Our EARTH DAY with Grandpa Vincenzo
We’re not exactly sure why we’re writing this.
Maybe because that moment stayed with us.
Or maybe because today is Earth Day, and yesterday—without planning it—we ended up celebrating it in the truest way we know.
It was Easter Monday.
Everything felt suspended. People were home, sitting at the table, or already out in the countryside for picnics. But someone wasn’t resting.
We saw him by chance, leaving the house around 8 a.m., while we were getting ready for our own little day out.
“Really… even today?” we thought.
Without even speaking, we put on our shoes and followed him.
Our grandfather, Grandpa Vincenzo, was walking through the wheat fields—his wheat fields—with his usual slow but steady step.
He wasn’t walking just to look around. He was walking to understand.
Now and then, he bent down to touch the soil.
“Grandpa, aren’t you taking a break today?”
He turned, saw us, and smiled—as if he knew we’d come.
“The earth doesn’t know what day it is. When it’s growing, it needs care. It doesn’t stop just because it’s a holiday.”
He pointed to a young ear of wheat.
“Look how well it’s forming. If it keeps going like this, it’ll be perfect in a month. But let’s see how the rain turns out.”
We stayed with him. Walking.
Feeling the soil under our feet.
And then, as always, he started telling stories.
He talked about his beginnings, about how he was given eight hectares of land and, with a few debts, eventually expanded to sixty-five.
“There were a lot of problems with those fields, especially with the people from Casalvecchio. They claimed the land was theirs.”
“And then you married Grandma, who was from Casalvecchio…” we teased.
He laughed.
“Yes, I did. But Giuseppina—your grandmother—was the right one. Even if no one agreed at first. But when something feels right, I go for it. Always have.”
He stopped for a second, looking out into the distance.
“They thought I was crazy when I planted sunflowers. No one had ever grown them here. Then they gave me a medal.
Same with the trellised vineyard. Five hectares… it sounded crazy at the time, but I believed in it.”
As he spoke, he kept checking the field, unhurried, focused—like a quiet form of respect.
Then we asked him about the mill.
We know the story. We’ve heard it a hundred times. But every time, he adds a new detail, a different shade. And it always moves us.
“When we started, your dad Nicola was still a kid. Your uncle Michele was studying. I was already fifty.
Nobody believed in us. But I gave it everything I had. Everything—and even more.”
Then he looked at us.
“I did my part. And then I stepped back. I never put myself in front.
Your father took the reins and carried the mill forward.
I went back to the land. To the one thing that’s always made me feel good.”
We kept walking.
The sun was high, but the wind was cool. The wheat brushed against our legs.
He bent down again, dug his fingers into the soil.
“I come here because this is where I grew up. Because if you treat the earth well, it respects you. It doesn’t betray you.”
Then he stood up, adjusted his cap, and said it like it was the most natural thing in the world:
“And what would I do at home? Everything I need is here. And if I’m still able to come out here every day, then it means I’m doing alright.”
We left.
Our own “Pasquetta” was waiting, just like our friends.
We walked away and left him alone, with his land.
And today, while the whole world celebrates Earth, we felt like writing down this small memory.
Because to us, the Earth has the face of our grandfather.
His worn hands, his eyes scanning the sky, his feet that know every furrow.
He doesn’t celebrate Earth Day with speeches.
He celebrates it by showing up.
By caring.
By setting an example.
And every time we follow him, we learn something.
Francesca and Vincenzo De Vita