The Antique Brass Corkscrew

I inherited an antique brass corkscrew from my great-grandmother, its surface worn smooth by years of use, yet still gleaming with a quiet, golden warmth. Every twist of its spiral carries memories of family gatherings, laughter, and the simple, enduring rhythm of life in the old days. This antique brass corkscrew carries the warm, weathered patina of years well used. With its sturdy, utilitarian handle and simple spiral mechanism, it carries the quiet beauty of aged craftsmanship while staying fully functional. It is robust and speaks to a time when tools were built to last, combining rustic character with everyday function.

I could spend entire afternoons with my great-grandmother, captivated by her stories, feeling the weight of history and the warmth of her voice wrap around me like a familiar blanket. Hours would slip away unnoticed, her words painting vivid worlds, and I felt as if I were travelling through time with her by my side…

“I have a new story Heidi, come and sit next to me...I will tell you about the evenings at the stable. “What would you like me to tell you tonight?” the grandfather would ask, as the youngest children gathered around him, climbing onto his knees. The older ones sat in a circle on bales of straw, listening in silence. There, sitting close together, they would tell each other stories—true, made-up, or somewhere in between. Their favourite tale was that of the Barba Lof, who came at night, climbed the stairs, and ate naughty children. Often, however, the grandfather spoke of things that had truly happened, the seasons and how the weather impacted the harvest and life in the fields and then even the adults listened closely. Winters were windy and heavy with snow, and to keep warm we went into the stables, close to the cows. Their breath was our heating, the straw our bed. In the house the family gathered around the hearth for warmth, but the hearth, though large, could not warm the entire kitchen and heated only the side of the body turned toward it. In the stable, instead, warmth was everywhere, and no fire was needed.
Then, the children played, the women knitted and shared the events of the day. The stable was the family’s living room. Wisps of smoke floated in the air, mingling with the strong smell of urine from the straw piled near the drains, while the breath of the animals filled the space with warmth. But the stable was also a school. The older taught the younger how to weave straw into chair seats, braid wicker into baskets, and make brooms. On Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays, the fiancés came as well. On those evenings, future brides wore their cleanest clothes and avoided any task that might soil them. They embroidered small pieces of their wedding trousseau—napkins and dishcloths—while the lovers exchanged only glances. Yes, things were different then! Today young people meet freely, go out together, embrace and kiss in public. Back then, a look, a word, was enough to say everything.
When visitors arrived at the stables, there was great joy, especially among the women, who brought news to share. They spoke of courtships, dowries, brides, and poor women, but also of sowing, of the Bora wind, and of snow that would cleanse the air. On Christmas Eve the stable was closed. No one was allowed to enter, or they would be punished within the year. Christmas came when nature slept and all farm work had stopped. Christmas was a quiet, austere, but deeply a meaningful day. The work in the fields had stopped, and nature seemed asleep under the snow and winter frost. Families would gather in the home, the hearth was carefully cleaned, and the family would prepare the simplest but most special meal they could manage—perhaps a little meat if the pig had been slaughtered for the occasion, or polenta and milk, served with whatever small treats could be spared. Every meal was a celebration in itself because food had been scarce during the year. Children were both excited and reverent: no one could enter certain areas, like the stable or storeroom, unless invited. The adults often told stories of saints, old legends, or family memories, and the children listened wide-eyed. Singing, prayers, and small games with simple objects—like spinning tops or balancing sticks—filled the hours. Even with hardship, Christmas was a day of togetherness, care, and gratitude. Families celebrated the few comforts they had: warmth, food, and each other. The day carried a sense of ritual, continuity, and the deep human joy of surviving and living together despite poverty.
Speaking about food, Polenta was our life—at breakfast, lunch, and dinner: cold, toasted, mixed with milk or soup. There was a dish known as the food of the poor: Zouf—polenta flour mixed with milk, cooked briefly and left soft like soup, eaten in the morning without bread or anything else. Every day the same food. Hunger was constant, and we were all as thin as sticks. All the children shelled the corn after the adults had made the first cut, because beginning the shelling was the hardest part. When the vines were pruned, we collected the cut shoots to fuel the fire. We roasted corn cobs by the fire. I gathered countless dry branches for firewood. We, the children, cut and carried home branches of common dogwood, used by the men to make brooms. Its branches are strong, flexible, and straight enough for weaving or bundling into brooms.
The hearth was the heart of the house; everything revolved around it. In my house, the fire burned directly on the stone floor. There was no chimney, and smoke escaped through doors, windows, and every crack. Bread was baked at home only two or three times a month. The loaf was placed under a metal basin, covered with ashes and embers, and in an hour it was done. The dough was prepared the night before, and in the morning more flour, water, and salt were added. After vigorous kneading, the loaves were baked, then carefully stored and eaten sparingly.
From the age of eleven, I followed my mother and helped her with her chores. By watching her, I learned. In spring we made brooms and wove chairs. In season, we gathered wild herbs, especially red chicory, eaten cooked or as salad. In May or June we collected mulberry leaves for the silkworms. All children also fed the chickens in the courtyard. The first important task that adults entrusted to children was driving the oxen and cows. With the whip in hand, full of pride, children learned to know the land and the animals that were needed to work it. At home we slept on the ground, on covers stuffed with corn leaves—there were no mattresses then. The toilet was outdoors, a small enclosure of corn stalks with a pit in the ground and a wooden plank across it. One climbed onto the plank to relieve oneself. When the pit filled, it was covered with soil. How afraid we were of falling in!
To wash clothes, we went to the stream, where there was a wooden washboard fed by a spring. We sat with our legs in the water and our knees on a plank. We walked there on foot, carrying baskets on our backs. Laundry was done about once a month. In a large tub, from time to time, everyone bathed, especially the children, who were scrubbed thoroughly, especially their heads, where lice could hide. Sheets, washed only every six months or so, were boiled with ashes. When it rained, we covered ourselves with burlap sacks, because there were no umbrellas.
Water was drawn from the river and carried home in buckets. There were no taps. Copper buckets hung from a wooden stand, waiting to be used. Going to fetch water from the well was, for women, a stroke of luck, because it gave them a chance to meet and chat for a while, a small break in their hard day. Sometimes the bucket was secretly emptied ahead of time by the girls, just to have an excuse to go out and meet someone: perhaps a suitor was waiting for them. They would go laughing and return crying. What does that mean? On the way they laughed, and on the way back they cried. Why? Because the buckets full of water were very heavy on the return, and men never helped the women.
In the attic there were long wooden boards where we placed the silkworms, and we brought them finely chopped mulberry leaves to eat. They devoured them eagerly. Silkworms eat only that, and luckily for us children, at least the mulberries were left to us. They are very sweet, and we climbed the mulberry trees to eat large quantities of them. The silkworms spun their cocoons; we detached the cocoons from the twigs, put them into large baskets, and carried them downstairs, making piles on sheets spread out in the open air. We quickly separated the good cocoons, the better-made and shinier ones, from the poorly formed ones, and then the best were sold to those who would reel and make the silk.
During the summer there was the haymaking. We had to spread the freshly cut grass with the handle of the rake so that it could dry. In the cornfields we removed the excess shoots and then helped gather the ears of corn. When my mother was working in the fields, I carried the midday meal to the men and women who worked with her.”

In the 1930s and ’40s, children lived fully immersed in family life and the work of the fields, where labor and play were intertwined in a single daily rhythm. Every small task, from carrying water to tending the animals, was part of a community that included them and taught them responsibility, attentiveness, and cooperation. The children had precise tasks, woven into the rhythm of the fields and the seasons, and every gesture — carrying water, tending the animals, gathering herbs, or following the cart to collect the corn cobs — was part of a living tapestry that connected them to the land and their family. You could see little boys and girls with attentive eyes, immersed in their daily duties, learning from an early age the value of work and cooperation, as if each task told a story through their hands and hearts, under the sun or beside the hearth. And even though it was tiring, the children never complained. Everything was done with dedication, shared effort, and sincere love. Today, however, many children and teenagers spend entire afternoons in front of a screen, trapped in virtual worlds that often bring boredom and loneliness. They no longer know the shared effort, the pride of contributing to family life, or even the simple satisfaction of tidying their own room. Whereas work and play once served as tools for learning and connection, today they are often replaced by solitary pastimes, lacking the sense of community and growth that made every gesture meaningful and important.

“In autumn, we children helped with harvesting the corn. Then we followed the cart to collect the corn cob husk that might fall from the baskets. In October the corn cobs were husked, and the husks were used to make mattresses. We also helped in spreading manure on the fields before ploughing. Autumn was the time of the grape harvest, and we, the children, had to pick the grapes and carry them to the vats where they were crushed. And do you know how we crushed them? With our feet! In the end we all had purple feet and ankles—but what fun it was for us children! The grown-ups treated the wine with the utmost care. In the stables wine was tasted and shared. It was never sold; it was considered a friend.”

Wine was so precious in the 1930s and 1940s for several deep, practical reasons — especially in rural families. First of all, wine was food, not a luxury. It provided calories, strength, and energy in a time when people ate very little and diets were poor. For farmers working long days in the fields, a little wine meant stamina and warmth. Secondly, wine was safer than water. Clean drinking water was not always available. Wine, being fermented, did not carry the same risks of disease, so it was often mixed with water or drunk daily, even by young people, in small quantities. Moreover, wine was one of the few products families could make themselves. Vineyards were common, and making wine did not require buying anything from outside. Because money was scarce, self-produced wine was extremely valuable. Selling it was rare and almost unthinkable — it was kept for the family. In addition, wine had a strong social and symbolic value. It represented hospitality, friendship, and dignity. Offering wine meant honouring a guest. That is why it was often described as “a friend,” not a commodity. Finally, in the 1930s and especially during the years of the war, shortages were constant. Sugar, coffee, meat, and oil were rationed or unavailable. Wine became one of the few pleasures left, something that connected people to normal life and tradition. Finally, wine was tied to identity and continuity. Making wine linked generations: the same vines, the same cellar, the same gestures repeated year after year. In hard times, that continuity mattered.

“When the war began, life became unbearably hard, yet we were lucky—everyone in my family survived. I remember the airplanes overhead, dropping bombs that made the ground tremble. We ran into the fields, hiding among the tall corn where they couldn’t see us. Sometimes we went down into the cellars, but they were crowded, and the bombs could strike even there. A trumpet would sound the alarm, and the attack would begin. It lasted roughly an hour, but to us— hungry, freezing, and terrified—it felt like an eternity. The whistling of the falling bombs made our heads spin. Houses crumbled, roofs collapsed, walls shattered. Hospitals were hit. Millions of people had no food, no water, no medicine. The strong crushed the weak. Mother warned us to stay inside, but we were restless, tired of hiding. When the bombing ended, the village bells rang, and we cautiously stepped out, blinking in the pale winter light, seeing streets and homes turned to rubble. The invaders took everything: oxen, horses, grain, potatoes, wine—all gone. The parish priest had managed to save only a few wine barrels, a piano, and a few scattered pieces of furniture. They emptied the priest’s cellar, carrying away 80,000 liters of wine. Desolation hung over everything. And yet, they could not touch our dreams. Dreams cannot be stolen. They are stronger than fear, stronger than violence, and they give you courage, even in the darkest of times.”

When my great-grandmother finished telling me her story of childhood in the 1940s, I closed my eyes and I imagined my great-grandfather gently uncorking the bottle of wine, the simple ritual full of care and reverence, while my great-grandmother watches with a quiet, knowing smile. In that small, dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by the modest trappings of their humble life, he leans in and kisses her, and for a fleeting moment, the world feels impossibly wide and full of warmth. They were happy in their poverty, yet rich in love, each glance and every gesture carrying the kind of joy and devotion that no wealth could ever buy.