Dusk at Valanidi. The mountain air was crisp and cool, as the relentless August sun had hidden itself for the night.
Forty odd aunts, uncles, and cousins sat around long outdoor tables covered with vinyl checkered tablecloths, drinking homemade red wine from small plastic cups and letting their evening meals digest. Multiple conversations criss-crossed and bickered for attention across the veranda, while one uncle cleaned the ashes from the brick oven and another made an attempt at a soliloquy. Barefoot children chased a stray dog. A teenage cousin snuck into the square to flirt with the neighbor boys. Raised voices, running water, the clink of dishes sliding from the table. Family noises filtered through the night with a relative calm.
Until we heard the tambourine.
Accordion music drifted toward our little mountain villa, bringing with it sounds of joyful shouting. A burst of energy lit the night on fire, and the family started dancing.
“Come on!” My cousin, Julia grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the broken gate that led to the square.
“What’s going on?” I asked her, as the scene in front of the house came into view.
Young men and women, clad in traditional Calabrese folk wear – dresses with aprons and babushkas for the girls, fedoras and dress shirts with suspenders for the guys – were singing and dancing in the street – a parade of sorts. A band of musicians followed them, playing the well-loved songs of the regions, as the villagers sang along. A boy in the back carried a large statue of The Virgin Mary but was still skipping to the rhythm of the music.
“Buon Ferragosto” Julia said, as she kissed my sun-reddened cheeks and swung me into the sway. I had no idea what Ferragosto was, but it didn’t matter. My family was celebrating, and that was something I was quite familiar with. I let Julia lead my two left feet into the dance and smiled at another night of unexpected joy in Calabria.
Surprises like this happen endlessly when I’m in Italy with my family. That day, no one had mentioned anything about a national holiday. I’d never heard the word – Ferragosto— before a huge parade of people came sashaying down the street yelling “Buon Ferragosto” and embracing strangers.
Ferragosto is a National Italian holiday that falls in mid-August. It is also called the Feast of The Assumption of Mary, and is a Catholic holiday. Historically, Ferragosto was a time to celebrate the end of the heavy farming season and the beginning of the harvest time. I’m not sure if my family usually observes it or not, but that night they did. They followed the parade through the streets, dancing and singing and making a memory that, for me, will never fade.
Italians. Celebrate. Everything.
Every occasion, whether it’s a holiday like Ferragosto or a new job or new home, is recognized. Every birthday, whether it’s a baby’s first or a nana’s 67th, is celebrated with food and sweets and singing.
And togetherness.
That’s the biggie. The Italian family doesn’t fail to come together often (meaning every week at least) to celebrate life.
We may disagree on any number of things, and we may fight out our disagreements with the unapologetic fierceness of lions, but we fight over the Sunday dinner table and then kiss each other goodbye when it’s time to go home. Then we forget about it. Because we’re family, and that’s more important than any issue, be it political, social or otherwise.
Yesterday I saw a lot of Buon Ferragosto posts on social media. It reminded me of the night my family joined the parade in Valanidi. I don’t know if they do that every year. I like to imagine my wonderful French cousin and his lovely children skipping down the broken pavement, singing and shouting. I close my eyes and see my great uncle, my special zio, wiping the steam of laughter from his glasses as he watches his grandchildren learn the Italian dances.
Everything about Italy brings out amplified emotions for me. That’s why I write
about it.
I’m celebrating the memories.