Gardener Antonio Ciancio digs up memories of seasons of his youth

Cut into the edge of Oakey Hill's lower eastern slope overlooking Lyons, terraces are covered in tomatoes, potatoes and lettuce.

Staked tomatoes growing for sauce, accompanied by capsicum and basil, fill every spare corner and strip around the house.

Mr Ciancio's broad beans stand 1.9 metres. ''They grow like a crazy,'' he says, grabbing a pod. ''We use these next year. You got to let it dry, you see.

''Very, very bad season. The weather, my friend, is really bad.''

Time may be catching up with the grey-haired 84-year-old, sun-tanned labourer, but hasn't dimmed the spark from his pale blue eyes.

Late frosts, steep water bills and a painful hip won't shift Mr Ciancio from his routine. Early mornings he is armed with a walking pole, and his diminutive yet formidable frame strides down the hill.

Before a new steel fence shut out the view, people passing on a walking trail would look through the palings agog at the prolific patches and lines of zucchini, broccoli, cauliflower, cucumber, onions, garlic and spinach, and grape vines climbing up the hill.

Shiny CDs hang from upright irrigation sprays to scare off birds. Sticks and tomato stakes lay under corrugated iron, horse manure soaks in tubs, tins of water and timber planks sit on stone terraced walls Mr Ciancio and a mate built in 1972.

''The man, he say 'next week I no come, in meantime you prepare cement, rocks'. At that a time I not quite 50. Plenty energy. But I work, I tell you.''

Tough grinding toil has been a way of life since that rainy weekend in March 57 years ago when, at 26, he was collected at Sydney by his sponsor and uncle. They drove to a weatherboard hostel at Acton from where he was later taken to Pierces Creek to work in forestry.

''You sit there,'' he was told when he arrived at the single men's quarters with a small suitcase and no English. When the rain cleared he started work, repairing roads, fixing machinery, planting pine seedlings and pruning trees. When his brother Francesco arrived years later in Australia, Antonio decided to work in Canberra, sure Francesco would not want to work in the bush as he had done.

He found himself in town on the end of a pick and shovel digging trenches for the Department of Works. He grew tired of shared accommodation and decided to bring a woman from his homeland to Australia to marry.

Italian visa officials rejected one applicant. Another woman had agreed to marry him, only to change her mind, before Stella, who was only a young girl when he had left Italy, migrated to marry him.

He barely knew her, but their families were close friends.

''We married by proxy, by a piece of paper,'' he said. Stella arrived in 1962 with no English. She was 23 and went with Italian friends on the bus and to the shops.

The smell of a well-boiled chicken seeps from their kitchen. Mrs Ciancio says chicken soup is one of her husband's favourites.

Many of their vegies feature in minestrone soup and for years they made grappa together, 300 litres at a time, relying on her family's recipe. They lived first in a solid, three-bedroom home at Narrabundah, which he had bought after knocking on the door and negotiating its purchase for £5300.

In 1972 the family moved to Lyons, where he cleared out big gum trees for the garden. They raised two sons and a daughter. These days the water bills are frightening. One was $800 for one quarter .

''Now, what can you do? It's not worth it,'' Mr Ciancio says with a dejected shrug.

The grapes have gone and only memories of the home-made wine linger.

''You put it in glass, seal it and it will last forever,'' Mrs Ciancio said.

''It's not strong, it's nice to drink. I no like a lot of chemicals,'' Mr Ciancio said.

''Last couple of years. A lot of work, I tell you. It's not easy, my friend. You can't make it if you have to buy everything.''