In The Summertime

Furci. To my 9-yr old ear, the name sounded Japanese. But it was a town next to my family’s ancestral hometown of Santa Teresa di Riva, Sicily, near Taormina. Furci, Pronounced Foor Chee. That is where Gioanna Garufi lived with her parents and younger brother Fillipo, who they called Pippo, in a high rise on the 7th floor overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

Gioanna would be my little sister Grace and my babysitter that August night in 1971 when our parents went out for the evening with her parents. Gioanna was the 15-year-old chestnut haired tanned beauty with developing budding breasts, who just loved American music.

I had met her earlier in the day at the beach in Taormina with her family. On that hot 95-degree halcyon day at the beach, I followed Gioanna around like a boomerang. I was the kind of kid that enjoyed being around older kids and adults more than kids my age. My Dad had grown up with her father Giorgio who wore these thick rimmed black glasses like some academic professor. We ate Pesce Spada and arancini for lunch at “Nino’s Ristorante” a beach side restaurant under bright colorful umbrellas. They reminisced about growing up through the good and bad times before and after the war. Listening to their stories, I was mesmerized by Gioanna and her technique of squeezing a lemon on her swordfish. My father was proud of where his life had taken him, his family and of becoming an American citizen. He was happy at being back in Sicily, showing off his Cadillac as the local boy made good. Our parents were making plans for later in the evening to go out, when my mother ordered us out of the water “Amuninni, Amuni!” Let’s go.

We skipped the daily mandatory siesta as we had stayed at the beach, then returned to my grandmother’s house to clean up. We got dressed for dinner of Pasta con Vongole, with my aunts and dined outside overlooking the garden. Our standard nightly entertainment was watching a lizard outside on the wall next to the light, lash out his tongue to catch and eat moths. As fascinating as that was, it would be a nice change of pace to go somewhere else later in the evening.

After eating my Linguine and Clams that evening, my grandmother asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I let her know I wanted to be a Pizza Maker. It was like I sunk a ship with my given answer, more aptly, her heart. I could see the disappointment in her eyes and a groan of disapproval of all at the dining table. She was hoping for maybe doctor, lawyer or president. Outside of being a shoemaker at that time, being a pizza maker was a low-level career.

“Ma nonna, a me piace mangiare la pizza” (But grandma I love to eat pizza)

After kissing my grandmother and aunts’ good night and saying goodbye to her two black labrador retrievers, Marcelo and Dick Nixon (pronounced Deek Neekson) we headed off to the Garuffi’s in the Eldorado.

When we arrived at their high rise, I thought that Gioanna would ignore me as she did most of the afternoon. I resigned myself that I’d end up watching the youngsters, stuck in that 3-bedroom apartment looking at the traffic below, and soon to be dark sea across the “Lungomare”. When my mother said “Stai bene, non andare a dormire troppo tardi” which meant “Be good don’t go to sleep too late” Gioanna responded “Non preoccupare” Don’t worry, I was despondent. “Buona notte, Buona notte” was echoed by all, as my mother and father, gave Grace and I a kiss before the door slammed shut. My sister and Pippo went to play with some toys or dolls, something dumb that held no interest to me. I was staring at the TV in that little front room facing the sea as the hot Scirocco breeze blew across the Mediterranean from North Africa through the balcony. In Italy at that time, the commercials were the most interesting thing on, and unlike American TV, the commercials did not interrupt the show like in the US but were themselves a 1/2-hour TV show, called “La Carousel”. After about 10 minutes of staring at the little black and white TV set, Gioanna had taken off her clothes save for her little pink and white striped underwear and walked in from her bedroom holding a 45-vinyl record. She turned off the TV set. She spoke no English and proceeded to tell me in Italian how much she liked American and Rock n’ Roll music, specifically this new record she just bought, “In the Summertime” by Mungo Jerry. She wanted to know what the words meant and if I could translate for her? I said I’d try as I stared at her, trying not to drool.

She bent over, placed the vinyl record on the turntable and steadily lowered the descending needle on the record. My attention quickly ascended in that ineffable ecstasy, while she danced and pranced around twirling and swirling, gyrating and rotating, spinning her hair and her sinewy body with tanned arms and legs and thrusting all about.

“Che cosa dicendo?” Looking me up and down and then straight in the eyes like a Leopard that was locked on its prey. Nervously I tried to answer her question of “What were they saying?” While my eyes were fixated about a foot lower from hers.

“Aspetta” I said slowly, Play it again; “Giocare di nuova ancora”.

I gave her this response a few more times and finally I had to tell her what the translation was when she accused me of stalling.

“Ok, va bene” and said in Italian “In estate quando il clima e secco”; In The Summertime When the Weather is Dry.

She looked at me quizzically with her hands on her hips, not quite sure if I was telling the truth.

“Si, Certo” Yes really, I said in Italian.

“Non fai scherzando” don’t joke with me, she sternly said with a serious look that threatened to end my private burlesque show.

“Un’ altra volta por favore” one more time please. I begged. Please one more time. She danced vigorously just once more to the Mungo Jerry song and then it was over. I went back to watching La Carousel as my excitement had come to an end. My puberty and a more acceptable career choice would have to patiently wait for a few more hot summers and dry dreams.