A Realistic Poetry International Featured Poet - Patricia Salamone

Lee Ann Womack - I Hope You Dance

The Italian Thing: THE ITALIAN THING

The Italian Thing: THE ITALIAN THING

A Thought FOR THE Holiday | Authspot

A Thought FOR THE Holiday Authspot

THE ITALIAN THING

                           THE ITALIAN THING

                             By Patricia Salamone

The whole story will not fit on one page so if you enjoy it let me know and I will continue to post the rest of it.  I will post the next few chapters, if you all like this story please email me at: 

salpa58@hotmail.com

I want to get this book published and the more interest I can show the faster it will happen.  Thank you and if you would like to read more of my adventures, and misadventures just email me.  I will leave some chapters on the blog for a couple of weeks at a time.  They then will be removed. 

                                          Chapter 7

After every one left Mike and I were chatting with Pasquale and Franca. We were anxious to know about Naro. We had seen water towers on top of most of the buildings and Mike asked about them. Pasquale told us that water was very expensive and scarce right now due to the drought they had for the past several years. We asked him if they had city water as we did not see a tower on the top of his building. He explained that his building was a newer one and the tank was below the ground in the garage. “OK I thought that is why they do not shower every day.” I made a mental note to be careful with the use of the water. I slept well that night. I had my luggage, and tomorrow home made Pizza!


Every morning when I awoke I would go into the breakfast room and make notes on my computer of the previous days events. I would wait for the bell to ring and Pasquale to bring the delicious bread into the house. He now had two loafs of bread delivered every day one for the family and one for Miss Piggy here. Believe it or not I was very happy about that, not embarrassed at all. I had it timed well, and would make my cup of tea just before the bell rang. I even took the butter out before hand so it would not be so hard to spread. I did not give gaining weight a second thought.


   

Today was Saturday. Calogero and Maria Grazia had gone off to school. Mike and I were waiting for his Aunt and Uncle to arrive. We were all set to go. Pasquale’s father (Calogero) it was not hard to distinguish him because he was called Papa by his children and Nonno by the children. Aunt Lena’s sister Nunzia (we called her Zia too, it was just easier.) came as well. We decided to take the van because we could all fit comfortably in it. I was going to drive. We all piled in and Mike translated the directions to me that were given to him by Uncle Calogero. The streets just got narrower and narrower. There were times I had to pull the side mirrors in. I prayed that a car would not come in the opposite direction, but no such luck. “Oh my God.” I said. “What do I do now Mike?” “How should I know.” he answered. He asked his uncle and he told Mike “Not to worry every thing will be fine.” YIKES. I thought. Mikes uncle got out of the van and waved to the driver to go back. Much to my surprise he did. The only thing was he had to back up about half way down the road before there was a little spot he could pull into so I could pass. I made a mental note of that. It would come in very handy. We finally arrived at the Cemetery. I was told to pull in and just keep driving. Now I am not one to complain, but these people were making me drive  between the tomb stones which were really very elaborate. They were down right huge and made of beautiful marble. Some had roman pillars they all had pictures imbedded into the marble that contained pictures of the people buried there. One of the turns was very narrow and I knew I was not going to be able to make the turn. “Let’s get out here and walk the rest of the way.” I said.   Mike translated that to his uncle. His answer was that he would get out and direct me around the turn. He directed me right into one of the tombs. I heard this screeching tearing sound and stopped. I was sure I had broken the corner off some ones grave. Every one started talking at once, I was hysterical. Mike got out of the van. His other uncle got out of the van. All three of them were trying to direct me. I panicked. I put the van in reverse and hit the gas. The screeching tearing sound was louder than before, It felt like I ripped a huge hole in the van, but at least I was not hung up any more. I got out and walked around to the passenger side of the van. There on the panel below the sliding door was a huge scrape and dent. Stress, panic and anxiety jumped me with a vengeance. They were getting even with me. I was speechless. I looked at Mike.    He said “Don’t worry you did not damage the stone. We have the insurance for the car. Every thing will be fine.” I thought “That phrase has to be genetic.” We finally were at the area of the family graves. Every one got out of the van. Mike’s Uncle’s and Aunt’s took us to all the family plots. At this point I have to tell you some thing. We were told that the family was originally very poor. There was the depression, the war. No jobs. I was not expecting to see such elaborate gravesites. I mean we are talking huge marble, all brass lettering, pictures imbedded in the head stone’s. I wondered how the heck they could afford this. I know I could not. I asked Mike to ask his uncle that question, but of course he would not. He told me not to ask either. “What difference does it make.” was his only answer. I was perplexed, but said nothing. There were four plots. These were not just head stones we‘re talking the length of large counter tops. All I can say is “they might have been poor, but they went out in style.” Poinsettia‘s were placed at every plot. Not just one mind you several. I noticed that every one that was at the Cemetery at the time was doing the same thing. It looked like a botanical garden. Here is the part that I don‘t even believe myself. I actually took pictures of the graves and got up close and took pictures of all the dead relatives. I know it sound’s sick, that’s because it was.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I hate to think what Mike’s family members were thinking at that moment. We wished them Bon Natale (Merry Christmas, it’s an Italian thing) and we left.

We were on our way to the Campania (farm) to make pizza. I had to drive down this tiny dirt road with severe curves. On both sides of the road there was a drop, one wrong move and we were off the cliff.

One wrong movement or turn and we would have landed at the bottom of the above photograph!


Mike kept telling me “be careful, take your time.” I said “Don’t worry every thing will be fine.” And hit the gas a little more. I was becoming an Italian driver. I thought I saw stress in his face. I just smiled. Every one was there when we arrived. Parking was easy, it was a long driveway or maybe it was a road that led right to the farmhouse. I couldn’t tell which. I chose to believe it was a driveway and just parked as close to the house as possible. “This is good.” I thought. It’s not like the police are going to come and give me a ticket or tow me away. I laughed to myself. I liked this country.


The house was interesting to say the least. It was originally a barn, and Pasquale and his siblings and father had it renovated into a house. There was running water, no heat though. You entered through the barn doors and there was a room about twenty five feet long. At the far end was a wood burning pizza oven, it looked like a smaller version of a pizza oven that you would see in the US and was fueled by wood. There was also a small gas (propane) stove to the right of the oven. Next to the stove was an old kitchen sink. There were some kitchen cabinets on either side of the room. Down the center of the room were a couple of picnic tables with benches and chairs on both sides. The table was covered with several table cloths plastic of course. Up near the pizza oven was another smaller table. Sara was making the pizza dough. It filled the table top, how she was able to mix and kneed the dough I don’t know. Sara weighed only about ninety pounds and was about five foot tall.

On the opposite side of the room was a small bed. There was a doorway that led to a living room. It had a sofa and a couple of club chairs and tables. There was also a bedroom and a bathroom. The floors were tiled. It was rustic. Back in the kitchen Sara had finished the dough and covered it with several cloths. Every one was talking and laughing the children running around inside and out. It was at that moment that Mike said “Pat they want you to make the pizza sauce.” “What?” I said. “I told them what a good cook you are, so they want you to make sauce for the pizzas.” My mind shifted into panic mode. Every one was looking at me. My husband had a big smile on his face (which I wanted to rip off at that moment) but I said “Sure why not.” I glared at Mike with a look of fear. I was led to the gas stove and given a big old pot. They showed me where the tomatoes and seasoning’s and olive oil were. I whipped up a marinara pizza sauce and left it to simmer on the stove. I was hoping it would be good enough. When I was finished all of the women went out side, including me. There were a few picnic tables with Sicilian pizza pans lined up on them. There were also some chairs scattered around. We all proceeded to oil the pans down.

We did about ten of them and they were taken inside. It was a bright sunny day and although it was cool out and you did need a jacket it was beautiful. I thought to myself “it is warmer out here than inside.” The land on one side was stepped up with a retaining wall about two and a half foot high there was a small flight of three steps you could use to get up there.   There were olive trees growing on one side and vegetables growing on the opposite side. There was also a chicken coupe in the rear of the property. When I turned and looked and looked in the opposite direction it took my breath away. You could see for miles. On that side of the farm were more olive trees, lemon trees and a vineyard. Separating the plots was the driveway. As you got closer to the house it widened. It was sort of like a large patio, but was just dirt, stone and some grassy patches. The patio area contained a barbeque made out of stone and a covered area where they cleaned and cut the vegetables and other things, (like chickens ugh!) The men had gone inside to heat up the oven.

I was blending in. After everything was cleaned up and the plastic plates were thrown away, we all went outside again. “I could get used to this.” I thought.