When I was six years old, still wandering the town with crooked braids and shoes covered in dirt, my mother enrolled me in a children’s painting and drawing course. Not because I was particularly talented; we discovered that later. It was because all my little friends were going, and she didn’t want me to feel left out. 

Back then, it wasn’t like it is today when school’s out for the summer. The younger children spent most of the summer months at their grandparents’ until August came around, and then we went on vacation.

At the end of the climb that led to the historical center, through those shady alleys that provided relief to passersby in the summer and smelled like pasta with sauce, lived Giocondo, a retired art teacher who had the brilliant idea of providing a service to the community by opening an art course for children. 

Thanks to him, the town’s children were engaged in something healthy and creative. They socialized and had fun in a genuine and protected environment. This lightened the load on grandparents who had to take care of their grandchildren every day. However, at his house, the kids didn’t just draw. It would have been impossible to keep all those children still for two hours straight. But with Mrs. Ernesta, the children had the opportunity to explore the world of plants in their beautiful inner garden. Just as was done in the schools of the past, the husband and wife had created a “museum of odds and ends” where old objects found here and there gained new value and meaning. So, broken shoes transformed into fearsome pirate ships, the coffee pot into a magical castle, the rusty iron into a steam train. Everything came back to life in a different form, and we were happy.

I still remember my first day of class. I arrived with my mother, who held my hand to boost my courage, with my little backpack filled with sheets and colored pencils and a  thermos full of orange juice. The door was open, a multicolored curtain that moved sinuously to the rhythm of the summer breeze separated the entrance from the street. I crossed it alone, letting that soft and delicate fabric caress my cheek, and had a triumphant entrance, stumbling on the doorstep! I passed through the room decorated with colorful drawings, where the scent of roses on Mrs. Ernesta’s table wafted through the air. Finally, I arrived at the back, in that bright little room where my friends and the lovely elderly couple were waiting for me.