swine massage school. He felt he would have to wait once he was settled down and successful.
Chapter 2
The McFadden clan, about Mary
Mary’s parents were from Ireland and claimed they were descendants of St. Patrick.
Her mom, Aideen, and dad, Patric, where on a dancing Irish pipe whistle-and-fiddle tour of the smaller towns in rural Italy, both promoting Irish customs and being missionaries for their Irish Catholic Church, the Lady of the Walled-in Garden Annex.
Mary, an only child, was created after a very successful night of Patric and Aideen dancing, playing and praising at an Italian wine festival.
It was late at night, and the audience was well lubricated to donate. Patric was invited to join the festivities, and as the sun rose, he weaved his way to their Lada Largus home for a sweet time with sweet Aideen…where he made his donation.
Mary was soon to begin her life on a cold winter night in Pedesina, a town of about thirty-five residents. She was demanding from her first breaths—“a true Irish lassie” her dad would say. Fire red hair, deep blue eyes, and a red dimple on her cheek.
In a town this small and the nearest hospital hours away, delivering babies was not a primary occupation. One resident, Stella, was an animal midwife with experience delivering a human baby three years before. Stella was confident that she could do a great job with Aideen’s delivery.
After a short labor, Mary was presented to the world at about eight thirty of a snowy, overcast morning. The town went wild both for Stella in delivering the baby while drunk and Mary for being the first child born in Pedesina in three years.
Mary had a hard glare from day 1 that was fierce and demanding. She was the first redheaded child to be born in Pedesina ever, and most felt it was a good omen for the community, only to find out later how feisty she is!
As was the custom in Pedesina, when there was a human birth, the residents thought they remembered that they needed to celebrate with a token of love, prosperity, and some money. Since this was the first human birth in many years, they had a great selection of semi-useless items and a few lira.
Since she was traveling with her parents, Mary grew up on the road. She learned to walk early as she was responsible for taking collections. Mary would stand on a box by the small tent door and look up with her big green eyes after putting a little glycerin in them for tears and tremble her lips when the people left.
Living in the Lada truck with very little money, she was homeschooled by her parents and the women in the towns where they performed who took a “fancy” to her.
Mary was very young when she first performed on tour. Her act was a short jig and bad music on the pipe whistle. Patric told the attendees that this was authentic Irish music and dance to try to elicit more donations!
Their religious portion of the tour was anything but successful. It seems that most Italians were already nonpracticing Catholics and didn’t need another church not to go to.
Yet out of curiosity, the locals went to the shows, mainly as the word of the pretty Irish girl with an Italian birth certificate (handwritten by Stella) was worth seeing.
Typically, when little Mary finished her portion, she passed Patric’s wool Irish walking hat for either food or a few pennies. Then she stood by the door with those teary, sad eyes.
They made just enough to keep them on the road and fed, although most meals were donated by locals who felt sorry for them and were planning to throw the food out anyway.
Many times, they discussed ending their stoic journey, yet not knowing anything else to do, they continued. They thought about a dance studio in one of the larger towns they performed in, although all they knew were three Irish jigs and no one really cared. They thought of small store selling Irish religious relic; no one ever bought one from the small table set outside the tent after the few participants walked by weeping Mary.
So on they went in their Lada relic with just enough room for the moldy tent, a few clothes, and blankets.
Occasionally, the good parishioners of The Lady of the Walled-in Garden Annex, back in Ireland, would wire them a few Irish pounds every month.
These checks were valued, and they always sent a thank you card to the contributing parishioners. They included data on numbers of “potential” converts, towns traveled to, expenses (always short of money), and future routes.
When the checks came in, after being forwarded to general delivery in the town one month down the road, Patric would open the letter and then bringing it to the local exchange office.
Patric was not good at math, and soon word got around via the money changer’s “change line” ahead of the McFadden’s tours about their occasional money from “overseas.” The local money changers would exchange for a less than fair rate. At the yearly Italian Money Changers conference, it was one of the main topics over a Campari.
Mary was growing nicely. Patric and Aideen were getting concerned about what to do with her since she was nearing fifteen.
What would be her next step in life?
Would she ever learn to dance?
What if she found out she couldn’t dance worth a snake on a hot coal?
Would she ever learn to shed real tears?
What if she was taken advantage of in one of the towns they performed in?
What if she found out that the music she was playing was not worthy of a twenty-five-cent tip playing outside the tent attempting to draw people.
They could only hope that a sign would come to them via the Lady of the Walled-in Garden Annex.
As fate would have it, their tour truck, a twenty-year-old Lada Largus, broke down due to old age, bad brakes, and nonexistent maintenance.
This happened while in Pissaccotta, and they were planning to play at the local theatre called Little Bitta Pissa Hall.
Chapter 3
Mary and Emilio meet
Since their Lada was broken and no money to fix it, Patric and Aideen decided to stay in Pissaccotta until enough money was found to repair it and move on with their show. Doing no research, Patric and Aideen soon discovered that Pissaccotta, the pork capital, had little taste for food without pork or at least cooked in pork grease. They looked for other ways to make money to fix the Lada.
They played their four nights at the Little Bitta Pissa Hall with the normal minimal success. Still not enough money to pay for the repairs, Patric found a job playing evenings in the local pub, Ima Jally Aler.
The locals loved his soft playing of the pipe whistle and fiddle with Italoirish songs he made up when patrons requested (and paid little money). Most were somewhat off color yet brought in more euros the raunchier they were. “I’ll Touzle Your Kurchy” was one of the hits of the evening, along with “The Cheating Lark of the Dirty Bastard,” “Touch Me If You Dare,” and “Cock O’ the North.”
With the patrons buying him drinks and nice tips, he was slowly
