him.<span style=""> </span>Moreover, the solitary light inside the tram gave us a clearer view of the results of our operation. At the stationer’s we bought some small rolls of orange paper which were made for toy guns and rifles. Known as caps, these rolls had about twenty small detonators 1 cm. apart from each other. When the spring devices on the toy guns and rifles were activated by the triggers, they hit these small detonators making them explode. We would spread entire rolls of caps on the tram rails and wait in hiding for the arrival of the tram. When the iron wheel passed over the small roll it sounded like a machine gun, scaring the passengers inside the tram<span style=""> </span>and surprising the driver who, after few seconds of silence, began to shout out to the empty square “Delinquents, scoundrels!<span style=""> </span>I am not angry with you! I am angry with your parents who leave you to be free! They should keep you in chains!” and we would laugh insanely, hidden behind Brunelleschi.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>In addition to the games just described, we had impromptu practice sessions with other games like hide-and-seek, cencino molle (wet cloth), acchiappino (catch and run) etc during the ca. two years that I and my friends spent in SS. Annunziata square. That was until the day in which, suddenly, Padre Pietro (Father Peter) entered in our lives.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-weight: bold;">End of piece 3</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span><br /><b><u><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:11;"><o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p>pucciosperonihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14626342197428171107noreply@blogger.com