San Gennaro

October 5, 2019

Tony is my New York Italian friend and had been telling me about the San Gennaro Festival for years; he never misses it. Finally, this year I am able to go with him.

San Gennaro, or Saint Januarious, is the patron saint of Naples. Three ampules of his blood are preserved in the cathedral there and are thought to have healing powers.

A statue of him stands now at the center of the festival, cloaked in scarlet robes and mitered cap, gazing out through benevolent eyes, his hand raised in blessing.

The Italian community comes together every year to share their rowdy music, meatball sandwiches, zeppole, and stories of the good old days. The beer garden flows with wine and limoncello. A stage features Graziana Lazzaro, Ray Massa’s EuroRythms, Roby Santini and all that Mama Mia music.

Roby Santini is Italy’s rock star, decked out in white cowboy hat, tight-fitting suit, loads of jewelry, a pencil thin mustache, and bright orange tips on his fingernails. Rail thin, he belts out his tunes, while music videos of his adoring fans are projected behind him. Who knew Italy had rock stars; where have we been all his life?

Tony and I partook of it all, dancing on the rough street pavement. Occasionally, we would all form a circle for the traditional folk dance and shout “Hey!” as we swooped into the center. Maybe there is a drop of Italian blood in me, after all.

Taking a break to catch my breath, I find a chair next to an elderly woman with a walker. Her eyes are bright and she taps her foot to keep time with the music. She admires our dancing and we begin to chat.

Her name is Rosa and she is 101! Looking far younger than her years, her mind is alert and quick and I learn that she has outlived three husbands.

Living in Alaska, her first husband died in a plane crash.

Then in Oregon, her second husband drown in the river that ran in front of their house.

Her third husband was spared an untimely death and died of old age, just a few years earlier.

Rosa is Spanish but has become an honorary Italian by her last marriage and they love her.

After a while she toddled off with her walker in search of limoncello at the beer garden.

On the other side of me sits Angelo, a true blue Italian who’s 85. I strike up a conversation with him, too.  He wants to know if I’m Italian but I confess, “No, I’m pure Anglo.”

He begins to tell me about his deceased wife, Anna. His grandson loaded all his favorite pictures onto his phone and we begin to walk down his memory lane.

Anna was a petite dark-haired Jewish beauty. When Angelo told his mama he intended to marry Anna, she replied, “But, she’s not Italian!” He smiled confidently when he told her, “No, she’s not.”

He adored her, showing me wedding pictures, new babies, family vacations, all the happy times they had shared. She has been gone 12 years now but he talks about her death like it was just yesterday. 

He glows and smiles and his heart still belongs to Her.

Anna’s sister brought Angelo to the Festival and she watches over him now, silently regarding me.

When the music starts up again I pull him to his feet and into the dance. We take it slow as he grins boyishly. Meanwhile, Sister-in-law watches me with a hawk-like intensity.

I have encountered the sisters of deceased wives before and they are a force to be reckoned with. They feel obligated to look after the widower and their sister’s interests. I’m not sure if they are protecting the family fortune or the family jewels, but I was not interested in either.

When the dance ended I helped him back to his chair and the custody of Sister-in-law.

I thought of these two old souls, Rosa and Alberto, and that I want to be like them, that the happy memories will outweigh the sad and to still find joy in every today, no matter how old I become.

The night sky began to flash with distant lightening and large raindrops heralded an impending storm.

I hugged my new friends good-bye and wondered if I would ever see them again; a year is a long time when you’re 101 and 85.

Rosa blessed me and said, “Keep dancing! It keeps you young!”

We promised to meet at the same time, same place next year. I hope so.