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I'm writing these little tales for you, my sweet baby boy, and for your baby cousin hoping that very soon we can all sit and share them. I hope that one day you will tell them to your children and grandchildren, so these short adventures won't be lost in time.
You see, these are not "my" stories. I didn't make them up. Neither are they better versions of folk tales, like those that granny Tina (your great granny) used to tell so well. Nor true ghost stories from our grandparent's enchanted hometown – those I will tell you later and are great fun, promise.
No, these are something else: these are stories that happened to me, to your daddy, to your uncles and aunties, and to your grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents...and so forth, in different times and locations, all the way up our family tree.
This is because, you know, all of these grown-ups – even those you didn't get to know, or those stern people in very old sepia portraits that look like they belong in a museum- were little like you one day. And they did naughty and silly things too. Actually, lots of them. All children are mischievously alike, even when times are hard.
For example, when granny told sad stories about war times, we always ended up in stitches anyway because she would recall the pranks her siblings and cousins played on the townfolk. Children are very powerful: they manage to make the best of the toughest situation.
So this is it: I'm going to tell you childhood stories from other times, from your relatives, in the best way I can.
Here goes the first one, then: Anibal, Airman Extraordinaire.
My great grandfather Anibal (your great great grandpapa) was a tall, slim, grumpy man with sparkling blue eyes. He was a lone wolf who built his houses like roman villas, with the walls facing the street and the gardens within, so that no one could spy on his business. He hardly ever left his farm and hated visitors with a passion, although he loved having long conversations whenever he caught someone around, which made no sense at all.
And as far as we knew, he wasn't too fond of children, either. He went bananas every time the village lads sneaked into the farm to steal cherries or grapes. When the council decided they would dispossess him of a plot of land (for a fair price) to build the local primary school, he felt the most miserable man on earth. For him, children, in general, were nuisances; "rabble". That's what he called the kids that jumped the fences to steal fruit as he waved his staff furiously.
I think I was the only child he appreciated because I had the patience to sit through his endless monologues and never showed him fear. Like all bossy people, grandpapa Anibal only respected those who stood up to him and were unimpressed by his bravado. For me, he was only my old grandpa and he had the obligation to love me, period. And great-grandpa liked that.
Looking at that frowning old man who hid his sense of humour so well, no one could say he had ever been a child – or ever had a fun day in his life. However, that couldn't be further from the truth: not only he had been a child – he had been a handful!
When Anibal was a bright-eyed little blonde boy, around 1922, he was the village's rascal, inventing new tricks day in and day out. His favourite pastimes included playing the flute at the windows of cranky old neighbours while they were taking a nap, and poking fun at their fury.
The other thing he loved the most was listening to the radio, and keeping up with the news. Well, by that time , and the headlines about from Lisbon to Rio de Janeiro, had the young Anibal fascinated.
He couldn't stop thinking about such a splendid adventure and became mesmerised by the idea of flying. How could he possibly fly? Surely there had to be a way of building a flying machine. After studying a picture of Coutinho and Cabral's seaplane closely, he realised he would have to come up with a very light device. And so he started his secret engineering project.
A few days later, his "plane" was ready: a state-of-the-art design made out of sticks and loads of hay- a material that not only allowed the gizmo to take flight but would cushion the fall in case the launch didn't go as expected.
Feeling very proud of himself, he picked the perfect spot for his takeoff – the tallest olive tree he could find – and called all his friends to witness that spectacular aviation feat.
The flying machine was already placed on top of the tree. Anibal climbed up there, hopped into the plane and, cheered by the other boys who encouraged him on safe land, took flight without thinking twice.
Well, the experience was a disaster – but truth be told, it wasn't unlike so many flying experiences performed by professional adults around that time. The hay didn't exactly serve as a cushion when the plane crashed, though – it just scattered all over, and poor Anibal hit the ground with a broken arm as a souvenir of his adventure.
The arm healed just fine, but as far as I know, great-grandpa Anibal never cared about flying again. Nevertheless, he continued to love the radio all his life- and used the same 1920s radio from his childhood forever. I think it was an indestructible radio, because it still works today, even after grandpa spanked it repeatedly with his cane when he didn't like what he was listening to. They don't make them like that anymore.
