My Grandpop; the Pesky Little Thief

ELLA BRUMM

My Grandpop (or Reginald if you’re not his grandchild) is a difficult person to describe. Physically, he looks like he’s endured years of the sweltering Malta sun, has shrunk considerably with age, and has consumed alcohol and bread like his life depended on it (which at times it did). Personality wise, he’s even more difficult to pin down. He is empathetic when it comes to his very own ‘Marilyn Monroe’ (his wife of 60 years) yet indifferent when refugees are involved. His stories of war and his childhood could captivate a room while simultaneously not allowing anyone else the time to speak. He would stand up for anyone he loves in a heartbeat while also yelling at them for making his tea wrong. One thing I know for sure is he is one of the most generous people I know while also loving his family unconditionally.

Perhaps this quality stems from his childhood. He grew up in Malta, a small island in the Mediterranean Sea, between Sicily and the North African coast. His dad was in the navy and his mum cooked, and cleaned whilst raising six children.

The way he describes his childhood house reminds me of The Burrow in Harry Potter; it wasn’t much, but it was home. His mother sounded like a deeply sweet and kind woman, harbouring no resentment or ill will in any fibre of her being. She would make dinner and

ensure every child had enough to fill their tummies before taking a piece for herself. It often sounded like she was the only measured and calm person at their dinner table while the kids swooped in on the middle piece of bread like a flock of vultures feeding on a carcass. I like to believe that a small part of his mother’s love transferred over to Grandpop, and that is why he is so generous to this day.

It may also stem from the War. During this time some people learnt not to let go of anything and hold on to what they have, Grandpop learnt to share his wealth with people who needed it more, and to eat every last scrap off of his dinner plate. World War II began one day after Grandpop’s eleventh birthday.

Malta was the most bombed nation in the world during the War, where there were sometimes up to fifteen raids a day. This became a regular part of their life—scampering to get into bunkers and rationing food. Life was difficult and everyone did what they could to survive.

However, Grandpop took the liberty of stealing some irregular items that, in hindsight, he considered to not be ‘entirely necessary’ for survival.

Grandpop and his older brother, Bill, once fashioned a contraption to steal the lemons from the neighbour’s tree. They used two long bamboo sticks and tied separated scissors to the ends so they could reach over the fence. Bill, being the eldest, would climb the fence and place a scoop under the lemon, Grandpop would then chop the branch above. The neighbour was furious when she’d wake to find a bare lemon tree next to the shared fence. Each time without fail, she would yell at Grandpop’s mum in Italian to tell her that her boys were stealing her lemons. Undeterred, Bill and Grandpop continued capitalising on the stolen lemons to make lemonade for their other neighbours.

On another one of Bill and Grandpop’s misadventures, they ventured over to the neighbour’s house on the other side to steal their goldfish. They’d bring a small scoop and pluck out the fish they wanted, carry them back to their house and put them in their pond. Their neighbour became suspicious when his once fruitful pond was suddenly an empty pool of water.

One time, as Grandpop was walking around the bakery, a bloke asked him to keep an eye on his truck while he went to the toilet. The truck was filled with loaves of bread. To Grandpop, a hungry boy who probably hadn’t eaten a meal in a day or two, he saw that truck of bread as a pile of gold.

The truck driver came back to find no Grandpop and a few buckets of missing bread. He ate two loaves of bread in one sitting and proceeded to vomit it all back up only a few hours later. Luckily, he had a few more loaves under his belt.

While this may seem like a slander piece against my Grandpop, I choose to think of it as a heartfelt recount of the silly things he got up to when he was younger. I’ve always loved hearing his stories even if he interrupted someone else to share them. I often wonder what kind of person he was before the War before he moved to Australia and married and had children. These stories tell me that he was a mischievous little kid who had a great love for his family and also for getting on other people’s nerves. Even if Grandpop occasionally swiped the odd item here and there, I certainly don’t begrudge him for it and am actually quite impressed that he can recall those memories like they were yesterday.