A tale of two trees

My parents were born in Sicily, South of Italy, in the 1930's, blissfully unaware of the world at war around them until they were a little older.

Tell-tale photos of my dad at four years old reveal a skinny boy sporting the obligatory black shirt of the fascists and outstretched arm salute.

My mother, the youngest of eight in a  blended family, radiates innocence and beauty in her long blonde curls and piercing green eyes.

He worked harder in his dad's successful asbestos sanitary-ware factory than at school.  She was the only girl in her class at school, bright and bold.

His dream was to be a great artist. Hers was to fly airoplanes. He became an accountant.  She was the first woman in her family who chose a career outside the home, in banking.

They were friends for many years before their respective dads died. This shared tragedy brought then together and they were married in 1963 on a hill in picturesque Taormina, Sicily,  in a church carved out of a rock face. She was 27. He was 32.

They moved North to Milan, where I was born (my sister followed 13 months later) and then to Pavia, for the same reasons people move from Cape Town to Johannesburg - opportunity. He became an insurance inspector. She gave up a promising career to raise me and my sister.

In 1974 they boarded a passenger ship in Genova called the Lloyd Triestino and made their way to South Africa. It seemed like a good idea at the time but, in reality, tragedy awaited them. After two weeks in the foreign land dad was incapacitated in a horrible car accident that nearly took his life.  He lost his business and was unable to work for almost a year.  Mom headed for familiar territory: banking. A year later our beloved aunt who had made the trip with us suffered a brain hemorrhage and died.  She was 28 years old. It devastated our family, my mother in particular.

Dad went to work at the Alfa Romeo where I believed he had the most glamorous job in the world.  We regularly enjoyed the luxury of gorgeous company cars in sleek Italian designs. When the Alfa Romeo left South Africa in the mid eighties, dad was the only employee left behind to tie up loose ends, a credit to his trustworthiness as an employee.

In the ninetees we moved to Cape Town. First my sister and her husband were transferred to the "mother city".  I followed two years later.  Mom and dad found Johannesburg a miserable place to be alone and far from their children and grandchildren.  They joined us a year later and settled in a small flat in Fishoek.  Dad, retired, started painting again and joined the artsy community of Kalk Bay. His paintings flew off the walls at galleries due to their accessibility and commercial appeal.

After her sixtieth birthday, mom took the estate agents exam and became an agent. In a year she experienced so much success that the tiny agency that had  been kind enough to hire the little old Italian lady expanded their offices. Mom could sell houses, it seems. Dad discovered he could sculpt bread dough and baked novelty breads between paintings.

Eventually mom joined a bigger company and they moved to the West Coast.  The selling continued to attract awards for mom and dad's pizza became legendary.

They bought a two-bedroom ground floor flat a few blocks up from the beach.  One day dad found a tiny sapling. He told my mom that the sapling would become a big old tree. He carefully watered and nurtured it until it grew a little stronger.

At around the same time, mom took a little palm out of the pot it had outgrown and planted it in the garden. It too began to grow.

Dad began to experience cardio-respiratory problems in his mid-seventies.  Mom stopped working and nursed him till his passing seven years later. We scattered his ashes in the ocean in Blouberg, at one of the spots he and his wife of 49 years enjoyed eating sandwiches in the years preceding his death.

I had taken over their flat when dad took ill. Today, in the garden, the two trees remain both extraordinarily tall and prolific. It seems they refuse to stop growing. They are a constant reminder of the legacy of perseverance and determination that my parents have left to me and my sister. As I prepare to sell this place, for practical reasons, I cannot help but feel nostalgia and regret at having to part with the two trees in my garden.

Last week was the anniversary of their wedding, which took place 50 years ago, on the 31 July 1963.