You can run but you can't hide

My mother told me a funny story once about my grandparents that I'd like to share. It goes a little something like this:

On the southern coastline of Italy, in the province of Calabria there is a little coastal town steps from the water called Bianco. The town runs no more than 5 km in either direction; but the densest part of it at the time of the story would have only been a few hundred feet. My grandmother was the oldest of 13 children, and since her mother was of proud Catholic upbringing, my grandmother spent the first third of her life raising and caring for her 12 younger siblings. At 29 she was the town spinster; feeling obligated to stay and care for her younger brothers and sisters, she put aside her own ventures for the good of the family.

Marriage looked improbable.

My grandfather was the town prankster. A real sh**disturber in every sense of the word. He had a sadistic sense of humour and a horrible (at times) temper. When he was kicked out of the army he returned back to Bianco to farm; and seeing that my grandmother was still available, he married her.

My grandmother was a woman of great practicality. My grandfather was a man of great foolishness. I suppose, on a spiritual level they were a perfect match. But, in any case, for the first year of their marriage they fought incessantly.

The fights were usually set off by something that irritated my grandfather. My grandmother was not about to back down to this fool she married; despite her deep love and devotion. And so, they would enter into Calabrese war with each other on a daily basis. Each unwilling to bend to the other's imperfections, because they believed that they were right. It was more important to be right than to resolve the situation.

When my grandfather's temper would flare, he would storm out of the house in full fury; screaming in sheer irateness as he marched down the dirt road towards the other end of town. Needing to get as far away from his stubborn and insubordinate wife as he could; he would flee every time the conflict got to be a bit too much. My grandmother would listen as his mumblings became faint whispers as he scuffled further and further down the road. In an act of sheer desperation, she would get on her knees and pray to the Lord to bring a blessing upon her husband.

At times, my grandfather would be too stubborn to return home; and so, he would sleep in various porch ways and barns. Oftentimes in the morning; when my grandmother would set about for her morning walk to sell eggs or fetch water, she would see him. He would be shuffling home with hay still sticking out of his hair or shirt; and she would sigh. He would often pretend not to see her and in fact, walk straight past her. And while my grandmother would naturally think, "where the hell are you going?" she too would pretend not to see him and walk straight past him as well. It had turned into a cold war.

When my mother asked my grandmother one afternoon many years later why she resigned herself to tolerate his foolish behaviour; and also why she didn't get irate when he would walk past and ignore her, my grandmother would simply say, "Where was he going to go? There was one road in town and it circled back to our house. The further he walked away from me, eventually the closer he walked towards me. I was not about to waste my time arguing with an idiot."

My grandmother was a wise woman.

Sometimes, when men are acting childish and lashing out because they are uncomfortable with their new found intimacy; it's important to remember the one road town. For, when two hearts are truly connected, as my grandparents' were, the logic was simple. The further he would walk away from her -- the closer he would be brought to her. You can run, but you can't hide from love.





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