Cultural Saturation

Yankee boyfriend experiences Sicilian street festival

Bill and I had been coupled up in Connecticut for over a year. Surely it was time he experienced my family’s cultural traditions in Massachusetts. My father greased the skids for me when he called one night in late August.

“Hey, Lizzie! You know the festa is next weekend, right? When are you and Bill coming up?”
“Dad, we both work on Friday. Maybe we can make a day trip Saturday or Sunday.” I heard Dad blowing his breath out.
“Look,” he said. “Claire has the guest room ready for you. Come up on Saturday morning. I’ll have lunch made.”
Dad and Claire, his partner, lived in Salem, New Hampshire, an easy drive to the annual Festa Sant’Alfio in Lawrence, Massachusetts.
“Okay, Dad. I’ll invite Bill.”
“What do you mean, invite? Is he there? I’ll tell him you’re both coming.”
I held the telephone receiver out to Bill. “My father wants to talk to you.”
Bill blinked. “Louie?” he asked.
“Yep. He’s the only father I have.”
Bill took the phone. After a few minutes of nodding and saying, “Okay,” he ended the call. “What’s this festa?” Bill asked me.
“It’s the annual Feast of the Three Saints. Something the Sicilians brought over from the old country. Lots of food, music, and Catholic rituals. Dad wants us to take him to the torchlight parade on Saturday night.”
“Sounds more pagan than Catholic,” Bill observed. “Sure, I’ll take you and your Pop to the Festa. Is Claire coming?”
“I doubt it. Our family gives her the willies,” I told Bill. “She thinks we’re weird because we all hug and kiss and hold hands.”
“Well…” Bill began, “that may be true, but she is having us overnight at her house. We’ll have to behave. And Lizzie, your family displays a lot of affection.”
“You love it,” I replied, ending the discussion.

Bill and I arrived at Claire’s on Saturday at 11:30am. Dad met us at the door.
“What took you so long?” he demanded. “Sit down. Lunch is on the table.”
“Hi, kids,” Claire called from the kitchen. “Put your bags in the guest room and join us. Your father made lunch.”
Dove’ bagno? I asked Dad. He pointed to the bathroom.
My sweetheart and I freshened up and met our hosts in the kitchen.
Scarola e fagioli, Dad said proudly.
“What?” Bill asked.
“Greens and beans,” my father and I said in unison. Dad added, “We’re eating a light lunch so we can leave room for crispelli at the feast." We dug into our brothy bowls after a generous sprinkling of grated parmesan.

As we cleared the table, I reminded my father that the festivities wouldn't go into full swing until evening. “If we go now, you’ll be ready to leave before the torchlight parade, Dad.”
“We have to wait for Julie anyway,” he said. Julie is my niece, and my father’s firstborn grandchild. “So,” he continued, “you can visit with Claire this afternoon, and Billy can take me shopping.”
I glanced at Bill. He shrugged and picked up his keys. “Where are we going, Louie?” he asked.
“Let’s go to K Mart first,” my father replied. “I need some new mutande.”
Claire and I cracked up. Bill looked at me for translation.
“Underwear,” I said. “You’ll have a good Italian vocabulary by the time we get back to Connecticut.”

Claire and I chatted until Julie arrived. At age 37, my nipote was ten years younger than me.
“My, don’t you look festive,” Claire greeted Julie.
Indeed, my niece is never one to keep a low profile. Her hair that day was long and fluffy, her dress form fitting and low-cut, her eyeliner like Cleopatra’s. She looked great.
“I brought wine,” Julie said to Claire. “How’s about I open it and we all have a drink?”
“Sure, I’ll get the corkscrew.” Claire launched herself out of her easy chair. “And look at these cute wine glasses. Here we go, girls.”
Claire was snoozing in her chair when the men returned.

“Okay, let’s go!” Dad observed Claire in her state of repose. “I guess you’ll be my date tonight, honey,” he said to Julie. “We’ll let Claire get her beauty sleep. I’ll drive.”

Dad’s ride was a Lincoln Continental. After stowing a small cooler in the trunk for emergency libation, we rode to our family’s old neighborhood in Lawrence. Dad docked his boat in a vacant lot down an alley. We piled out of the car and my father popped the trunk. “Let’s have a little taste,” he said, passing a flask. “Viva Sant’Alfio!” We followed suit.

As we walked closer to the festival, the music grew louder and smoke from frying foods permeated the air. Julie and Dad walked arm in arm along the sidewalks, followed by Bill and me. The streets were crowded with old friends.

Someone shouted, “Luigi!” A couple of paisans gestured to my father. Dad stopped, recognized his old cronies, and engaged in a few minutes of rapid-fire Italian. He introduced us, we all shook hands, and went on our way. I distinctly heard the word puttana as one of the old boys nodded toward Julie. I treated him to an Italian hand gesture. My family was none the wiser.

Half a block away, we neared the crispelli vendor. Crispelli are deep fried balls of dough. Some are coated with sugar, some stuffed with ricotta and others with anchovy. The line was about fifty deep, everyone squinting from the fog of grease from the fryers. As the junior member of the family, Julie took orders and stood in line. Another voice beckoned Dad.
“Luigino!” the man cried. He clasped my father by the arms and kissed him on both cheeks. My father responded in kind. Bill looked mystified. Dad turned to us. “This is Dominic. Our parents were dear friends. Remember Don Angelo and Donna Caterina? This is their son.”
Then it was Dominic’s turn. He drew his daughter close and prompted, “You remember Don Salvatore and Donna Giovannina? This is their son Louie.” The men reminisced a short while and parted.

Julie approached with a grease coated bag. “Get ‘em while they’re hot!” she invited.
Bill braved an anchovy crispelli. He reached for another, stopped, and pointed to a different food vendor. “Anyone for a sausage sandwich?” He and Julie were hitting their stride with the food offerings. I asked Dad if he wanted something to eat. “Just a lemon slush,” he replied. Lemon slush is what locals call Italian ice. It’s homemade once a year by a mom and pop grocer. “And maybe some calia,” my father added. Calia is a snack of salted dried chickpeas. An acquired taste.

Once Julie and Bill returned, Dad asked for the time. “Six-thirty,” Julie said. “The torchlight parade starts in half an hour.”
“Good, we have time for a drink,” said my dad. “Let’s go into this little bar.”
We were the only patrons. Everyone was outside on the roped-off streets, eating, buying trinkets, waiting for the music. After our beverage and trips to the toiletta, we returned to Common Street. The intersection was packed. The crowd was electric. Bill held my arm firmly and Julie clutched her grandfather. “Don’t lose us, Gramps. It’s a long walk home.”

Bill, ever watchful, pointed to the roof of a nearby bakery. “What are those guys doing up there? They look like snipers.”
Dad was unfazed. “They’re going to set off the fireworks. You’ll see.”
We heard the faint sound of a marching band. Then another. And another.
“What’s all that noise?” Bill wondered.
Julie replied, “Three marching bands approach from different directions. They meet at this intersection and all play at the same time.”
“It sounds like they’re all playing something different,” Bill said.
“That’s what they do,” Dad told him. “I don’t remember why, but it has to do with the three saints.”
The music volume increased. We heard chanting. Men dressed in suits preceded each marching unit. “It’s the torchlight parade,” I said to Bill.
“They’re not holding torches. Those are road flares.”
Ka-Boom! Fireworks exploded right behind us.
Now the air reeked of fumes from the greasy foods, smoke from the flares, and the fireworks. The music reached a crescendo as the three bands faced one another and played different songs.
The suited men from the Saint Alfio Society raised their torches. “Con vera fede!” they shouted.
“Viva Sant’Alfio!” the crowd cried.
“What are they saying?” Bill asked.
“With true faith,” my dad said, wiping away a tear.
“Con vera fede!”
“Viva Sant’Alfio!”
This call and response went on until we yelled ourselves hoarse.
The bands ceased their playing and processed to the bandstand at the end of the street, bass drums keeping time.
I fumbled for my inhaler. “Not sure I can take much more of the smoke,” I confessed. “Anyone ready to go home?”