The Year Santa Claus Came to Town

We didn’t really see him, but he had been there; the note said “Love from Santa Claus”.

December of 1982 had not started off well at all. My husband had had another bout of his disease, and while I was visiting him in the hospital on December 3, thieves had come a-calling, leaving their “calling card” where I could easily find it: they had kicked in the door, leaving it dangling from one hinge, with a big hole where a foot had gone through it. Not finding the light switch, they had lit a candle; I knew this because it had burned a hole in my bedspread when it fell from the candle-holder.

Further inspection revealed that they had stolen such an incredible mixture of goods that it seemed the Grinch had come to Bologna, rather than Whoville, and early to boot: the contents of our refrigerator, a catalytic heater, a roll-away bed, two blankets, my husband’s guns and ammunition (he was a licensed hunter), a box of candles, several pairs of jeans, and two rings. Most of the booty had probably been carried out in the missing suitcase. Other clothing had been strewn all over the house.

While waiting for the Carabineers (Italian Military police) to arrive, I attempted to at least clean off the bed; that was when I discovered the waxy hole left by the burning candle. The whole thing seemed so hopeless, that after the Carabineers had come and gone, I sat and thought. I was alone, the door was broken in half, there was no food left in the house, it was freezing outside and in (about -3°C; 27°F), and the thieves had taken away our heater and blankets.

The next day, the Carabineers called me to let me know they had caught the thieves and had found some of the stuff, so my husband got permission to leave the hospital briefly. We recognized some of the objects presented and the Carabineers informed us that they had caught the thieves the night before; the few items, which included the rifles and ammunition and the suitcase with the missing jeans, were all that had been found.

Christmas 1982

Pickings had been a bit slim during the rest of December, but a friend of ours had invited us over for Christmas “dinner”. Served around 1:30, it was a full five-course meal and took about two hours to consume. After the last bite of fruit, we sat and sang Christmas carols until it was time to go to the cinema by our home with a group of friends.

Of course, half of Bologna’s citizenry had made the decision to see the same movie: Disney’s Cinderella. We arrived halfway through the movie, and there was standing room only. The snow dictated that we go in and stand. I was wearing heels and at some point took them off because of sore feet. How ironic it was when, right after Cinderella lost her shoe, another blonde (me) lost one of her shoes! We found it – two rows of seats ahead of where we were standing – before going to sit and watch the movie from the beginning.

The sidewalks had been swept clear of the snow, so we decided to walk the short distance to our apartment, stopping to admire the beautifully decorated shop windows along the way. Approaching the portone (big outside door) we thought we heard the sound of sleigh bells, but that was silly; Italians didn’t go for sleigh rides in the middle of large cities with two-lane streets. It was unheard of!

As we walked down the corridor toward the apartment, we saw something in front of the apartment door. Hurrying to the door, we found two large boxes wrapped in Christmas paper. Excited and curious, we dragged the boxes through the door and tore off the wrapping paper. We were stunned by what we found: lots of food, a blanket, a new gas burning heater and, at the very bottom of the box, a note that said, “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year”. Yes, that was the year Santa Claus truly came to town.

 

© Mary Purpari December 25, 2014 All Rights Reserved

Christmas Caroling: a Bridge over language Barriers

♪♫♫♪

Singing is in my DNA; my mother said that when I was born I didn’t howl in the traditional, time-honored manner: she insists that my first breath came while singing a Renata Tebaldi-ish high ‘C’. From that moment on, music has always been an important part of my life, but never more so than at Christmas.

Christmas caroling became a family tradition the year I was in the third grade. We started out with my parents, my four siblings and me, each contributing to the best of our ability. The attempt had such a great success that the tradition continued through the years, the choir growing as we added family members and then school friends.

Christmas caroling continued even after I married, both in Bologna and Mistretta. Every year in Bologna, between 1979 and 1983, our group was invited to sing in front of the giant Christmas tree in Piazza Nettuno (Neptune Square), and although caroling is not a common happenstance in Italy, our efforts were enjoyed by our listeners as much as we enjoyed singing. Then, we would go listen to Midnight Mass concerts which included Handel’s Messiah, Gregorian Chants and various others.

However, one of my favorite memories of Italian Christmas caroling took place in Mistretta, a tiny town nestled in the Sicilian Nebrodi mountain chain. One year, shortly after our arrival in the town, the head priest asked our church choir if we wanted to sing during the Midnight Mass that year. After conferring with the other church members we decided to sing a beautiful little song called “Stars Were Gleaming” taken from the children’s hymnal.

Finally, 11:00 pm, December 24^th arrived. The children had napped and, after hours of practice, we were ready to face a public of over 3,000 people. After dressing ourselves in our warmest clothing, we set off toward the church. We had left a little early because it had started to snow earlier and we needed to proceed slowly– everything in Mistretta is downhill, even when it was uphill – in order to avoid a nasty fall on the slippery cobblestone road. We also wanted to get there before the rest of the city showed up: seats were at a premium and we wanted to sit close to the front so we could be ready to sing when called.

At 11:55, we looked around and found ourselves surrounded by a huge crowd. Anticipation was high as the head priest, Padre Michele walked in with another priest we had never seen before, and the excitement was tangible. The little children, dressed in their costumes for the Christmas story, stopped fidgeting and turned their eyes toward Padre Michele as he stepped toward the microphone. The tingling in our fingers was not entirely a product of the freezing cold…

The minutes ticked on as we sat waiting anxiously for our turn to sing. A new priest had just arrived that day; he led the children around the chapel from “inn to inn” and ending at the manger scene at the entrance of the building. Once “Mary and Joseph” were settled in their places in the manger, Padre Michele announced that “our Mormon brothers and sisters will now sing for us”. Our moment had arrived. We stood up, knees shaking, and turned to face the congregation.

Voices quavering (was it the cold?) we began “Stars were gleaming, shepherds dreaming; and the night was dark and chill…” Our voices gained strength as we continued, “Onward going, gleaming, glowing, leading still, our Christmas star!” As we turned back towards our seats, we were surprised to hear another voice singing the same song, in another language; turning back once again, we listened, mesmerized as the new priest sang our carol with gusto.

After the mass, our group went and spoke with the new priest. We learned that he had arrived in Italy only days before from Poland, and that the carol we had sung that night was a Polish carol. He thanked us for singing that particular hymn and making him feel at home in a foreign land. And from that time, thanks to Christmas caroling, Padre Tomasz was our friend.

 

© Mary Purpari December 25, 2014 All Rights reserved

The Long Road Home by Flavio Girardelli

About a year ago I made a bid on a book translation and was privileged to be the person who won the translation. That book was The Long Road Home, by Flavio Girardelli (original title in Italian Io Ritorno Domani). Flavio introduces us to a group of best friends from boyhood, including Lorenzo, Augusto, Giorgio and Emanuele in such a way that we would recognize them right away if we met them on the street. From there, he goes on to the first, definitely impressionable and somewhat disastrous first encounter between boy and girl on the beach of Lake Garda, to then continue down the road to new jobs and the second, “fatal” encounter in Padua.

Flavio then takes us on an exciting adventure in the Trentino area in Northern Italy, an exploration of some of the most delightful scenery in Northern Italy, where our protagonists encounter a flock of sheep and a very annoying, recalcitrant donkey; eat at a restaurant with typical, mouthwatering foods of the zone; meet a cow they “adopted” and to top everything off quite nicely, they take part in a very enticing Medieval Festival, with authentic foods, music and workmanship of the times.

And then they begin their way home…

The Long Road home is truly a choice read, full of fun, adventure and the unknown. The book starts out in the early 2000s and ends somewhat further ahead in the future. The ending will most likely bring tears to your eyes (they did to mine) but they will be tears of joy.

Click here to download and read the first chapter of The Long Return Home by Flavio Girardelli.

 

 

©December 5, 2014 by Mary Purpari. All Rights Reserved

Giving Thanks on Thanksgiving

Today is Thanksgiving, 2014. It hasn’t been one of my more traditional Thanksgivings; a number of my favorite Thanksgiving traditions had to be put aside for one reason or another. I usually like to make sure I have a bowl of onion and sour cream dip along with a big bag of potato chips or corn chips and munch as I sit and watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade as well as the National dog show. But, my TV has decided that it doesn’t want to be watched and as soon as I click it on, it clicks itself off. I haven’t figured out its problem yet and really haven’t had much time for it anyway. As for the other, well, my funds ran out, and I really don’t need them anyway.

It really hasn’t been a great year full of unending happiness since last Thanksgiving, especially because of the loss of Russ and the possibility of my joining him at one point. And yet, I must recognize that there have been so many blessings for which I feel I should be eternally thankful.

Yes, it’s true, Russ left me on December 28, 2013, leaving a gap that will probably remain empty for a very long time. Yet, I am so grateful for those five years that I had with him. He was a wonderful friend; he kept me happy, made me laugh with his crazy one-liners, kept me entertained with his music and helped me feel my worth. He gave me support when I needed it, and kept me on my toes; he gave me hugs when I was down and a shoulder when I needed to cry. He encouraged me, prodded me and protected me. And, I’m very thankful that I will be able to see him again.

I’m thankful for the roof over my head. I have been in this apartment for 6 years now. I thought I would have to leave when Russ died, but in one way or another, I have always been able to find a way to pay my rent, every month. Here, I feel at home and here I feel Russ’ presence around me. I’m thankful for the talents that God has given to me, that have helped me get the money I need to pay the rent. If I hadn’t had an ear for foreign languages and a knack and eye for creating jewelry, I don’t know where I’d be now.

I’m thankful for my family and friends, and especially for those friends who have become family to me. They have done so much to help me through my prolonged period of grief. If I need them, they are there; more than one of them has a bent ear from listening to my tearful  stories. I’m so thankful to them for helping me out when Russ first died and for helping me get my feet back on the ground. I would like to add my Church to this group. I am ever so grateful to the teachings of the Church, but also for the members who put into practice these teachings. Their willingness to share both their strength and love with me, as well as shoulder my pain and grief, has been essential to my well-being. I am thankful for Heavenly Father who gave us his Son to be our Savior, so that we might return to his presence. And I’m thankful for this Christmas period in which many of us celebrate the birth of this Son, Jesus Christ. May we all be blessed with his peace.

I’m thankful for the doctors who have worked to keep my body chugging, even when I personally would have liked to give up and join Russ. From January to July I lived in a state of constant turmoil, unsure as to what I would prefer: join Russ or stay here and drive everyone crazy with my well-known idiosyncrasies. But  thanks to the very competent doctors of Kings County Hospital Center, I’m still here and in a somewhat better state of mind than before.

I’m also thankful to my clients that have also become friends. They have been so patient with me as I have struggled to keep my mind on their work. At this point I would like to thank one in particular, Flavio Girardelli. I had only a thousand or so words left on his book; in fact, I was working on it when Russ had his heart attack and so I had to let everything drop while I stayed with Russ in the hospital. Thank you, Flavio, for your patience and friendship.

There are so many other things, small, ordinary things as well as unusual things, for which I am thankful—the purring of my cat when I feed her, the song of the cardinal in my backyard and even the acrobatic antics of the bushy-tailed tree rats—but, I’m writing a blog, not a novel (another of the talents for which I am thankful), so I will content myself with these. Except for one—I am thankful for all of you who read my blog; you make me feel that yes, it is worth the time and effort. So again, Thank you to all of you.

And, I’m thankful for the meal I was able to prepare for tonight (and probably the year ahead of me). I’m also thankful I have a freezer…

 

“Giving Thanks on Thanksgiving” ©27 November 2014 Mary Purpari . All Rights Reserved.

Two Personal Stories of Love and Hope from the Other Side

The following two stories are not fictional. They really happened, and while some might call them coincidences, I tend to disagree with them. I have a hard time with coincidences in the first place, but these go way beyond the realm of coincidence, in my opinion. The first episode concerns something experienced by a number of my family members; JoAnne is my sister, Sunny is my mother and Edith is my grandmother. JoAnne used to tell me about what was going on with Grammy, and she told me about how she and Grammy used to joke about her ashes being fed to Flipper. I was living in Italy at the time, and this was her way of keeping me in the loop. I’m telling you this so that no one will have an excuse to think it was something invented afterwards to substantiate the experience.

JoAnne and Edith

The early morning hours of September 9, 1995, just two short months before Edith’s hundredth birthday, found JoAnne sitting next to her grandmother’s bed in the nursing home where she had resided since her hip replacement three years earlier. Although she wasn’t particularly spry physically, Edith’s mind was as sharp as it had always been. She hadn’t been feeling very well for the past week, and had been unable to eat or even drink because of a constricted throat.

The two of them were conversing, when Edith started trying to clasp her hands, but they wouldn’t stay together. When JoAnne asked her what she was doing, she explained that she wanted her hands clasped now so there would be no problems when it was time to place her in her casket. Struggling to keep the tears from forming in her eyes, JoAnne folded her grandmother’s hands together, knowing that her Grammy’s pain would soon be ending.

Suddenly, Edith stopped speaking mid-sentence and told JoAnne that she was thirsty; JoAnne jumped and immediately offered to go across the hall and get her a glass of water, but she said no, because she had to wait a few more minutes, until she was on the other side where she could see a fountain of cool water. Ten minutes later, she was drinking her water, on the other side.

The story is already beautiful as it is, but it actually goes further. JoAnne and Edith had spoken often about what would be done after Edith’s death; she was to be cremated and her ashes were to be spread over the waters just off Newport Beach, California, where she had spent the last 64 years of her life. JoAnne would always comment about how her Grammy would be food for Flipper, and the two of them would have a good laugh over it.

The day of Edith’s memorial service and ashes spreading dawned bright and warm. Fifteen family members were in attendance; Sunny, JoAnne’s mother, remembered to take her sea-sickness pills, as Edith had constantly reminded her… A large group of dolphins followed the boat as it chugged its way out of the canal into the open waters; the captain said this was normal, although the group was somewhat larger than usual, and that they would leave as soon as he turned off the motor.

The dolphins did NOT leave, however. They continued to swim around the boat, chattering loudly among themselves and then put on an impressive show of dolphin acrobatics that lasted for about fifteen minutes. They then silently swam off. Sunny was heard to mutter, “She’s already in complete control.” This simple phrase seemed to sum up the general consensus of the participants.

Hundreds of pictures were taken that day, but none with the dolphins turned out. Participants in the service said that the dolphins glittered like diamonds when the sun hit them, so perhaps the brightness and glare given off was the reason that the photos didn’t turn out. No one really knows why, but all those who were in attendance that day ARE convinced that their beloved Edith was there in attendance with them.*

The Ash Trees

As many of you who follow my blog know, I have been in a sort of funk for the last 11 months after the death of my dearest Russ. These months have been punctuated with my own physical problems, exacerbated by my grief and pain at losing the man who constituted my head cheerleader, counselor, companion, sounding board, part-time cook, singing companion, entertainment committee and best friend. He was one of those people who collect knowledge like others collect baseball cards or shoes, and rarely forgets what he has picked up, so the two of us could be found almost any evening carrying on an interesting conversation on a variety of subjects. I deeply miss those conversations.When Russ was younger (much younger) he was a pitcher for a minor league baseball team. This is an important detail in the story I am about to relate.

This has been a rather wet year here in Brooklyn, and the weather didn’t actually start turning warm until much later in the spring than it usually does, so I put off planting my vegetable “garden” until late April. When I finally began, I noticed that the cats had killed off every single one of my strawberry plants and in their place a series of small tree saplings were growing. I pulled several out—there really isn’t enough space for trees to grow on my covered porch, which is where I keep my garden, in a series of pots and planters—but for every tree I pulled out, four more grew in its place. As they grew taller, I recognized where they had come from originally; there is a very tall tree two backyards down that has “helicopter” seeds. The next point is another important part of the story: I have been planting a garden on my porch for the last 4 years; I have seen those helicopters floating onto or past my porch every year, but not once has a tree sprung from them. In addition, these are the only known saplings in the group of backyards.

Anyway, on July 15 I decided to see if anyone could tell me what type of tree I had growing on my porch—I was very curious, since there so many of them (I think I had about 30 at that point)—so I asked my friends on Facebook. It turned out that my little trees are ash trees. For those who don’t know, one of the main uses for wood from these trees is making baseball bats. Since I went in for surgery the following day, I didn’t really think about the baseball connection to the trees for several more days.

My brain is a tangled web and sometimes I’m better able to untangle thoughts and resolve puzzles because of this. Anyway, as I was trying to sit up after surgery, a number of tangled strands suddenly tied themselves together and straightened out into one logical thread: death of baseball pitcher, baseball bat trees and seeds that have never grown before… To many, this might add up to nothing more than a series of coincidences, but to me it added up to the comforting thought that my Russ is keeping an eye on me.

Have any of you had similar experiences?

 

* This story was first shared on Suite101.com along with another story.  

©Mary E. Purpari. All rights reserved.

In the Corner of the Pinewoods

The following story is one I’ve been thinking about writing for years. It’s not really my usual genre of writing, but since it is Halloween and there was a sort of challenge for bloggers to write a short horror story, I thought I’d give it a try. It’s more fantastical than horrific, and since there is more than a single grain of truth to it, my protagonist’s name will be Melody. In the woods outside the town of Mistretta in Italy, there is a particular corner…


Melody looked at her watched and gasped. It was a quarter of five, and she’d now been gathering chestnuts for three hours. She had two huge bags full, but there were still so many lying around that she hated to leave them; if she didn’t gather them now, someone else would and that would be so many less than what she could have for the rest of the fall and winter. And yet, she had to get home, and quickly. Today was Halloween and they had the party that night.
She had ‘trained’ the girls well; they had been busily preparing for the party, putting up the decorations and preparing costumes and scripts for the ‘haunted house’, but she was the witch. And the Halloween party was not Halloween without her witchiness. Why, just the other day, as she was passing a group of children one of them came up to her and asked, “Mrs. Witch, are we going to be having the Halloween party this year?” When she’d answered in the affirmative, the little girl had skipped off to join her friends, nodding at them and giggling. A sense of satisfaction had gone through her that day: if she was to be remembered for something, at least it would be for providing fun for little children.
But now, it was late. She had meant to go home at least half an hour earlier, but when she was alone in the woods, gathering chestnuts, mushrooms or pine nuts, she usually lost all track of time and today there were so many chestnuts, probably resulting from last night’s tornado. Fortunately, she’d already made her famous poisonous mushrooms – the amazingly delicious pumpkin plus cookies that resembled the product they were named for – so all that was left to do was get herself ready for her bewitching role. But, before she could do that, she had to get past that corner…
It was on the fastest route out of the woods from the position she was in, and most of the time she had no problems taking it. Indeed, any other time of the day, she could take a short-cut across the corner, and take off a good ten minutes from her travel time. But it was almost five o’clock, and in just a few minutes… She had no other choice, though, because going the long way would add on an extra half an hour that she couldn’t allow herself today of all days.
And so, she walked. She couldn’t run, but even if she could, she wouldn’t because the ground was so uneven, with rocks and tree roots sticking up at odd spots. She hoped the strange feeling she got passing that spot wouldn’t grab her as badly as it usually did at this time of day. Had she left when she’d planned on, there wouldn’t have been a problem, because the eeriness of the corner appeared only at five o’clock. It wasn’t just the lighting – or lack of such – because the same sense was there in the summer, winter and spring, too, at five o’clock, rain, fog or shine. And, of course, the last rays of autumn sunlight filtering through the the yellowing leaves on the trees, caused oddly shaped shadows to ripple along the grassy slopes, hinting at things unknown and unseen.
Melody was almost there; although she could see it just around the bend, she would have known even with her eyes closed because of the cold tendrils of panic that gripped her heart. Today, though, the closer she drew to the spot the more she decided she would fight the usual tendency. She would teach them who would frighten who. Because, you see, Melody had a secret power; it was hers only on Halloween, which helped her be the best Halloween witch ever, and was the reason little children referred to her as Mrs. Witch. It was her laugh. Not an every-day-of-the-week laugh, but an evil-sounding, authentic witch’s laugh, the kind that causes children to hide their faces (which was why they loved it) and adults to tremble. And it only worked on Halloween.
And so, fighting against the corner’s chill (even Spike refused to chase any rabbit brave enough to run across that corner at that time of day), Melody gathered up her energy and laughed. The evil sounding, witchy laugh rang across that corner, issuing a challenge to those frightening, unknown forces of the pinewoods’ corner. As though by magic, a change came suddenly upon the corner. The mist drew back it’s chilling tendrils, the shadows drew back and though the sun had begun to go down behind the surrounding hills, its warmth slid easily in place of the misty cold. The birds began to sing in the branches, the raucous crows stopped cawing and peace returned to the beautiful corner of the pinewoods.
Melody smiled as she skipped through the woods, actually crossing the corner instead of going around it. Today, she could. Tomorrow? Tomorrow was another day.


© October 31, 2014 Mary Purpari . All Rights Reserved.

Christmas Delights from Mistretta: The Cannolo Siciliano*

 

The world-renowned Sicilian pastry has been a tradition in Italy for centuries. Now, with this recipe, it can also be yours, to happy cries of “Mamma Mia!”

Christmas in Sicily is a wonderful time of the year: Midnight mass, the presepio (manger scene), Christmas dinner with the extended family and mountains of traditional Christmas pastries: buccedate (made with ground dried fruit and nuts), cream puffs, almond brittle, pasta reale and the world famous Cannolo Siciliano.

Fresh ricotta, one of the Cannolo Siciliano’s main ingredients, comes into season during the winter months, just in time for Christmas. Although originally from Palermo, the cannolo has also become a highly prized tradition in Mistretta. The following recipe comes from one of the best cannolo makers in the city, Rosetta Tamburello.

Ingredients for the Shell:

• 1 Kg. (2.2 lbs.) White Flour
• 100 gr. (1/2 Cup) Sugar
• 100 gr. (1/2 Cup) Shortening
• 400 ml. (15 oz.) Red wine
• 1 egg white for gluing the points

Ingredients for the Filling:

• 1 Kg. (2.2 lbs.) Drained fresh ricotta
• 550 gr. (1.5 lb.) Sugar
• 100 gr. (1/2 Cup) Coarsely cut dark chocolate
• Powdered sugar mixed with a hint of cinnamon

Equipment:

• Pasta Machine (optional)
• Rolling pin
• Several metal cannolo tubes
• Deep Fryer with abundant vegetable oil or melted shortening
• Diamond-shaped cookie cutter with rounded corners (5”X4”)

Procedure for Making the Shell

Combine the flour, sugar and shortening together, rubbing it between your hands until it is completely mixed; add the wine and knead until it is a uniform ball. If it is too soft, add more flour: it should be dry; if it should be too dry, add a little more wine, until it reaches the desired consistency.

Extend the dough with a rolling pin or the pasta machine, until it reaches a thickness of 2mm (about 1/8 inch). Cut the dough with cookie cutter until all the dough has been cut. Roll the formed pasta around the cannolo tubes, fixing the points by brushing with egg white and lightly pressing. Fry in hot oil or shortening until a golden brown is reached. Remove them from the oil, and cool.

While the cannolo shells are cooling, prepare the ricotta filling as follows:

Take the drained ricotta and sugar and mash together until creamy. Mix in the cut chocolate.

Place the ricotta mix into the cooled cannolo shells and sprinkle lightly with powdered cinnamon sugar. Place on a tray and serve.

In our home, these cannolos were fought over, and a tray of 30 usually lasted less than 5 minutes after serving. As they say in Sicilia, “Buon Appetito”!

*This article was first published in Suite101.com in 2012 by ©Mary Purpari  All rights reserved