Day of the Dead

November 2, 2010
(first published Nov 2, 2009)

A few years ago, I wanted to buy a ruin of a house on a solitary road out beyond the Ragusa cemetery. Sicilian friends (perfectly rational, well-educated ones) said I was matta, insane, that I’d be visited at night by dead souls.

“What do you mean?” I hollered. “I live two blocks from a cemetery in the US and I’ve never seen a ghost!”

They looked at me mournfully and insisted that the danger was real. They themselves would absolutely never pay me a visit there!

So I gave up the idea of that house with its faded pink walls, shocked at how alive the dead are in Sicily.

Sicilian cemeteries are always set well outside of town behind imposing walls. Below is the Scicli cemetery, full of mausoleums, magnificent pines and tall cypress.

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Cemeteries here are well-tended, with custodians and on-site florists. They seem to be open most of the day, even during the long lunch break.

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Many of the tombs show pictures of the dead.

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Streets have names, just like in a real town.

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Today is il Giorno dei Morti, Day of the Dead. Sicilian families flock to cemeteries—arms overflowing with lilies, mums, roses, and daisies—to spend time with their dearly departed.

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Blessed Bread

October 18, 2010

I once saw my friend Giò drop a heel of bread on the floor. She scooped it up like it was a newborn chick and tenderly kissed it.

“That’s what we do here in Sicily,” she laughed. “Bread is everything for us. Jesus is in the bread. It must always sit on its bottom, for example. And we never toss it away. That’s a sin.”

“Well, what if it gets old?”

“We make breadcrumbs from it. If it’s turning green with mold, we kiss it and apologize to Jesus.”

Collecting Bread in Palazzolo Acreide, Sicily, Copyright Jann Huizenga

I once made Easter breads with an 86-year-old woman who’s never been off the island. She said a prayer as she popped the bread into the oven.

To Saint Anthony, handsome and good.

The angel passes and leaves his blessing, the angel passed and left his blessing.

May the Ragusan bread rise as big as a field, may the country bread rise as big as a mountain.

Saint Anthony is not the only person Sicilian women turn to for help with baking. Some pray to Saint Clement (“Let the bread not have a bubble!”) or directly to Mary and Jesus themselves.

I didn’t dare tell my friend  Giò that as kids we made spitballs with bread, or that as an adult I’ve carelessly trashed scores of half-eaten loaves. That would be the ultimate blasphemy here.

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What food do you revere?

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Mr. No Money

October 5, 2010

I meet Mister No Money on the streets of Giarratana—a small town known for its big onions—under a canopy of goose-down clouds. He doffs his hat and blinks eyes round and red as sun-dried tomatoes. “I am Giuseppe Scarso. In Sicilian my name means No Money.” His face cracks open into a bright smile. “And I really have no money!”

Nomen est omen.

His pal is Mister Happy (Signor Felice).

Two Sicilian Men Against Pink Wall, copyright Jann Huizenga

Mister No Money & Mister Happy

My plumber is Mister Horse (Cavallo); my neighbor Ms. Painted Eyes (Occhipinti); my ex-landlord Hector the Onion (Ettore Cippola); my hunky banker Mister Love (Amore).

Names lifted from some fairy tale.

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Sicilians Hit the Beach

July 19, 2010

Sicilians love their mare in summer.  There’s been a mass exodus from the inland baroque towns; everyone’s hit the beach. The odd thing is that when Sicilians “go on vacation,” they travel en bloc, with all their friends and neighbors. So Ragusani move 15 kilometers away  to the summer village of  Marina di Ragusa for July and August; Modicani move to Marina di Modica; people from Noto go to Marina di Noto—you get the picture.

“Why would you want to go on holiday to a place where you don’t know anybody?” asks a Ragusan friend when I express surprise at this herd behavior.

Those who can’t afford a second home in Marina pitch tents on the beach and mingle with extended families from sunup to sundown, gobbling up gelato and platefuls of pasta alla Norma. Just before the Festival of San Giovanni Battista on August 29, everyone migrates back to Ragusa, as if a mighty shepherd is herding them all back at once.

Sicilian Couple at Beach, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilian Father and Son at Beach, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilian Life Guards at Beach, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilian Man at Beach, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilian Men at Beach, copyright Jann Huizenga

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Death in Sicily

June 29, 2010

Assai megghiu addivintirai si a la morti pinsirai, goes an old Sicilian saying. You’ll be a better person if you think about death.

The walls in Sicily are bulletin boards of death, so there’s ample opportunity here to think about it.

Death Notice in Sicily, Copyright Jann Huizenga

The black-bordered papers called necrologie are everywhere.  Ciao Nonno Salvatore one reads. Bye Grandpa Salvatore.

Death Notice in Sicily, Copyright Jann Huizenga

A guy with a brush and a pot of glue rides around on his motorino plastering necrologie around town.

Putting Up Death Notices in Sicily, Copyright Jann Huizenga

My Sicilian-American friend Mary, who has lived here for twenty-some years, says she was “freaked out” by the “morbid things” when she first arrived, but I find them endearing. They celebrate you all over the neighborhood for months, even years, while all we Americans get is a tiny newspaper blurb for a day.

Li morti aprinu l’occhi a li vivi, say the Sicilians.

The dead open the eyes of the living.

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