My family, on my father’s mother’s side, has a compound of sorts in Cranston. Smack in the middle of Knightsville. Italian-ville.
My dad grew up there. There is a house on the property that he built. It’s about the size of my bathroom.
There’s also a barn/stable/garage type building, a multi (maybe 2 or 3) family house and a street-facing bar/my-cousin’s-sort-of-office/2-family-on-top type building.
St. Mary’s Day is a feast. Apparently there aren’t feasts in other parts like there are around here.
So basically, it works like all the others. There is a lot of eating and drinking and general frivolity. There is a parade. The saint is carried through the streets (that’s the saint there on the right, the actual one they carry in the parade). They pause for folks to throw flowers at it. My cousins carry the saint. (This should give you some idea of how immersed in the feast my family is.)
Of note this year in the parade this year (that I noticed anyway) were:
- Some crazy people on a right-to-life anti-abortion float. With kids. WTF.
- My cousin Arianna, who is Miss Teen International RI. I’m not so up on the pageant scene, but I like her so I waved and clapped.
- My afore-mentioned cousins carrying the saint, sweating their balls off. Did I mention that it was like 97 degrees with 400% humidity on Sunday?
Once all that hullabaloo is over, everyone gathers back at the family compound (I’m sure my dad would love that I call it that… good thing he doesn’t read this), and eats and drinks and hugs and kisses and waits for the band to come. I usually know about half of them. By sight. Their names and how the hell they are related is not something that I’ve ever been able to get to stick.
Christopher, who has taken over in his grandfather Nick’s shoes as the grand poo-bah of this thing, usually is a good source of random knowledge like how that blonde lady is related to me.
Other moments of note for the day:
- My cousin is back from the war on terror (I actually don’t know where he was, I’m just glad he is back here now.)
- My better half was in town for the event. She witnessed my default position of Über-Italian-Cranston (I’m not even from Cranston) accent. Ick.
- My aunt (lovely woman, really) told me that I should not be living in Olneyville with the, “Guatemalans, the whodawhatins and the…” You get the idea. There comes a point in some conversations where you just have to walk away so you don’t have to punch the other person in the nose.
It was hot. I ate too much. I hugged and kissed people I am supposedly related to. I didn’t punch my aunt in the nose. Overall, a success.
