My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More) by Dario Fo

I’m a fibber, although they’ve already stuck that title on me millions of times!’
    The pathways to the different nurseries were lined with myriads of plants and flowers. High jets of violet irises or blue gladioli appeared at intervals along the way, while a luxuriant bower of roses held pride of place at the crossroads in the centre of the farm. In the background, in the distance, lay the railway track: ‘Thanks, Granddad, for that railway line,’ I said. ‘You did it to make me feel at home, didn’t you?’
    â€˜Good lad,’ he exclaimed. ‘Very witty. You’re a Bristìn as well.’
    The following day, I discovered that Granddad Bristìn was a greengrocer as well. In addition to growing vegetables and fruit, he went to sell them in the town and in all the farms and farmsteads in the district. He came to wake me up that morning when it was still dark, and took me down to the kitchen, a big room with a fireplace as grand and deep as a closet in a sacristy. Five or six young men sat around the table in the centre of the room, taking their breakfast. Each of them greeted me noisily and wanted to pick me up and throw me in the air like a puppet. These were my uncles and they all had ferocious strength. Grandmother was worried and stopped them: ‘Enough of that. You’ll hurt him.’
    Grandmother’s name was Maria but they all called her la bella Maria. She was fifty-five and even though she had had nine children and had worked hard all her life in the fields and spinning mills, she was still worthy of the name they had given her. She was gentle and kindly, and moved with unimaginable grace.
    Grandfather Bristìn was in the farmyard, harnessing the horse to the vegetable cart with the help of Aronne, his eldest son. All of them, uncles and farmhands, went over to the wagon to help load the last baskets of fruit and newly picked bunches of flowers. Granddad picked me up and placed me astride the horse’s back, then handed me the reins: ‘You drive,’ he ordered.
    â€˜But I don’t know how to, Granddad. I’ve never done it.’
    â€˜Nothing to it. When you want the horse to turn right, pull this rein. When you want it to go left, pull the other one. To make it stop, tug both of them together.’
    â€˜And to get it going again?’
    â€˜Let the reins go slack and bring them down on his back. Give him one or two digs with your heels and above all, you have to shout – Go! Giddy-up!’
    â€˜I’ll have a go, but where are you going to sit?’
    â€˜On the cart. I’ll have a little snooze.’
    I was terrified. ‘But at least tell me the way.’
    My uncle, trying to be helpful, said: ‘So that you won’t get lost, here’s the map with the way marked in red. You follow this route and stop the horse where you see these yellow signs. You can’t go wrong.’
    They were all mad in that house. For God’s sake, I wasn’t even seven, and they were packing me off down roads I had never seen before, with a horse and cart I had never ridden, and at the same time my grandfather was planning to snooze in the back. And now I had to read a map!
    â€˜Excuse me, Uncle Aronne, but what does this sign mean?’
    â€˜It’s a bridge, a big bridge over the river Po.’
    I was near to tears, but all together the whole family began chanting:
    Il fantolino è un gran fantino,
    E’ un carrettiere che non può sbagliare.
    Il nonno dorme come un ghiro
    e lui, tranquillo, lo porta in giro.
    What a horseman is this young boy,
    He’ll drive the wagon like a toy.
    His granddad’s sleeping like a dormouse
    As they trot from house to house.
    A slap on its hindquarters and off goes the horse, slowly but surely, its hooves clinking against the hard cobbles. First right … straight on, over the bridge … down to the first farmstead. Unbelievable! I’ve made it! The