There is no word for that in Sicilian

My infant youth was spent living with my Sicilian grandparents in San Francisco. My mother and I lived there while my dad was serving in the Navy during World WW II. The predominant language in the home was Sicilian (Italian) since my grandparents were immigrants from the island. In fact, one of the determining factors of our leaving the Sicilian nest was when my father, of English and Irish heritage, came home on leave and said,” Good morning Lessie.” My response was, “Buon giorno papa. “ I spoke more Sicilian as an infant than English.  

When we were young boys, my brothers and I would be placed in the Sicilian Summer Conditioning Program (SSCP). We would be deposited at the ranchette owned by my mother’s parents. It was in a little area west of San Jose called Monte Vista, Spanish for Mountain View. Everyone in the family called it the “Country House”. It was a simple one-acre parcel that had three bedrooms, a great kitchen and a garden that could grow anything and usually did. My grandfather was a horticultural wizard. He loved every minute he spent there and dreaded returning to San Francisco for the fall and winter months. 

In early June, my Mom and Dad would load us three boys into the family car, together with summer clothes and drive us to the “Country.” We feigned sadness and being left with grandparents who would only speak Sicilian to us, who were ordered by my mother to make us change our clothes every day, work like fiends for no money, have strict rules for bedtime, shower every day and offer little recreation. None of that came to pass except for the Sicilian language and a meager change allowance. Our grandparents, Mom and Pop, were the greatest. We could virtually do anything we wanted, when we wanted, for as long as we wanted. There were few rules. The only abiding constant was that they would speak Sicilian to us and we should respond in kind. We did this through the summer months, except for an annual two week trip to Yosemite and then we would be redeposited to the SCCP. We loved our Sicilian grandparents and we looked forward to the visit and training.  

My mother was impressed with the ironing ability of my grandmother. She would send us to the “Country” with a cardboard box with freshly ironed and folded clothes for summer wear and receive them in almost exactly the same condition and order when we returned, year after year; only to find out subsequently, that we never used the clothes in the box. We never changed wardrobes. We wore the clothes we had every day over and over. Doesn’t swimming in the creek count as clothes washing and a shower?  

After breakfast, we would find some neighbor kids to hang out with and storm the picnic events at nearby Blackberry Farm. They had a creek and a shallow dam where we would build rafts and have naval battles. This is where the bathing and clothes washing took place. After a good naval battle our gang would work up an appetite and we would eventually crash someone’s family picnic. The only time we were busted was when we got greedy and kept winning the salami toss at some unsuspecting gathering. Blackberry Farm’s owner became all too familiar with our barging in, recognize us and throw us out of his facility, only to have us return through our normal water route pathway the next day. Many years later, our whole Sicilian family had a picnic at the Farm. When I and my family approached the entrance, I was confronted by the owner who recognized me from my previous criminal days there and asked what I thought I was going to do on his property that day. I said, “It’s ok, I’m paying today.” He replied, “I didn’t know that you had any money, come on in.” I think he was happy to see me!  

My parents didn’t abandon us completely. They would leave an allowance for us that my grandparents would dole out to us on Friday of every week. It was twenty-five cents, a quarter, quite an amount in 1950. We would think all week about that quarter; we could spend it on ice cream during the really hot days or some kind of hobby thing to occupy our next to nothing TV nights. Spending that quarter meaningfully was about the only challenge we would have. 

My grandfather, true to his nature, was devoted to things growing in his garden including his small apricot orchard. He could be seen every day, no matter the degree of heat, standing in his long underwear, Big Ben jeans, felt hat and forever Toscanelli cigar, dangling from his mouth, watering. He would water something, every day, all day. On one allowance Friday, supplied with my twenty-five cent award, I bounced out of the country house with mental lists of endless possibilities of purchases I could make from the various venues in the little town. Pop, unwavering in his watering mission inquired of me in Sicilian, “What are you going to waste your money on this week, Rabbit?” He used to call me his “White Rabbit” because I was white-blond as a toddler. I replied in my best effort in the tongue, “I don’t know Pop, something great, you’ll see.” 

I skipped into town and went to the farthest venue possible, the hobby and magic store. I always did that and worked my way backward to the ice cream store which was my indecisive fallback. The store was a combination hobby-novelty shop. I would always cruise through there looking for the latest glider model that I could afford or another interesting trinket. While diligently reviewing the shelves, I stumbled upon a great purchase. I could buy a bottle of magical,  “invisible ink,” a fairly recent novelty development for the day.  It looked just like regular ink but was guaranteed to dry clearly in moments. I could play a trick on Pop and then see if he would be angry with me and then for him to only to realize that it was “invisible ink!” That was a challenge because in my whole life, he had never, ever been angry with me. I was his “White Rabbit”. 

I was bouncing down the loose gravel road anticipating my prank and returning to the country house when I spotted Pop dutifully fulfilling his daily watering saga. He was sweating in the 102-degree heat, still wearing his all-weather uniform still attached to his faithful cigar. He greeted me with the usual banter, “Hey Rabbit, you have spent your money already? What could you have got that could be so good, so fast?” At least that was my Sicilian interpretation. I thought of the words to respond in order to continue with the ruse while I loosened the cap of the vial that held invisible ink. 

I began in my rustic Sicilian, “Well Pop, I have this great stuff, it is really unique,’ as I flung the contents of the vial across my grandfather’s "Sunday go-to-church" best, long white underwear,  scrubbed by hand by Maria, my devoted grandmother. My aim was fabulous; he looked like the subject of splash art. The ink cast a long series of ever-increasing dots across his chest and midriff that ran from his left shoulder across to his right hip. He was very surprised, he looked at his favorite long underwear splattered with blue ink; then he looked at me with a shark-like expression, his eyes rolled back, he dropped the water hose followed by the cigar from his lips. He uttered not a word but by the flushing of his skin, I knew I was in trouble. I moved back, he moved forward, I turned to run and he chased me. I had no idea that Pop, well into his sixties, could run. We started on the perimeter of the ranchette, dodging the roses, cactus and septic tank. While both fearing for my life and running, I attempted to explain to him in Sicilian that the spots were invisible ink when I discovered that I didn’t know that word and maybe there was no word in Sicilian for invisible ink. He certainly wouldn’t understand it if I spoke in English. As the chase continued, I kept pointing at Pop’s underwear which under the 102 degree temperature and escape speed of 5 miles per hour, began to disappear, as promised, very quickly. Finally, turning the third corner of the one acre property, he looked at his belly and saw that the ink had vanished. He stopped running, gave me a sideways look and resumed his watering ensemble and semi permanent cigar. I dared not laugh for fear of receiving the look of death again and kept a respectful distance from him the remainder of the day.  

The following morning brought on the promise of a brand new day and celebrating a night that I had not been murdered in my sleep. Pop was already in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and attempting to read his Sicilian newspaper. I took for granted that all was forgiven. After all, the “White Rabbit” was his favorite. As I walked past him on my way to observe the latest in Sicilian breakfast cuisine, the side of my head was kissed by a pot that Pop had concealed in his lap behind the newspaper. I wasn’t injured, just shocked and turned to him with a questioning look that said, “What was that for?” He responded in perfect English, “EVEN!” 

Buona Pasca!