Beneath A Beach Umbrella

I love this old photo so much that I long ago framed it and hung it on the wall. The sun is always bright here, the figures poised in a curious tableau, and something is forever on the brink of being said. It was taken at least sixty years ago, and the men, from left to right, are my grandfather Raffaele (standing), my Uncle Joe, and my father.

But the woman at the center holds court, and I have no idea who she is. She is sheltered by a large fringed beach umbrella tipped on its side, placed there for her and shared with no one. Her dark curls are pulled into a ponytail and she holds a cigarette between her fingers. She wears Kate Hepburn slacks, a striped shirt, and around her neck, a smart little bandanna that is probably red, red like the handbag by my father’s knee, red like her pursed lips suspended in mid-syllable.

This is a woman who can probably dance, deal cards, and drink scotch straight up. I imagine that her trusty quick-draw laugh is always at the ready, and she seems a stranger to self-doubt. She appears to have the full attention of my uncle and my father, who flank her like bookends in bathing trunks, while my grandfather, oddly formal in a white shirt and tie, stands above and apart, too senior perhaps for this particular contest.

But maybe I have it all wrong, this picture.

I do know they are gathered on the sand along the Gulf Coast of Florida, which in my mind was all palm trees and parrots and faraway rain and my father being someone other than Daddy. I wonder if it is the trip for which I tried to help him pack, cramming piles of neckties into his suitcase, paisley and stripe, beautiful colors, unable to choose. He looked bemused, then smiled and hugged me and put them back into his closet. He said something about returning soon, but it was a very long soon whose o's became a chain of moons and zeroes and empty rooms.

And there he is, in the picture, being someone else, complete without me or silk ties, intrigued by the lady beneath the umbrella, who seems very complete without him.

My father. I’ve written so much about him in the decades since he died. I’ve lived more than half my life without him, and I miss him every day. And I am still fascinated by the idea that his life held mysteries, and there were aspects to him I did not know.

I’ve written about my Italian grandfather, too, although I viewed him only from a distance, with childish uneasiness and not much understanding. He had come to this country in 1905 from Naples, a 17-year-old peasant boy who could read and write, but not in English. Despite his robust American dreams and endeavors, he was most himself when speaking in Italian, tending to plants, and preparing foods he recalled from his childhood kitchen, forever an emissary from another world. But he is the focus of this blog post, stepping out of this old photograph and becoming real again.

I am going back today to the land of his birth.

You see, long after both he and my father had died, I recalled a few key names, did some research, and found the sons and daughters of my grandfather’s brothers, still living in his native village of Boscoreale. I traveled there in 1985, and they welcomed me, and I visited several times over the years, and this afternoon, if all goes well, I will be boarding a flight to Naples.

Can you imagine? Nearly 120 years after my grandfather arrived at Ellis Island, I will be spending New Years’ Eve with cousins in his homeland. I’ll be looking out at the familiar silhouette of Mt. Vesuvius, marveling at how affection and laughter transcend the language barrier, and eating the best pizza in the world. As the title of this website says, I am Still Amazed. Life is nothing if not implausible. More to come.