is at the heart of all of Italy and the center of many festivals. Many food experts believe that the greatest chefs come from Bolgno. During the months of May and June, the Bolgnese people enjoyed a festival of food in the Parco della Montagnola. This festival attracted many people who came to admire some of the best specialties of Bolgno: Tortellini (ravioli) and Lasagnette (lasagna). The food was placed on large tables similar to picnic tables and served to the people who came to the festival.
Another festival, Festa del’ Uva, the Feast of Grapes, took place in Tuscany, which is in northern Italy. In Tuscany, the month of September is called Vendenia, which is also called the Festa del’ Uva. During September, all the people get together to pick grapes by hand and place them in a large barrel. While they picked grapes, they sang folksongs or stornelli, told jokes, and did anything else that would make people laugh. At night, when the day’s work was completed, the grape growers (owners) gave a dance for the young people while the elderly sat around and watched the young dancers.
Sometimes it took three or four days to pick all the grapes from the groves. However, once they are all picked, they are placed in a large barrel. The young girls of the village then wash their feet and climb in the barrel to mash the grapes. The juice of the grapes dripped out of the faucet at the bottom of the barrel and drained into a smaller barrel. Then the wine was bottled and set aside for fermentation.
On a more personal note, we always had productive grapevines on our property. Both my grandmother and mother picked grapes every summer and mashed them down with their bare feet in a large bucket into their own wine… and we did not sell any wine before its time—actually, our family consumed what little wine we made.
What happened is that our family had apparently more good fortune than bad. We all survived the superstitions, proverbs, and remedies. The historic rituals and ceremonies enriched our lives. We confused our friends perhaps a little, but survived nonetheless with no apparent ill effects. Well, for the most part… I work hard at not spilling milk or salt and never, ever spill olive oil. I don’t even go near the stuff!
The early childhood years passed without much fanfare or notice. Another beginning entered our lives as mandatory formal education soon beckoned at our door. Mother was overjoyed for some reason—a reason we never clearly understood until our later years. Attending parochial school left me with many memories, most of them fond and sentimental ones. These memories are often brought sharply into focus by fleeting scenes on television and the movies, or by nostalgic song lyrics. By now, you may be wondering where this is going, but stay with me. I am still leading up to why I was unable to date formally.
In 1957, I and 119 other neighborhood six-year-old children were entering parochial school for the first time. Those of us who were born during the term of President Harry Truman were known as the Korean War Babies—at least that was how we were described by the newspapers of the time. There was no kindergarten in parochial schools in that era. All 120 of us wide-eyed and curious entered the first grade at St. Therese of the Infant Jesus.
In 1957, a World War II hero, Dwight D. Eisenhower was serving as president. It was the year in his term that he was to suffer a serious illness only to recover and serve three more years. In America then we were laughing at a Cuban named Castro and the French were losing a war in some far away country we never heard of—Vietnam. Our own nation and people were at reasonable peace.
As many young Catholic girls and boys, we learned about God and the teachings of our Church via the dark blue covered Baltimore Catechism dated pre-Vatican II. The Catechism taught us the faith of the Catholic Church in 37 lessons using question/answer format, and included the learning of standard prayers. Well, at least drilled us for our conceptual thinking and abstract understanding were limited due to our young ages and much of what we learned was rote memory. For those of you half-baked Catholics with poor memories, some of the questions for the first two lessons went like this…
From Lesson 1, “On the End of Man”
• Who made the world?
• Who is God?
• What is man?
• How is the soul like to God?
• Why did God make you?
• What must we do to save our souls?
From Lesson 2, “God and His Perfections”
• Who is God?
• Had God a beginning?
• Where is God?
• If God is everywhere, why do we not see Him?
• Does God see us?
• Does God know all things?
My first grade class received one of the seven Catholic sacraments, first Holy Communion, on May 2, 1958, and back in those days later that same evening, another sacrament, Confirmation. The sacrament of Confirmation is a mature Christian commitment and faith in God’s fidelity to us. Again, we were too young to understand fully or even moderately appreciate the significance of these sacraments.
As a second grader in 1959, I remember the beginning of several visits each year from missionaries known as the Maryknoll Fathers. For some reason, their spirit and presentations mesmerized me or the Holy Spirit was stirring me at a young age. They always included a film about their missionary work in some remote country that I had no idea existed let alone know its geographic relationship to our country. Hell, I did not even know where our state was located. I did not really understand in any great detail the importance of the films, but the passing scenes of the plight of third-world countries and narration made the message clear: those who have more help those who have less. God was marketed as a big part of that message and it seemed a clear, simple message at the time. Little did I know how much it would both enhance and complicate my life, by choice or otherwise, and in some ways alter my unfolding adolescent years.
A less fond memory of my second grade year was receiving a spanking from a relatively mean spirited Spanish nun. My transgression? I was the last student out of the classroom during a fire drill and forgot to close the classroom door. My punishment was meted out when we returned as El Nun took me by the hand to the front of class and gave me several smacks across my butt. It was only after this embarrassing incident did she relate my hideous misdeed and forewarned others that they would receive the same castigation if their 7 year old brains committed the same sin of omission. To this day, I am not particularly fond of doors, which ruled out any future careers as an Amway salesman or as a Jehovah Witness.
Hindsight dictates that the assimilation of these life experiences had a considerable impact on my being. I recall playing with trucks, cars, pick-up-stix, slinkies, tinkertoys, cowboys and Indians, GI Joe, erector sets, and other gender-specific toys of the day. We played outdoor games such as hide-and-go-seek, kick the can, lawn darts (encouraging children to throw sharp metal things toward each other was a rather insidious invention), and backyard golf. Backyard golf was most annoying to my parents not due to burying a tin can to simulate the golf hole, but mowing the yard at three different levels to simulate the fairway, rough, and green. This seemed to annoy my mother a great deal even though to me it was just grass. Needless to say, they did not encourage my participation in the sport of golf—another Tiger Woods-maybe was lost to the world!
In outdoor games, like all children, we did
