Don't just let that thought simmer. Expunge it with a comment.
Commenting is not available in this sections entry.A day at the beach
You don’t really know what it means to be Italian, unless you went to the beach with them during the 60’s. My mother grew up 7 kilometres from the beach, yet never saw the sea until she got married at 16 years of age. It must have been my father’s doing. He loves going out.
Put him inside, in front of the television and he’ll fall asleep. Wake him up and he’ll go outside. He’s always ready to go somewhere, anywhere. As a kid, it was always my father who would instigate a trip to the beach during summer. He would phone up a few families and organise a place to meet.
If the parents didn’t want to come, he’d pick up the kids and we’d all pile in the back, thousands of us in one car. From the boot would come the smell of food, the aroma seeping into the cabin. The night before, the women would cook for the event, because that is what it was. And cook they did.
There were platters of pizzas, trays of roast chickens, roast potatoes, tubs of sundried tomatoes, olives, cheese, roasted red and green peppers glistening in olive oil garnished with strong, fragrant basil. Please wipe that dribble from the side of your mouth, because that’s was just the beginning.
Next to these were large servings of Aranchini (rice balls filled with meat and vegies), stuffed peppers, stuffed tomatoes, fried eggplant, enough home made pork sausages that they would snake along the entire table, and large clumps of thick, crusty bread. (I never saw sliced bread as a kid).
So, as the table groaned under the weight, you would casually work your way through the food, people laughing, talking, kids running, everywhere kids. This was then followed by more platters – filled with fruit, filled with biscuits, filled with ricotta cakes, canoli, almond bread and more.
These were surrounded by thermoses filled with hot, very black coffee which you sipped. Even the kids needed a strong, black coffee after all this. While most people had to wait between half and hour to an hour before going back into the water. Italians had to wait at least two hours. There was no way you could digest all that food any sooner. They would have drowned on the spot.
And while we waited , the adults would play cards. They’d look like sharks in ill fitting swimsuits. There was enough back hair on show to knit a Cardigan.
The kids would do what kids do in any language in any country. They ran around screaming. No one really knows what kids scream about, and neither do the kids. At night you were so tired, you collapsed into bed, dog tired.
Weddings were the same. They were basically an event
The idea was not to invite just close friends, but everyone you knew and anyone you or your family may come in contact with in the future. Like most ethnic communities, it was small and it was important to be part of it.
To most Italians, it’s not about being Australian, but about finding their place as an Italian in Australia. Let me give you a common example. If you were to ask my parents where they felt at home, they would say Australia. But they don’t call themselves Australian. They’re Italian. They’ve been back to Italy, yet they no longer feel at home there. In many ways they’re homeless.
When they arrived in this strange land, they brought with them their Italian culture as it was back in the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s. What you’ll find in Australia is an encapsulation of that culture frozen in time.
It hasn’t changed since they stepped on that boat all those years ago. Italy and Sicily has changed, it has evolved. You rarely hear Sicilian spoken in Sicily. The dialect is disappearing. In fact, if you wanted to study the language, I’d suggest you go to the malls of Bulleen and pockets of Doncaster the market in Coburg and the streets of Carlton.
Here it is still spoken as it was in the 50’s and 60’s. Kids in Italy, speak Italian. In Australia, kids of Italian parents speak Sicilian. Childhood is a funny thing.
It’s funny what you remember, yet it’s about everything you are. Later in life, with some hard work and the right guidance you can change direction and make choices. During childhood, these are all made for you.
I write about it, not because of what it was, but what it wasn’t. There are certain things we can never change. Somehow, I feel something was taken from me. I missed out on something. Something I can’t remember. And the reason why I can’t remember. I can’t recall. That’s it, I suppose.
citizenjoe has been around for quite a long time and when I say he has been around, I mean he has been around. He likes writing and enjoys hanging out with this motley bunch of characters.
Lionel Gherkin is a sad sack with good reason, the poor bastard. You can read why in 
Along for the ride is Shelby Wright. Shelby is ahighly respected and well-to-do-man-about-town. He is the group's cultural attache; its conscience but not really its heart. 
And let's not forget Brenda Spoon. The lovely of the group. She a humourous bone that'll grab you like a meat hook and then tenderise like a piece of steak. People tell me she's hilarious; and who knows, one day I may even laugh at them.