Aetius, son of Achilles of Val di Nievole, cartworker with a mythical strength capable of calming down madness, lived almost a hundred years, it is even more strong of the father, with the “his big hands” capable of stunning cows and lifting horses like pebbles, of still going hunting despite the unsteady step and “the old stick” from “very old man”, bringing home great trophies, like a true hero of country.
Ezio was the son of Achille and Zaira, brother of Iole, Rina and Leonida called Lea, uncle of Othello, Valframo, Atos (sic!) and Ludo, husband of Ada, father of Mara, Mauro and Lolita called Raffaella. They lived in Val di Nievole, near Monsummano, in a land squeezed between the scent of the rich and elegant Montecatini and the strong smell of the aquatic herbs of the Padule di Fucecchio, in which peasants and workers shed their skin, bringing out a refined soul now of fishermen now of hunting men. A world neither rich nor poor, where the superficiality of some was mirrored by the very rich "culture" of the many who knew and loved everything about the Padule.
The house, large and modest, opened together with others around a square of grass and gravel, dominated by an old well in freshly plastered red bricks and around various huts built with the strangest materials, which served as a shelter for tools and old scooters, abandoned there with love from time immemorial. One cabin had an old Shell billboard on one wall; another was built with a light blue board on which the writing, in white italics, read: A liquhours that will conquer the world…, but the name of the liqueur could not be read because a piece was missing. In the farmyard, neatly lined up against the wall, there were four or five old rickety chairs where people "kept vigil" on summer evenings and, right next to it, the front door in anodized aluminum opened up the entrance to a large kitchen with a large fireplace, built in recent times for the "liturgical" use of dining together. But "together" meant "together with whoever was there" because, along the walls of the room, there were other chairs, where all those who entered could stop and chat with those who were already at the table.
We talked about everything: someone believed for Coppi, others for Bartali, but we also talked about hunting and politics and then there were the "chiacchiere”, that chatter a lotor funniest and juiciest gods kidip that can be heard today.
Among those eating sat Lea who, poor thing, wasn't there with her head. During lunch, Lea cut her nails and above all muttered constantly, talking to herself about what came to her mind. And if someone tried to silence her, theI rebelled decisively saying: «I pay the tasse and I say what I want!».
The only one who had the power to silence her was Achilles, who immediately tamed it with an imperious shout, returning a few ephemeral moments of peace to the other diners.
Achille was a "barrocciaio", that is, he had a cart pulled by a horse with which he went around the poorest areas of Tuscany at the beginning Nine hundred, selling soaps, tools, combs and all sorts of basic necessities that were almost impossible to find in the countryside. He made trips that lasted months to the distant lands of Maremma and came back with some money and many stories to tell, true or fanciful tall tales, which however always satiated the curiosity of those who had never moved from there.
Achilles lived, or rather "field", up to the respectable age of 99 years and 6 months. Ezio, his son, inherited a cart and a horse, but preferred to be a more comfortable truck driver. It cannot be said that he was a great man and he probably wasn't, but he was certainly a great man and above all very strong. He didn't mind doing "punching" because his hands were twice the size of him and it was said that he had stunned a cow with a punch or that he had lifted his horse, which had fallen into a pit. During the days of the party he went around elegantly with a wide-brimmed hat and beautiful shoes, then, strong in his imposing figure, he walked looking at the world from above, leaving his wife Ada with the heavy task of keeping the house running smoothly and to look after those two daughters of hers, courted everywhere by hopeful young men. Ezio had a beautiful smile, a hard and shallow gaze and he didn't know sweetness. Ada, who had plenty of sweetness, held firm and in her time her large blue eyes, marked by the things of her life, had filled with a generous patience, as great as the love for her children.
When I first met Ezio, he was already a very old man. Next to the well, in the middle of the farmyard, his big hands were now leaning on an old stick and his light blue shirt draped his evident weakness. They had recently taken away his car and even with his moped he had become dangerous for himself and for others.
"I love that you came..." he said happily, while we were in the kitchen to give his wife a break. In fact, already in the late afternoon, he wanted to have dinner and be helped to go to bed. His supper was a large cup of milk with bread, and sometimes biscuits, and when his trembling hand had finished dripping the last spoonfuls of his food, he went unsteadily to the "put-it-all" near the sink, where he grabbed a shoebox full of a multitude of medicines, which he swallowed with almost gluttonous scruple. Every now and then on Sundays there was a certainly welcome lunch at the grandsons' houseyou and Ezio, who just ate the second course, put on his hat and indifferently stood there, at the head of the table: he wanted to be taken home. One of these times, to distract him, they made him tell of when a few days before he had "killed" a pheasant by shooting it. It was an incredible thing and we don't know how it had happened but he had taken the rifle, together with the stick, and had gone down to the field near the house: he had returned shocked by emotion, with his miraculous hunting trophy in his hands and only talking about it again made him shiver.
That day at the table, recounting the story again, he let himself be caught up in the emphasis, exclaimed that he was still the best shooter in the province and, pounding a powerful fist on the table, stood up and fainted, overwhelming the amazed Ada.
After several checks he returned home healthier than before and got out of bedif bold: «I am fine! and I want to live as long as Achilles!».
He could not make it.
Cover image: Paul Uccello, Night hunting, 1470 about, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. Particular
