Earlier this month, I sadly lost my last remaining Grandparent – Donato Viola.
The moment was a profound loss for our family but a reminder to me personally that love is to be shared, and our time on this planet is uncertain and finite.
My Grandfather’s funeral was held in Retford, the town he had called home since coming to the UK in the 1950s. Born in Latronico, in the county of Potenza, Southern Italy, my Grandfather had raised four children, six grandchildren, and six great grandchildren. I was proud to deliver part of the eulogy with my Cousin, Simon. An immense privilege but a challenging one in trying to capture a man that was larger than life, and who had lived for more than twice as long as I’ve been on the planet.
A love of the land flowed through my Grandfather’s whole life – he could grow anything, and of course, better than anyone – right up until his later days he got lots of joy from tending his flowers, tomatoes and grapes. We all spent many an hour in his garden and allotment admiring his produce and flowers.
He was a competitive grower and never wanting to be outdone, he once painted a green tomato red to prove to his colleagues at the rubber works in Retford that his had ripened first!
He left school aged nine, when his mother died, and went off to work with his father on the land. He spent most of the summers as a child tending to the family crops and animals in the mountains (this was not unusual at the time in Italy), staying overnight on his own in their stone hut with just the family cat for company.
My Grandfather had so many stories to tell. He could captivate a room of people effortlessly. His stories were prone to some creative licence and mild exaggeration but the moral was always clear, he always triumphed against adversity, and he’d successfully skirted the fine line of cheekiness and the law – a Southern Italian Robin Hood.
In the mid 1940’s American WW2 soldiers started arriving in Italy, with many coming through the local area. On one particular occasion his father ‘Antonio’ befriended some of these soldiers as he was the only one that could speak English (he had previously spent time working in America and Brazil).
He helped to translate and source them firewood, wine and any materials they needed, in exchange for cigarettes, chocolate and other goods. When the soldiers saw the way Grandad was dressed in clothes held together with patches, they laughed warmly and on leaving gifted Antonio a brand-new soldiers uniform, which he got a skilled local tailor to make Grandad a suit – the best one in town apparently!
Speaking of looking sharpy, Grandad always looked sharp – taking great pride in his appearance.
In 1950 he married his lifetime partner Anna, and within a few weeks was called up to do military service in Northern Italy. He started his service in the kitchens which he ended up running introducing the Northern Italians to Southern cuisine; which they loved. The Northerners had never eaten meatballs; they just wanted polenta!
Whenever he was cooking at home he would always side-by-side with my Grandmother, making everything from scratch, passata from his tomatoes, cheese, and (much to his children’s embarrassment) salami that would hang in rows above the fire in the lounge to dry.
He travelled to England in early 1957, with my Anna and my Aunt’s joining him later that year. A few years on, my own Father was born. After lots of hard work he bought the family home in Retford – where he, Anna and their four children would grow up. At the time it was a brand-new housing estate, with my family being the first to move in – the foreman on that job was one of the best fed in the whole of the UK.
There was always something simmering on the stove, plump vegetables and flowers in the garden, barrels of homemade wine in the garage – and always space for a few more at the table.
Some of my earliest memories are of walking into that home and feeling safe, and a little excited. Grandad was there with his stories, with laughter, and with food, alongside Nanny Anna – that magical giver of hugs. He didn’t just belong to this family; he helped hold it together, and his character shaped all of our family.
Don showed us that family wasn’t something you talk about; it’s something you do. You feed people. You look after them. You stay connected across the years – through happiness, and sometimes through sorrow – through all the ordinary days that end up mattering most.
And speaking of looking after people, there is one legacy of his that none of us will ever forget: the food.
If you were loved by my Grandfather, you were fed. Generously. You didn’t “just have a little,” and you certainly didn’t leave hungry. And of all the things he made, the apple cake has already become family folklore; not only because it was good, but because of what happened around it.
There’s a story of Don and Anna baking and donating an apple cake as a raffle prize to the church. These cakes were legendary – easily large enough to feed 20 or 30 people at a time. He won it himself after buying a ticket for the raffle and decided to sell it back by the slice to raise more money. It was so perfectly him. It captures his generosity and his mischief, his resourcefulness and the underlying delight he took in making a moment of something simple.
He always gave us guidance that was practical – almost old-fashioned in the best way. I can still hear him saying ‘always remember Henry, learn to do everything you need for your family, you never know when you’ll need it.
It wasn’t just about skills. It was about responsibility. About being capable. About being someone other people can rely on.
And that links to another theme that ran through his life: perseverance.
If you want a single phrase that captures his spirit, it might be this: ‘never give up…Try Try Try’
That perseverance only intensified as his eyesight deteriorated. Even when he couldn’t recognise people, he refused to let it shrink his world. He kept visiting friends and neighbours. And he went, every day except Wednesdays, for coffee at Mama Giusi’s in Retford, where he made dozens of fantastic friends that were so kind to him. It became a lifeline, especially after we lost Anna. It mattered so much that my Aunts were given strict instructions: “Don’t come before 11. I don’t want to miss my coffee with my friends.”
Grandad loved his family. Here, in Retford and across England, and in Italy, and he valued his friends and neighbours just as deeply. He was fiercely independent and stayed at home as long as possible, with the support of my Aunt’s and Uncles, his Brother-in-Law, and a team of dedicated carers, only moving into a care home at the very end.
So yes, we grieve, because we will miss him. And we will feel that absence in small, sharp moments over time.
But we also give thanks.
We give thanks for a man who was generous, kind, quick witted, loved a joke and did his best for his family.
And that I think, is the most uplifting thing I will hold onto – the idea that a life well-lived leaves echoes.
Ciao Nonno
Riposa in pace.
