We are building a house

I have already written that much of Fran's good medical care when she was taken ill was the result of our friend and former landlord, and doctor at the Sciacca hospital, Gaspere 'Rino' Marinello. I am not sure if I have mentioned his committment to improve the lives of the poor people living in Tanzania. He has spent months there, volunteering his time, to provide medical care in a land bereft of doctors. He does not take the easy assignments there, but rather goes into the villages that perhaps have not seen rain for years (not months, years), and does what he can to bring better health there. He has overseen the building of clinics, and works hard even here in Sciacca trying to raise money for a relief effort.

For Christmas, Fran would give a healthy contribution to the work that was going on in Tanzania, specifically a town name Usalonga, in the Iringa area. I did not look it up, but my brother told me that he did, and that Tanzania is one of the poorest countries in the world. With this in mind, I had asked people to contribute to the effort in memory of Fran, and in lieu of flowers.

When I got back to Sciacca, I talked to Gasperi about the contributions, and added some more money of my own, and we were able to build a house in Usalonga, that will be dedicated in Fran's memory. Independent of all of this, my nephew Jacob decided to take a semester abroad in his studies at Earlham College, and that his semester abroad would be in Tanzania. We are trying to work out the logistics for him to visit Usalonga, and for there to be a dedication ceremony at the house, that is to be used by a widow and her children.

At any rate, my friend Emilio made a plaque to be placed on the house. It is made out of the same Turkish marble that Fran liked, and that we have here in the shape of an ashtray, but that is used to hold a flower vase.

I would like to thank all of the people who contributed to this effort, and below you will see a photo of the plaque that Emilio made to be put on the house. May the house bring some measure of tranquility and peace to those who live there.

Missing faces

In looking over my posts for the summer, I found three very important people missing, in terms of pictures. This is simply an opportunity to rectify that. First of all is the couple that live next door with their daughter Giulia. Giussi (Giuseppena) and Melito (Carmelo) are the strength behind all of the plays that are put on here, and all of the shows put on by the young ones. Giussi is a middle school math teacher, and often reminds me of Fran with her unbounded enthusiasm for everything the kids want to do. Melito goes along with it all, and when he has a chance to be on center stage, watch out, as he is liable to do and does do just about anything to embarrass anyone who is on stage with him. They are a fun loving couple, and it is always a pleasure to have them as my closest neighbors.

Of course, Giussi would not be able to spend the time that she does with the entertainment committee without a lot of help. That is where La Signora comes in. She is Giussi's mother. She takes charge of the house all summer, as well as the apartment next door, where Giussi's sister Lili and her husband Enzo live. She also does some of the cooking. Well, more than some. Besides the two sisters, she also visits her son who is a Phamacist in the middle of Sardegna, so she gets around pretty well. Fran and I spend a few nights in her apartment in Palermo, which she rarely uses, as she shuttles back and forth between staying with Giussi and Lili. She is usually the first one up in the morning, and I bid her 'Buon Giorno' each morning as I sit on my terrace enjoying my coffee in the quiet time before others are up, and she is sweeping her terrace, in the quiet time before everyone is up to track more dirt on it. She is a wonderful woman, who always has a smile for me.

So here is to you three. Sorry your pictures did not get into the blog earlier.

A Little Help from my friends

I have found that living alone is not too bad. This summer, there have been times when I really missed the peace and quiet here when the summer people are all at home in Sciacca, or Palermo, or Milan, or. . .or. . . However, I must admit, sometimes it is really, really nice to have folks around here, especially folks that I can call my friends.

One of the hardest adjustments I have had to make in my day to day life is cooking for myself, just myself, every day, three times a day. I mean, breakfast is easy. A pot of coffee, a glass of juice, maybe some fruit, maybe some toast, and it is done. And of course the great coffee from Ideal Stagnita in Palermo, the great orange juice from Ribera, the great fresh fruit from the ortofruttica, and the one day old, now stale because it does not have a lot of chemical preservatives in it bread toasted with butter or margarine or peanut butter; well, that all adds up to a marvelous breakfast.

Sometimes, however, I have to admit that I get tired of making simple pastas, or complex pastas, or hot dogs, or tuna salad, or egg salad. Even going into town and getting a roasted chicken does not appeal to me. I think it is just that I am tired of eating alone. Indeed, that happened two days ago. I was tired of eating alone. I got up dreading meal time.

When I was sitting out on the terrace, Giusy and Lili next door called over. They were making Pasta con Pesto for lunch. Would I like to come over. Yes indeed, I certainly would. And it was good, and the company was good. Saved by the bell, at least for pranzo. Then just about when I was about to go in and make a sandwich to have with some fruit salad for cena, Anna on the other side called over to me. Totò had brought home too many cozze (mussels). Would I like to have some with them. Not only were the cozze marvelous, and the broth marvelous, but the company was great as well. I spent two hours showing Giacomo, Vincenzo, and their friend Michele how to do a few simple magic tricks, talked to them about the dangers of steroids, and that the WWE was all pre staged, and not everything you see on TV is true. Then of course there was sfingi and pignonlatte for desert at the cavea.

So my friends took care of me when I felt down.
That was two days ago. Yesterday, Ignatzia called me at about noon. She had just made some fresh tomato sauce and fried up a bunch of eggplant. Did I want any. Now, you have to realize, frying eggplant here is different from frying it in the states. You do not have to salt it first. You just take the skin off the plant, cut it in cubes, dump it in olive oil with some salt and pepper, and off you go. However, even with this simple recipe, Ignatzia makes the best eggplant in the world. True, I did have to make my own pasta, and I did eat alone, but that was just as well. It was so good, I did not want to share it with anyone.

Come cena time, Giuysy (a different Giusy) and Franco came down with a huge dish of wonderful cous cous that they had made in honor of their daughter's 22nd birthday. They wanted to make sure that I got some of it, because they knew I liked cous cous. As I had spent the day talking with numerous people, I did not mind having a few minutes alone in which to devour it.

I figured the cavea was gone for the season with the sfingi festival, which was alright with me. My friend Lutz from Germany had just arrived, and we were sharing a nice cold Sicilian Beer (brand name Messina, if you think I am kidding about that), when Totò came over to let us know that tonight Ernesto was making his 'famous rissotto'. So we finished our beer, I tried to introduce Lutz to folks at the cavea, and thankfully there were a few who spoke some German, and Ernesto's rissotto was declared ready. It was ready for the gods. The rice was done perfectly, and a nicely, differently spiced mushroom and sausage sauce was used for the flavoring. Had a I taken my camera with me last night, you would be looking at a picture of master chef Ernesto. He really knows how to make Rissotto.

So after having woken up tired of cooking for myself, and tired of eating alone, I certainly have gotten by with a LOT of help from my friends. Thank you one and all.

The Night of the Sfingi

The evening entertainment is basically over. That means that the evening food fest after the entertainment is basically over. But wait. That can't be. The men had been doing all the cooking of cutting of melons of picking up the pizza's, so last night it must have been the women's turn. Still no entertainment, but folks wandered down to the Cavea at about 9:30, because the word was out, Gilda and her crew were going to make sfingi and pignonlatte.

Gilda is, apparently, the best sfingi and pignonlatte maker in all of Sciacca, although I have been unable to trace down the rumor that she was retired as Agrigento's Champion Sfingi maker after winning the title five years in a row, and has permanent possession of the Golden Sfingi Trophy.

Having said that, this is, of course, a picture of her making the pignonlatte. She is also known around the complex for her ability with this little gem of a pastry. Everyone was excited that she was making them, and even more excited that we were going to get to eat them.

For those of you who do not know, sfingi is a typical Sicilian pastry, which is basically fried dough (like a donut) which is then covered in sugar and honey. I remember Ma making them for us in Dunkirk, but we usually were not there when she was making them, and we always ate them after they had cooled off. They were delicious then, but they are even better warm.

The pignonlatte, which must get their name from looking like little pine nuts, well, sort of, are small balls of fairly compact dough, that are again coated, indeed drowned, in honey and sugar, and in last night's case, sprinkles like you can get, or at least used to be able to get, on your ice cream cone at Carvel's.

Of course Gilda had a lot of help, but even with all the women pitching in, the crowd kept growing increasingly restless. She had made a huge pot of sfingi, which were kept in the pot to keep them warm, and two women were assigned to guard the pot from the men, who would have liked to open it and just taste the sfingi to make sure they were alright.

The pignonlatte were put in little cups, like cup cake cups, with about ten pingonlatte in each cup. It looked like they had made about 200 such cups. Lord only knows how many of the sfingi were made, but there were a lot of them.

Finally, every thing was ready, and the sfingi and pignonlatte were taken out to the table, where of course there was also water and wine and soda to drink. There were two sizes of sfingi plates, small ones with three sfingi on them for single people, and large ones with six sfingi on them for couples. So of course single people took two smaller plates, and couples took two larger plates. But it was alright, it seemed like there were enough to go around.

The crowd came up to the table, and there was quite a bit of jostling to get the fresh confections. It was pretty amusing. Of course, as cameraman, Gilda had made sure that I got to preview what I was taking pictures of, so I did not have to join in the rush. From a distance, it seemed like a feeding frenzy by a group of sharks. And then it ended. Folks seemed sated. The table was no longer surrounded. I was actually surprised by that. I went up to look, and found out the reason. The pignonlatte were almost gone, and the sfingi were history.
The sfingi pot is to the right. After
took this picture, several people
looked in the pot to see if there
were any left.

BRAVA GILDA for a job well done. We all loved the sfingi and the pignonlatte, as one can plainly see.

After the dance is over

There has been entertainment almost every evening during August in the Cavea, just below the tennis/calcetto pitch. (That is five a side soccer, by the way.) Usually, the entertainment is over by midnight, and I have been tired and gone home. There would be a little music for dancing, but that was just a way of passing time until the food was ready.

And oh my, what food. I remember the first night, well, really, the first afternoon before the first night, when my neighbor Totò invited me to the neighborhood bar for a coffee, but half way there, we were stopped by Angelo, who was bringing three kilo of shrimp for the post entertainment food fest. We ended up cleaning the shrimp instead of having a coffee, which was just as well, as the beer we put in the freezer when we went into the storage shed was nice and cold when we finished. However, peeling all those shrimp reminded me of the all you can eat peel your own shrimp promotions at restuarants in the US in the 70's and 80's. The only difference is we were working with raw shrimp, and in the US, they had boiled or steamed shrimp, and the heads were already removed. Anyway, as we worked on the shrimp, so other folks worked on getting the sauce ready, and after the entertainment, pasta was dumped in boiling water, cooked, and served up with a wonderful red shrimp sauce. Oh my.

Every evening it was the same cast of characters getting the food ready. Whether it was sausage sandwiches, which Emilio lovingly took care of on the grill, or perhaps just water melon and a yellow melon that the Sicilians call Melon Yellow, the same group of folks always came down early to get things ready. I know for the sausage, first Mimo and I cut the rolls (taking out the soft, inner bready part out before declaring them ready to take in the fresh squeezed lemon juice and mayonnaise that would make for fitting Sicilian sausage sandwiches) and then while Emilio and Totò cut the sausage into sandwich size links, I put them together for eventual grilling. We ended up making enough for 288 sandwiches, which is, interestingly enough, both two gross and too gross.

Last night was the penultimate evening of entertainment. We watched the opening of Series A competition, as Juventus, fresh from being penalized into Series B last year for buying referees the previous season, spanked Livorno 5-1. It was a typical Italian spectator event, with everyone sitting quietly watching the game, occasionally praying after a close play, or suggesting that the referee was a cuckold after a bad call. Other than that, there was basically silence, without folks drinking beer, eating peanuts and popcorn and cracker jacks, or doing any of the other things one is used to watching a game in the states. Indeed, I was talking to one of the arbitrators when there is a problem between two teams, or a player and a team, and he said that they had talked about adding food and drink stands to the stadia in Italy, and had voted against it.

Anyway, following the game, as the water came to a boil, Emilio threw in the three giant (well, large, maybe 2 kilos each) octupi, and boiled them up with fresh lemon and some other spices. when they were done, two men worked at cutting them in pieces, and they disappeared very quickly. But they were heavan while they lasted. Just squeeze a bit of fresh lemon juice on them, and taste paradise. Wonderful.

So after many evenings of fine entertainment, and enough evenings of fine food as I could stand without going to sleep with my head in my plate, I salute the cooks. Bravo Bravo Bravo.

Just4Jazz

I really did not have a lot of hope. A jazz band from Sciacca, where there is no live music for ten months a year, and then only a little bit in the summer.
But they were playing at the residence, so of course I had to go hear them. On the left, you see the lovely and talented singer of the group, Christina Cannella. She was my first hint that it was going to be a good evening, as she warmed up her pipes during the sound check. She speaks some English, and certainly understands the mostly English standards that she sang. I have heard too many GOOD Italians cover English language tunes, include the Grande Celantano, when they did not understand what they were singing, and the effort was wasted. Not so with Christine. Whether she was singing Ellington or Gershwin, or doing her own fine interpretation of Lady Day, she was just great. And she was backed by a great group as well.

Valerio Oliveri, whose father and mother have an apartment in the residence, was the bass player. Of course I kept my eyes on him most of the evening, trying to figure out how he got such great music out of his instrument, so that I could emulate him when I went back to the apartment and picked up the bass I am trying to learn. Really, he did a fine job, with many neat riffs that reinforced what Christine was trying to get across with her voice.

On Guitar was Alessandro Schittone, GRANDISSIMO. He took solos for almost every piece, and each solo was better than the last, picking his way through the melody, adding to it, and giving the songs another fine interpretation. It was great to watch him work with Christine as they expressed what the song was trying to say.

Finally, the back bone of the group was Giuseppe Gulino on drums. He also took care of the sound board, kept everything smooth, knew the music cold, not just the rhythms, but the music. When it was his turn for a solo, he did a fine job, not just playing the drums as loud as he could, which too many drummers do, but rather playing them with feeling, even softly at times, continuing to set the mood in this wonderful evening of music.

Just4Jazz is a band that is Just4anybody who likes music. Bravi. Bravi. Bravissimi.

Why do I WHAT????

Why do I WHAT???? or the meaning of Destiny. I guess.

Anyway, Emilio's brother-in-law saw me coming out of a bar where I had just renewed my car license and gotten a paper and a cup of coffee (clearly, not your average American bar!!), stopped the car and stopped traffic, and told me he needed to talk to me. So he sort of found a parking place, at least cars could get by him, and he and his son got out of the car with someone I did not know.

The someone was a cousin from Long Island, who spoke some Italian (he had been born here, but had forgotten a lot), and had not been back for 17 years. When he told the folks he worked with at Entemmen's bakery that he was coming to Sicily, his friends all asked him: 'Why on earth would you go to Sicily.' Emilio's brother in law told the cousin about me, and he very much wanted to meet me. It turns out, he wanted me to write a letter that his friends in the states could read that talked about why I had moved to Sicily.

Well, I did indeed write the letter. But it was much harder than I expected. As I thought about it, the question just did not make any sense. It would be easier to find reasons to not leave Sicily than to stay. But I wrote the letter.

Later that day, I was helping make the Pane Cunzatta for after the show at the cavea, and it turned out I was helping Totò and Emilio. Totò works as a geometer, or draftsman, and could probably have moved to the states or virtually anywhere to work his trade. Emilio is a marmista, that is, he works with marble. He is highly skilled at his craft, and again could probably get a job anywhere in the world. So the question I had for them was: 'Why did you stay in Sciacca.?' Totò told me he didn't, he moved from Caltebellotta to Sciacca, which is like a stone rolling down a hill. Then he looked at me seriously and said one word: 'Destiny' He had no other explanation, and it was an explanation that, to him, answered the question fully.

As Totò was getting a fresh jar of olive oil for the Pane Cunzatta (fresh bread, with anchovies, salt, parmesan, pepper, and olive oil - oh is it good), I asked Emilio the same question. He thought about it, looked me in the eye, and said: 'Destiny.'

I was and am amazed that they had the same answer, and I suppose I could have written that to the folks in America, but I do not think they would have understood. As I think about it more and more, it is probably the answer that I should use in the future, should I be asked the same question.

Totò Emilio

Pippo

Pippo Graffeo, to the left, and about twenty ragazzi, put on a theatrical show case for us the other night at the Cavea. Pippo, by profession, is an archivist for all of the papers of notaries who no longer have their offices (i.e. . . are dead). That means that he has to keep on file copies of deeds, wills, contracts, agreements, etc. . . that had been left on file with notaios here. And in Italy, a notaio is almost as important, or more important, than an avocato, or lawyer. He told me sometimes he has as many as fifteen wills for the same person, and he has no record and no way of really checking if the person is dead or not. This is especially true for people who left for America and did not come back. But I will get into all of that in another post, after I visit him in his archives.

Pippo also acted in one of the shorts that Sr. Santangelo made in Sciacca, and showed us one night. Apparently, he talked with one of the people on the entertainment committee, and not only offered to get St. Santangelo to show his film, but also offered to put together a bunch of kids to put on a play for us. And I should not say just kids, as some of them were, I think, well out of school. Clearly, they all wanted to continue to sing and dance.

Like so many productions, both at the amateur and the professional level, this was an original story about the theater, and the problems of mounting a production. In this one, the regista, or director, seemed most interested in mounting the various female troupe members. And there were a lot of them, and they were pretty. There were singers, there were dancers, there were dramatic readers, there were actresses. And of course, there was his loyal secretary, who held a torch for him, but only for so long.

My favorite character was the classic old Sicilian, who might have been played by a double for Piccone, a member of the popular and extremely funny duo of Faccara and Piccone, whose film we saw. This character was there to protect his sister, and once the regista touched his sister, albeit on the shoulder, he was there to insist that they get married. And if the director did not want to marry his sister, he himself would marry the director instead. And if that was not acceptable, his poor sister would have to become a widow before she was even married. He talked the roughest Sicilian I have heard, but I think I understood every work. He was hilarious.

The troupe is now going to take their show on the road, and will even be showcased in the atrium of the Communale on one of the last nights of the long celebration of Ferrogsoto. Fran would have said it was like the best of the high school productions she went to when Jon and Jess were in school, a lot of fun, but with just a few rough edges. Certainly it was far better than the Sambucca players we saw one night in their theater. And they all did it gratis, for love of the theater, for love of performing, and because they knew that we would have almost as much fun watching it as they had putting it on.

One last photo of Pippo and I, standing near the prop camera. For whatever reason, they either thought I needed to have the fucili in my hand, or they trusted me with it in my hand. It was a wonderful way to spend a few hours with the group from the condominiums, and the fact that this troupe came and up on the presentation is a great credit to the entertainment committee.

5:02

5:02 Five O Two Five Oh Two

Three days in a row, I have woken up at 5:02. It must be summer. Not that anyone else is around at 5:02 - all my neighbors are sleeping at that hour. But wake up I do, and I rummage around the kitchen to see if the carafe has one more cup of coffee left from the morning.

Oh, I'm sorry, I forget to mention, the 5:02 is 5:02 PM. I have been having naps lately, indeed I have been needing naps lately. And for whatever reason, the clock under the TV set in the bedroom seems to always say, or at least three times in a row say, or at least display, the time as 5:02.

Now generally, I do not like naps. But this summer, I need them, and I take them gladly, right after I finish doing the dishes from pranzo, and it seems like I wake up at 5:02. This gives me the energy to go to the performance area of our complex, called the 'Cavea', where I get to see various performances.

Now in years past, the performances always seemed to start with the DJ, one of the animatories the condominium hired to work on their tan during the day, and give dance lessons to folks who were really bored, and also put on the Bocce and Scopa tournaments, playing, at top volume, the Village People singing YMCA. The song was imprinted in our minds, and Fran and I did not care if we never heard it again. After they got tired of playing YMCA, they would switch to YMCA. But the kids would get restless, so they would return to YMCA. Then, just for something new, they would play YMCA. This would go on until about 2 every morning. If you do not understand how important this is, I beg you to go out and buy a copy, maybe two copies, of YMCA by the Village People, and put it on your CD player, at top volume, and on infinite repeat, and play it as you go to bed. And no fair turning it off until 2 in the morning.

This year is different. There was criticism two years ago, and the entertainment committee responded to the criticism by continuing the program as it was, with the addition that each of the committee members got to wear T shirts with a hand printed on the shirt, with one finger raised. There was also a phrase that ended in 'You', and the first word began and ended like the word 'fire truck'. They might as well have had T shirts that read YMCA.

This year it is different. No more animatories. This year, the committee found a group of local folks who wanted to entertain us, and they are using the budget to help pay the folks (when they do not do it for free), as well as to supply food after each show.

The fireworks started on Sunday night. There was a semi professional dance troupe, the Mambo Kings, who every year seem to win the competition among dancers in the Sciacca Carnevale parade. It is really kids who seem to want to have fun together, and who want to dance. And this group was the crème de la crème.

It started out with four lovely young ladies, who danced their hearts out. I am not sure if they were all still in high school, of if some of them had gone on to University. But they were good, they were together, and they danced as a fogger added to the atmosphere for the night. Now I really do not know a Mambo from a Tango from a Samba, and I suppose I should have spent last winter watching Dancing with the Stars, but these kids were great. And there was a good turn out to watch them. The director of the Mambo Kings School of Dance called them the Mambo Queens, and they were certainly royalty.

Later, three of the dancers were joined by the Kings, or at least the princesses, and they danced together. I think one of the kings did not show up, or there would have been four couples. But it was great entertainment.

After the show, there was pasta with shrimp and zucchini for everyone, along with wine and water and soda. The next night, a first run film starring the great, and I MEAN GREAT, Sicilian comedians Ficcaro and Piccone was shown. The night after that, a wonderful music group, that did one set of duets with piano and sax, making wonderful jazz noises from classic show tune type melodies. The second set, they added a bass player and a vocalist, and they sang modern folk songs in Sicilian that they had written, commemorating the bandit Salvatore Giuliano, the beaches of Sciacca, and life in Sicily. It was like listening to a modern day, Sicilian Woody Guthrie. The only scary part was that I was able to understand the Sicilian.

The night after that, a local film maker came and showed the three short films he had made in Sciacca. They were also in Sicilian, with Italian subtitles, and they won a prize at the Taormina Film Festival. I got a copy of them, and hope to convince someone at the Lake Placid Film Forum to give them an American Premiere. Paolo Santangelo, the cinematographer, is working on English sub titles as I write this.

And on it goes. The shows do not stop until after midnight, well past my bed time. Then there is social time. No wonder I need a nap. I just can not figure out why I keep waking up every morning at 5:02.

The fire this time

It was like some sort of surreal dream. I was napping, or I think I was napping, and I heard in my conscious ear the 'thump thump thump' or helicopter rotors. If Radar O'Rielly had been nearby, I would have heard him shout 'Incoming'. But the thumping stopped, and I drifted back to sleep in what must have been three or five seconds. And then it returned, and then it stopped, and then I fell asleep, only to be awakened again.

The weekend was busy, with all sorts of people coming (at last) to spend the (rest of the ) summer here. The parking lot was full, and most of the apartments were as well. In the air was the smell of excitement, summer fun, swimming, burning olive branches, burning grass, thump thump thump.

I finally got up and went outside. Capo San Marco was ablaze, or had been ablaze. The thumping had been from the helicopter going from the fire to the sea, dipping its snorkel in the water, pumping water into its twin cisterns, and then dumping the water on the fire. By the time I was awake enough to get my camera out and take the picture above, the excitement was over. This is the helicopter, pulling up its snorkel, after its last refilling, before it turns to go home to Agrigento and fight other brush fires.

Actually, as the brush fires around here go, this was not a bad one. We have seen the Pompieri here every year to put out raging brush fires near the apartment complex. This certainly is the fire season, with several huge fires on the mainland, and in other places in Sicily. The difference in this fire, and the reason for the helicopter, is that the fire was near the lighthouse, and I don't think they wanted Capo San Marco to go back to being known as the place ships were sunk on the rocks.

Anyway, the excitement was over, and I was able to go back to sleep and dream of the first time Fran and I cam to Sicily, when her niece Amanda picked us up at the airport, and drove us south to Naples through the burning fields and smoke along the autostrade. It was almost seven years ago to the day, and what a wild ride those seven years have been.