Remembering November: Life along Cemetery Avenue.

“November smelled of olives, smoke, and chrysanthemums — a month that taught me what it means to remember.”

I remember November vividly, perhaps more than any other month, because I lived on a street that led directly to the cemetery — a street with an unmistakable name: Viale Cimitero, Cemetery Avenue.
At the time, the road was still unpaved, lined with tall, elegant cypress trees. In Puglia, however, cypresses are sadly associated with cemeteries, so they were not considered worthy of preservation. At the first opportunity, they were cut down and replaced with plum trees which, to me, have always felt rather insignificant for a city avenue.

What I remember most was the sadness of the funeral processions. In those days, they were accompanied by a band playing heartbreaking music and by the desperate cries of relatives. I can still hear those sounds echoing in my mind. Every time a hearse passed, I would run to the back of the house and cover my ears as tightly as I could.

November was also the time for coliba, a traditional dessert prepared in memory of the deceased on 2 November. The ingredients were durum wheat, pomegranate, vincotto, chopped walnuts, shaved dark chocolate, and cinnamon.

It was a month devoted to remembrance, and there was always a steady stream of people heading to the cemetery. The street filled with stalls selling chrysanthemums, their scent mingling with the cold air — the fragrance of flowers, wax, and memory.

My father kept the shutter of his warehouse open all day because olive sellers often passed by. He bought olives for oil, which he shipped to various mills across Italy. In small towns, everyone knows everyone else, and I remember so many people stopping to greet my father, ask about the olive and oil market, or simply chat about relatives and acquaintances. It was, in a way, the “Facebook” of those days.

My father often lit a fire using the bottom of an old metal drum as a brazier, and passers-by would stop to warm themselves. Among them was a man I’ll never forget, known to everyone as Ciacciud. He lived like a wanderer but was loved by all. The townspeople gave him clothes and whatever he needed to get by. I don’t remember his real name, but he often stopped in front of our house, warming his hands by the fire. Sometimes he heated food in old paint tins, and when we suggested using something cleaner, he would grumble and protest, refusing to change his ways.

Occasionally, the local social services would take him to a shelter, clean him up, and give him new clothes — but sooner or later, he would run away again, returning to his freedom. He would collect used cardboard boxes and carry them on a wooden cart to a recycling centre not far from my house.

And so, November remains etched in my heart — with its grey skies, the scent of olives and burning wood, and the quiet hum of life along Cemetery Avenue. A month of memory, humanity, and warmth, wrapped in the gentle melancholy of autumn.