He arrived from Italy in 1952.

20 years old with “Just enough

English to get by.” Started work

at the reservoir in 1955. Was

nationalised in Williamstown in 1956.
I arrived outside his house one

sunny afternoon in 1992. I knew it

was his place before I spotted

the number, his son with a bucket

of soapy water, washing his monaro

in the drive.
Still with the water works after

37 years, he shook my hand

with pride. Proudly introduced me to

his wife and family. The good mate

wwho lived next door.
Even then, before I could start

the interview, he had to show me

the vegie garden. Explain the tomatoes,

cucumbers and zucchini. Open

a bottle of beer.
“I was in charge of a group

of Greek men,” he said, explaining

the detonation pattern he used to blast

the spillway into shape. “I couldn't

speak Greek, and they couldn't understand

me.”
10 drilling holes to lay 200

charges of gelignite, hooked up to a

main lead 500 feet long, the whole

show orchestrated by the

universal language of waving hands.

Shaking and nodding heads. Later,
in the spring, for only the

second time, the reservoir flooded

down the spillway. And as I watched

the foamy lace-like patterns

the water made, spilling out across

the concrete face, I thought of Luigi

and his men.
And for a moment felt the shudder

of exploding earth under my feet,

like the first time they set foot

on Australian soil.