Bana Fine Irish Pizza. T. STRAHS
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 bringing home (to the truck) enough to get it fixed.
Mary continued her dancing and opened a small dance studio in an empty Kosher deli that Irving and Sofie opened for a short time, hoping that Kosher food would catch on. They moved to the US to a place called the Villages where they heard any type of restaurant would be busy.
Mary did well with her twelve students of all ages considering she drew from the limited population that weren’t on walkers, in wheelchairs, or limping around. Money was slow as many residents couldn’t see any sense in learning how to dance a combination of the Neapolitan saltarello and Irish jig. Yet they came to get out of their houses, and it was an entertaining few hours out for small change.
Unknown to Mary, most met at Ima Jally Aler before going to her studio. Mary was convinced (not being overly streetwise) that they were just having a good time!
Emilio was walking by Mary’s studio on his way home from a two swine rub down and venting his sty smell when he heard the music. It was absolutely the finest, ear-pleasing mellow tones he had ever heard. Keep in mind that this is a man who rubs pigs.
As he slowed down to hear more of the music, he looked in the door and saw an angel blowing into a tube. Emilio had never seen any instrument outside of a wheezing accordion.
Was this love at first sight or simply an erotic event? He had to find out since he knew very little about eroticism! Through the door he went, lulled by the music and forgetting that he just came from a pigsty on a very warm day.
Fortunately for Emilio, Mary had a severe cold and couldn’t smell anything. She saw Emilio enter and, for the first time, felt a stirring.
The locals in Pissaccotta did not appeal to Mary as her father, Patric, warned her about men with greasy hair who were dressed in tight pants, open-fronted shirts, and zipper boots. He also told her that what she may consider a fascination with her music could be a nasty leer.
Emilio was different; in Mary’s eyes, he looked, well, natural. With him staring, she continued to play and instruct the seniors class on the simple moves of the dance she devised—the Neapo-Irish jigg—to keep them coming. She could not keep her eyes off this incredible man, even as she knew he did need a little help in the laundry department.
Emilio realized that participants were looking at him and holding their noses. Most knew him and his father, Piero, as their smells preceded them. They were tolerated, as the pork from Pissaccotta was getting a pretty good price at the area’s pork belly market.
Emilio, sensing that something good could come out of this, ran home and dove into the nearby stream to clean up. Borrowing his father’s fine clothes, he ran back to the dance studio where Mary was just finishing.
Chapter 4
The wedding was memorable between Emilio and Mary. There hadn’t been a wedding at the local church in over ten years, but there were plenty of funerals.
Between the swine smells and nothing to do, very few young people stayed around town after reaching puberty long enough to get married. If they did, they went to the bigger towns such as Caperrioli for the air-conditioned church, beach, and restaurants.
The local friar, Geovani Ranieri D’Angelo, who was responsible for eight small-town churches and chapels, officiated. He has been a friar here for eighteen unrecognized years, and he was pleased when he was assigned to this circuit—few weddings.
His problem with weddings was that he was emotional and always cried at weddings. Not at funerals, just weddings. He did so many funerals, he was void of any emotion, just waiting to collect the “honoria” from the family.
There were a lot of profitable funerals. Friars have needs too!
Both Emilio’s and Mary’s parents met for a very brief period, and both had work obligations and figured the marriage wouldn’t last anyway.
They also didn’t have any money for the reception, not knowing that in town, all the neighbors chipped in to make it a celebration that would be remembered until the next one, most