Italian Folk Tales

SIAMO recently had the opportunity to participate in the 2016 Scranton Fringe Festival, a multi-day arts festival in the city's downtown area. In "C'era Una Volta: Folktales from Italy," we read a selection of folktales from the Irpinia region of Avellino Province in Italy, from which many people in NEPA can claim ancestry. Below is a selection of some of the folktales we read...

THE DEVIL’S FURNACE

Once there was a poor man who worked night and day to earn money for his family.

One day, while he was coming home after a long day at work, he met a handsome gentleman, who was dressed in the finest garments. The gentleman stopped his carriage in front of the poor man, saying,

“My good sir, what do you do for a living? What do you want out of life?”

At this point, the poor man began to cry.

“I am forced to work from morning to night because I need to earn money for my family.”

The gentleman replied,

“Do you want to earn a lot of money without having to work too hard? Come with me, I’ll give you a job and after some time, I’ll give you all the money you want”

The poor man said, “If this is true, then I gladly accept your offer!”

The poor man jumped in the gentleman’s carriage and they road to a house on top of a mountain. When they got there, the poor man’s job was to throw coal into a furnace.

“Make sure this furnace never goes out,” the gentleman warned him.

For three days, the poor man worked non-stop throwing the coal into the furnace. He would be fed every day at noon. Throughout the day, other people would arrive and would be taken to various rooms in the house.

By the fourth day, the poor man was curious. He wanted to know what was happening in those rooms. Eventually, his curiosity got the best of him and he decided to go in one. He found a series of beds all lined up and in them were people that had died a long time ago.

He recognized someone he knew well. He remembered attending that man’s funeral.

“Excuse me, what are you doing here,” he asked.

“We’re in hell,” the man replied. “We’re burning in the flames.”

The temperature was quite high and the furnace was obviously what was keeping these souls on fire.

“But are you dead, too?” the man then asked. “How come you’re here? You’re in hell.”

“How on earth are we in hell?” replied the poor man and he began to tell his friend about how he ended up there. His dead friend gave him some advice.

“Look, if you can’t escape from here, you’re never going to be able to get away.”

So the poor man went back to work, throwing coal on the fire. The gentleman, whom he now realized was the devil, came back to see how he was doing.

“You’re doing a wonderful job, so I am going to pay you.”

The poor man said, “I don’t want any money.”

“How come you don’t want any money? You did so much to get paid and you wanted to earn enough of money to take care of your family. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“I want to go back to where I was before,” the poor man replied. “My life was okay before I came here.”

The devil was not happy with that reply, so he kept insisting until the poor man said,

“I saw everything. You tricked me!”

The devil then became furious.

“Fine, you want to go back to where we met? Then your wish will be granted,” he said, kicking the poor man in the process.

The devil’s footprint remained on the poor man’s body, but he forced himself to run home.

His relatives asked him what happened to him and he told them the story.

His wife then said, “You mean to tell me that to give us a better life you were willing to sell your soul to the devil?” And she began to cry. They then embraced and he told her he would never do such a thing again.

THE TREASURE IN THE WOODS

Once, there was an abandoned house in the woods. Along the path that led to this house was a beautiful piece of marble. It was said that under this marble was the devil’s treasure.

The marble had an inscription on it that said whomever wants to take the treasure in the woods had to make a pact with the devil, but no one knew how to make this pact.

One day, there was a group of friends who decided to go into the village to visit a man who would teach them how to obtain the treasure.

The man told them, “To obtain this treasure, you need to have a soul to give to the devil, but if you have a priest’s head, even better. Be careful, though, as under the marble there’s a ladder and at the bottom of the ladder there are two lions who are protecting the devil’s treasure.”

The friends decided to go to the cemetery, carrying the head of a priest who had died recently. They then approached the marble and recited some incantations that the man had taught them. These incantations caused the stone to move and the ladder appeared.

Only one of the friends, Antonio, decided to go down the ladder, the other three were too scared. When he got down the ladder, he said that the two lions wanted to attack him, but he tossed a purse filled with money at them.

As he got further and further into the devil’s cove, he became terrified and prayed to the Virgin Mary to get him out of there.

Somehow, he got out of the cove but found that his body was badly bruised. Before escaping, he grabbed the purse he tossed at the lions, but when he opened it, he discovered it was filled with coal.

From that time on, demons followed Antonio wherever he went. He was seen in the village talking to them as well. When he tried to enter the church in the village, something would block his entry.

Most likely, one of the other friends was able to obtain the treasure because he sold his soul to the devil. We know this because all of them, when they died, died in terrible and violent ways. Antonio, however, went to sleep once in a hut in the fields. The hut, which was made of hay, caught fire and only the family dog made it out alive.

MIDNIGHT MASS

Once, during Christmas time over a hundred years ago, a young girl went to Midnight Mass. That Mass was often called “The Mass of the Dead” in parts of Southern Italy.

At that time, the peasants would go to work early in the morning, but only after having gone to the cemetery for a special prayer service.

On that particular day, the young girl got up—in those days there were no clocks, so you would have to get up with the light of the sun and go to bed by the light of the moon. She heard the church bells and went to Mass, but she didn’t see anyone else in town going in her direction.

When she got to the church, she figured it was time for Mass and went inside, where she found three priests on the altar. She sat down and realized that her godmother was sitting next to her.

“How on earth are you here?” she asked her, knowing full well that her godmother had died several years beforehand.

Her godmother then turned to her and asked, “But what are you doing here?”

The girl answered, “What do you mean what am I doing here? I came to Mass!”

Her godmother went on, “But this is the Mass of the dead and it is only for those of us who have died. If you can’t get out of the church quickly, you’re going to be stuck here for the rest of the night.”

The young girl was terrified and quickly ran out the door. As she was leaving, the Church was closing and her dress was caught. She tried and tried to free herself but her fear got the best of her and she fainted.

When the other townspeople got to the church later that morning for Mass, they found the poor girl lying on the pavement in front of the Church. She was so shaken that she could no longer speak.

Later it was discovered that when the dead return to the earth on November 2, their souls visit the places where they lived and they return to their graves on January 6. This is why it is not advised to get married in November, because it is the month of the dead.

THE TRUTH ALWAYS COMES TO LIGHT

Once there was a family of shepherds with four sons. One day, their father sent them out to tend to the sheep. The three older brothers were very envious of their youngest brother as he was his mother’s favorite. That day, the older brothers decided to get rid of him by throwing him into a well filled up with water, where he later drowned.

When the three brothers got home, they told their father that their little brother had disappeared and that they looked for him all day, but were unable to find him.

Their mother and father were very upset to hear that their youngest son was lost, so they immediately went out to look for him. Unfortunately, that night there was a violent storm and they had to cut the search short because of the strong winds and rains.

They took refuge in a cave for the night and began to look again the next day. They went all over the region but without any luck. They searched for more than a week before they gave up.

The three older brothers celebrated their victory because now their parents were paying more attention to them, although their father would often remind them that because they didn’t watch their youngest brother more carefully, he was now gone.

Many years went by and another shepherd went to use that well. He sent the bucket down so he could get some water for his sheep but when the bucket came up, he realized that there was a bone floating in the water.

Surprised, the shepherd cleaned it and placed it in his sack, thinking it would be helpful for when he might have to trap wild rabbits.

That day, around noon, when the sheep were resting under an olive tree, that shepherd decided it would be a good time to get some rest as well. Before dozing off, he remembered the bone in his sack and he decided to make a rabbit trap with it.

When he took it out, he noticed the bone had two holes in it and he didn’t think it would work for what he wanted it for. He then thought it would make a nice whistle, so he began to whittle it into shape with his knife.

He cleaned it out carefully and treated it as if he were cutting a reed for the same purpose. He began to blow into it and all of a sudden a voice called out to him.

“My name is Francesco.”

The shepherd got scared and didn’t understand what was happening. He looked all around but didn’t see anyone. He tried to blow into the whistle again and the same thing happened.

“My name is Francesco. Don’t be afraid.”

The shepherd looked around again and, seeing nothing, blew into the whistle one more time.

“Please don’t be afraid. My name is Francesco. I need to tell you something. Keep blowing so I can tell you my story.”

As the shepherd continued to blow into the whistle, Francesco told of how his brothers killed him by throwing him into the well and drowning him. He asked the shepherd to go to his parents to give them the whistle made from his bone. Scared, surprised and shocked, the shepherd did as he was instructed.

Francesco, through the whistle, gave the shepherd the directions to his home, where his parents were still grieving.

The shepherd told the parents what happened and Francesco’s father, still in a state of shock, asked to see the whistle. He blew into it and heard, “Papà.”

Recognizing the voice of his youngest son, the father kept blowing into the whistle as Francesco told his parents what had happened.

When the three older brothers returned home that night from the field, their father began to play for them on the whistle and immediately Francesco called to his brothers by name. Shocked, they realized it was their brother speaking to them from beyond the grave and they ran to turn themselves in to the police for murder.

The truth, sooner or later, always comes to light.

THE PIG AND THE GROTTO

Once there was a grotto on a mountain. One day, many peasants where on the mountain searching for chestnuts and mushrooms for their pigs to eat. One of the peasants decided to explore the grotto.

Inside of the grotto was fresh spring water and the peasant took out a gourd to store some of it in. He had to be careful because the water’s current was very strong. Unfortunately, the peasant lost his balance and was taken away in the current, losing his cane and his gourd.

That night, the peasant was able to make it back to his house where his wife greeted him, holding the cane he had lost.

“Where did you find that?” he asked her.

“I was washing clothes alongside of the stream and saw this cane, so I took it for you,” she replied.

He explained the day’s events to her, adding:

“Tomorrow when I go to tend to the pigs, I am going to take one of them to the grotto and I am going to put it in the current. You wait by where you found my cane. Then I am going to come back and see if the pig ends up there.”

The next day, the peasant did as he said he would. After finishing his work for the day, he went home and found the pig, which his wife rescued from the water current thanks to some help from her brother.

The pigs belonged to a very rich man, so the peasant decided to trick him. He kept throwing the pigs into the current. One day, the rich man asked him what had happened to all of them. The peasant told him that the wolves who lived on the mountain probably killed them.

The rich man became suspicious and decide to spy on the peasant. He watched the peasant take a pig into the grotto to put it in the water and he surprised the peasant and pushed both him and the pig into the water.

When the wife went to grab the pig, she also saw her husband who, by this time, had drowned.

The moral of this story is: don’t lie, steal or cheat because, eventually, you will be found out.

VIOLET AND THE MONK

There once was a cemetery with a small monastery that housed about 10 monks on its grounds.

The monastery was very old and part of it was crumbling. All of the monks thought it was haunted by the ghost of a monk who once lived there.

No one believed that there was a ghost there, but after the monastery closed, a woman bought the house. Every night at midnight, she began to hear strange noises-- doors began to rattle and furniture began to move. One day, she decided to talk to the village priest about it and he told her,

“If this happens one more time, call me and I will perform an exorcism and a blessing on the house.”

Even though the priest eventually came to do all this, the strange things continued.

One night at midnight, the woman was in her bed and she saw the door to her bedroom open.

A monk, dressed in gold with a chalice filled with hosts came through the door. He also held a lit candle in his hands.

She was terrified and the next day she called the priest who, once again, came to bless her house.

This time, the priest decided to look through old parish records, and he realized that the woman lived in the old monastery. The monk who was haunting her was the last of the monks to die. Since that was where he lived, he wished to remain there for eternity.

The priest told her she needed to move but, unfortunately, a few months later she died. No one knows how. 

From Roseto to the “Big Time”: An Interview with Adriana Trigiani

Join SIAMO and the Lackawanna County Library System on Thursday, June 23, for a special showing of Adriana Trigiani's "Big Stone Gap" at the Scranton Cultural Center beginning at 6:30 p.m.!

Adriana Trigiani

     Every year in the town of Roseto, located in Pennsylvania’s slate belt, a new “Queen of the Big Time” is crowned during the town’s annual festival in honor of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, held at the end of July.  Roseto has about 1,650 residents; 42% of whom claim Italian ancestry.

     The Italians of Roseto are descendents of immigrants who arrived from Roseto Valfortore, in Puglia, Italy, where approximately 1,300 people live today. Each summer they all anxiously wait for the festival to see what lucky girl has won the coveted crown in the town's major social event of the year. This year, that lucky young lady was eighteen-year-old Mary Farino, seen at right. 
     The “Big Time” Festival, as it is also called, has been celebrated in Roseto for the past 115 years. While the dynamics of the festival have changed over the years, the festival itself is still an integral part of the community. During its heyday in the 1920s and 1930s, people would come from all over the region to participate in the “Big Time”.
     It is this festival that served as the backdrop for Adriana Trigiani’s 2004 novel, “The Queen of the Big Time”. The book, set in Roseto, chronicles the life of Nella Castelluca from the 1920s to the 1970s. The reader gets to grow up with Nella, seeing her through her first love, Renato Lanzara, and to the love of her life, Franco Zollerano. Trigiani explained that memories of her childhood visits to Roseto, Pennsylvania, her father’s birthplace, helped her create “The Queen of the Big Time".
     “I visited Roseto a great deal as a child, and loved it,” Trigiani said. “I went to kindergarten at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel. The Italian rituals around church were very magical to me. And, of course, our home life was filled with tradition—from the delicious food we ate, to the gathering of family, several generations of cousins deep! My memories of the town played a big role in my desire to write "The Queen of the Big Time" and I wanted to remember small details my grandmother, Viola Perin Trigiani, shared with me. While the novels are fiction, they are usually based upon something real that I experienced or heard. Novels are my way of remembering the things that matter and recording them, so I never forget.”
     “I tried to weave some of the traditions into the novel; and my father’s memories as a boy really helped me describe what the big time was like—when it was truly ‘big’,” she added..
     One way that Trigiani has tried to remember the “things that matter” is through her documentary, "Queens of the Big Time", which chronicles the Our Lady of Mt. Carmel festival in detail. 
     “My aunt and a couple of cousins have been queens, it is a big honor for a high school senior,” Trigiani said. “When I was a little girl, it was very exciting—the floats, the parade, the spectacle. And then, of course, it was a religious celebration. There is something very humbling about walking in the heat for miles and saying the rosary in a large group. It is cathartic. I try and attend the festival every year.”
     Readers of Trigiani’s novels will know that most of her plots and characters revolve around Italian-American themes. Although Trigiani readily admits that her heritage is important to her, she explained that her works tend to create themselves.
     “I don’t know if any artistic choice I make is deliberate,” she said. “I sort of feel that the subject matter chooses me and then I enter the world and off we go. I don’t plan much; I try to feel my way through the work.”
     “A writer goes to sleep dreaming of an idea, and it is there when I wake…” Trigiani added. “Before I go to sleep at night, I dream of Italy. The venue changes—recently, because I’ve written a novel about shoemaking ("Very Valentine"), I picture the Isle of Capri and the full moon over the sea.”
     In the end, however, Trigiani feels that her heritage is what gives her a certain perspective on life.
     “My heritage is everything to me,” she said. “To be of Italian descent colors everything: how I see things, what matters most, and how I walk in the world. It’s a point of view, really—a jumping off place for creativity, and, most importantly, craft.”

Celebrating St. Joseph

St. Joseph's Day is March 19 and is considered a special day for Italian-Americans where we dress in red in recognition of our heritage-- much like our Irish friends do two days before when they wear green in honor of St. Patrick. In Italy, it is the onomastico (Saint's Day-- an even more important holiday than your own birthday in Italy) for men named Giuseppe and it is also Father's Day. In Italian-American communities, St. Joseph was also the patron saint of immigrants.

St. Joseph's Day festivities really began in Sicily where, according to legend, there was a severe drought in the Middle Ages and the people prayed fervently to St. Joseph for rain. They promised that if he answered their prayers, they would prepare a large feast in his honor. The rain came and caused the fava bean crop to take off. In today's St. Joseph's Day celebrations, fava beans are still a traditional part of the festivities. In some places, bread crumbs are placed on St. Joseph's altar as a representation of saw dust as St. Joseph was a carpenter by trade. 

Giving food to the needy is also a part of the day's events and in the Naples area of Italy, it is customary to eat zeppole. This custom spread throughout Italy and in Italian-American communities. In the United States, zeppole and pizza fritta are very similar and are oftentimes confused on menus. Pizza fritta are really a more stretched out, thinner dough while zeppole are spooned into the fryer, making them softer and chewier than their slightly more crispy cousins. We also discovered that the zeppole served for St. Joseph's Day aren't even these zeppole and that the closest thing we have to them in the United States would be a cream puff. 

No matter how they are served, though, we think most people can agree that fried dough, however it is fried, is delizioso! 

And, in honor of St. Joseph, here is a prayer that can be said on his feast day:

An Italian-American Valentine

Photo: "Montauk Sunset" by Everett Potter

Today is Valentine's Day and what better way to celebrate the holiday by giving you some Italian-American poetry and introducing you to some fantastic national Italian-American associations? 

George Guida is the former president of the Italian American StudiesAssociation (IASA) and the founding treasurer of the Italian American Writers'Association (IAWA). He is a professor of English at the New York City College of Technology and poetry editor of 2 Bridges Review. 

He is the author of recently published Pugilistic (WordTech Editions) and The Sleeping Gulf  (Bordighera Press). Both are collections of poems. He is also the author of Spectacles of Themselves: Essays in Italian American Popular Culture and Literature (Bordighera Press). His previous books are two collections of poems, Low Italian and New York and Other Lovers. He is also the author of Letters from Suburbia: A Novel and The Pope Stories and Other Tales of Troubled Times. 

As SIAMO focuses on preserving Italian American heritage in all ways possible, we wanted to make sure we celebrate Italian American writers as much as we can. Our poets and authors deserve to be heralded as they are a voice for past, present and future generations.

My Montauk Valentine

 by: George Guida

Don’t you wonder sometimes

what to do on Valentine’s Day?

I do, I wonder, I wish I knew

how to honor your love and this saint,

whoever he was, at one time.

 I’m glad you’re not a saint. Then

I would be in love with a saint,

whose cares would not be of this world,

whose queendom and body and piece

of whose soul would not belong to me,

or worse, whose body I would have

to flay or burn or crucify,

to show what true love is.

 I know there have been two

Valentine’s Day massacres, but

I don’t want to massacre you,

unless you break my heart, so

don’t do that and I won’t have to

tie you to a stake planted in my brain

or immolate your image in my fireplace

(though that might be an original way

for a saint to transcend these little

holidays that can be so frustrating

in terms of finding good gifts or

so busy that all the Martini glass-

shaped tubs in the world are booked

six months in advance of good loving).

 But wait, I have an idea: I hear

the seals are in, lying on the rocks

at Montauk, basking in the winter sun.

I know I’m not as cute as a seal, but

you are, so maybe they’ll bark for us

or wave a flipper and say a prayer

to whatever saint seals celebrate

on our Valentine’s Day.

The Length of Your Arms

                              by: George Guida                                 

I wish for arms as long as yours, as years

to touch your shoulder easy as a first

kiss, when I know each one is. Each kiss lives

its fleeting life as pair of livid pillows

on which to rest our burdened, pretty heads,

 with which to smother dread. I wish I’d thought

to say before today that death is dead

with you, but life with you is days without

prayer, paths to flight or hope for other ways.

when hours no longer stand in desperate pools,

 but evanesce like labial dew. You are

my skin, the sheath between the world and my

oblivion, the gift wrapping the world.

You are content to keep it next to yours,

as I am pleased by the length of your arms. 

That we love each other just imagine

by: George Guida 

that we love each other just imagine this

us here in this forest of tinkling glasses

and through the glass lighted trees

over there a cousin

whose life to me just three years back

was as much a mystery as God

and over here a friend who, I suspect,

hoped I’d meet someone—you—

to produce the smile before you now

a wedding photographer a florist a d. j.

more than a promise more than a gift

a second chance to say years from now

I led a happy life I met you

in a city far away over kebabs

and humus you were wearing a black suit

would you believe, you in white

in a black suit? and seeming so impossibly

beautiful and honest and wanting me

to study a philosopher you loved

and sneezing and wanting me to walk with you

for cold medicine and asking to keep in touch

 and just imagine you in this city

much sootier than you’d prefer

but you already have the black suit

and that you ride trains underground

every day you know how to get

to Wal-Mart in the suburbs you know

when it’s time to escape upstate

with the dog that growled at you at first

now showing his belly imagine you

know all these great restaurants,

some of which, after rent, we can afford

imagine you love me, someone

like you whose heart is as full of love

as the city is of steam and feet and neon

and I could say why didn’t I find you sooner

but then I wouldn’t have been properly aged

you would look fifteen years younger than me

instead of ten instead I’d be

twenty years less mature instead of just ten

so you understand how I can barely imagine

how lucky I am to be standing here

in this place I jogged by a million times

and wondered, who goes there,

when I was even poorer

than we are now with you

how lucky I am with all

of these people in formalwear and friendly

staff and you there looking like Minerva

or whatever goddess is the most beautiful

and wise and great on the dance floor

 where I can’t wait for you to take me

The "Carnevale" Has Come to Town

Besides canals and gondolas, chances are that when you think of Venice, you think of its annual Carnevale, a city-wide celebration of masks, costumes and colors that takes place in the days preceding the start of Lent. This year's Carnevale began on January 23 and will end on February 9.
The festival is known throughout the world for its elaborate masks that correspond to different occupations. For example,  in the Commedia dell'arte, Colombina was a maid. Legend has it that the actress who portrayed Colombina did not wish to cover her entire face; therefore, the "Colombina" is a half mask that only covers the wearer's eyes, nose and upper cheeks.
Harlequin or "Arlecchino" is another character in the Commedia dell'arte. He is portrayed as devoid of reason and full of emotion and is usually either a peasant, servant or a slave. His originally wooden and later leather half-mask painted black depicts him as having a short, blunt, ape-like nose, a set of wide, round, arching eyebrows, a rounded beard, and always a "bump" upon his forehead meant to signify a devil's horn. 

According to The Telegraph, the Venetian propensity for hiding behind masks was legendary due to a rigid caste system that allowed opportunities to participate in activities that would make anonymity desirable. In the 13th Century, laws were passed banning masks while gambling and later laws made it illegal to wear masks during religious festivals. The Carnevale tradition rose because of these laws as it was permitted to wear masks in the period between December 26 and Shrove Tuesday.
The French took command of Venice in 1797 and banned the festivities. Carnevale was revived in 1979 as a way to increase tourism to Venice during the winter months. The festival now lasts for two weeks in the run-up to Lent.
A commonly-used saying during Carnevale is "È Carnevale... ogni scherzo vale!" This translates to "It is Carnevale, every joke is allowed." Or, as they say in New Orleans for their Mardi Gras... "Let the good times roll!"

The Shining Stone of West Scranton

Scranton's St. Lucy's Church provides visitors with a lesson in Italian-American history.

Two soldiers lay dying. The Italian soldier beseeches Jesus Christ to take his soul to Heaven while the war rages on behind him. To his left, an American soldier prays the same prayer to the Blessed Mother.
Brothers in arms, now brothers in marble.Every day for more than 85 years, the sun rises and sets on the faces of these two men, etched in time on the front of St. Lucy’s Parish, the Mother Italian Church of the Diocese of Scranton, Pa.
“The history of this parish is really unique,” said Rev. Sam Ferretti, the pastor of St. Lucy’s Parish. “When it was built, this was still basically an immigrant parish with a lot of family members in Italy, and both Italy and the United States were allies in World War I. The parish was dramatically impacted by the war because they were getting death notices here and as well as for relatives in Italy.”
St. Lucy’s is believed to be the first Italian parish in the Diocese of Scranton; formally established in 1891 by Rev. Rosario Nasco, although it can trace its origins back to 1871. Scranton was a major hub of European immigration during the late 1800s and early 1900s because of the prominence of its coal mining industry. Ethnic groups would establish their own parishes and hold services in their native languages. Today, however, ethnic designations of parishes in the Diocese of Scranton refer to the church’s cultural heritage.
“There is no true ethnic parish anymore in this area because we don’t have the immigration anymore of the original ethnic groups and because of intermarriage. The numbers of Italians immigrating into this area is practically non-existent. Because St. Lucy’s started off as an Italian parish it is known as an Italian parish,” Fr. Ferretti said.
Although the shine of the marble exterior of St. Lucy’s is as bright as the lights of the city of Naples, from where most parishioners can trace their ancestry, the interior of the church also harkens back to the madre patria.
As Fr. Ferretti walks down the main aisle of St. Lucy’s, he pauses a moment to talk about the imposing stained glass windows on either side of the church. He points to the windows on the right, which depict various prophets of the Old Testament, except for one of the heroine Judith, who is hardly ever portrayed in stained glass, and says, “Look very carefully at their faces and hands.”
Fr. Ferretti explained that the windows came from Munich, Germany and were executed under the guidance of F.X. Zettler, a master artisan known for injecting humanity into his glass portraits. “You can actually see the lines on their faces and hands,” Fr. Ferretti said.
“But, when Mussolini came into power, this was an anti-fascist parish. On June 10, 1931, the local fascists bombed the opposite side of the church; blowing out the original windows. They were replaced after the war ended in 1947, but if you look carefully at the faces and hands of our patron saints, you can see that the quality is different,” Fr. Ferretti said. “After World War II, the top paid artists, who did the faces and hands, were gone. They are still Zettler windows but not the original quality.”
Other parts of St. Lucy’s Church have undergone a more pronounced metamorphosis since construction was completed in 1924.
     “Unfortunately in the mid 1950s, the mines collapsed underneath the bell tower and, due to bad advice, the church underwent many changes that it didn’t have to,” Fr. Ferretti said, adding that the pastor at the time was told that the church was too heavy and would collapse into a coal mine if most of the marble was not removed from the interior.
“There used to be a marble walk up pulpit that today would be valued between $300,000- $500,000. The bottom of this pulpit had three angels holding a rose garland and the top showed Christ entering Jerusalem with a crowd all around him,” Fr. Ferretti added. “But now the base is outside at St. Ann’s [The Basilica of the National Shrine of St. Ann, also located in Scranton] and the pieces of the pulpit are in someone’s yard, eaten away by decades of acid rain. We offered to buy the pieces but the owners wouldn’t sell.”
Other interior changes included the removal of a marble depiction of Christ’s crucifixion above the main altar and the removal of the church’s original marble flooring.
“This church cost millions in 1927; the cost of it today would be well over ten million dollars,” Fr. Ferretti said. “You can tell the subtle differences in the marble angels around the altar because they are hand-carved. You don’t get that quality anymore.”
One original artifact in St. Lucy’s remained a mystery until Fr. Ferretti became pastor several years ago. To the left of the main entrance was an unmarked statue that he has since identified.
“It took me eight months of searching through books of pictures of saints before I finally identified this statue as Sant’Agnello, one of the co-patrons of Naples,” Fr. Ferretti said. “We don’t know which group brought this statue here but you could tell it is the original because it is burlap with a plaster coating so it would be easier to carry in the processions instead of the solid heavy plaster ones we make.”
 “There are glimpses of our past all over this church, not just our Italian heritage, but our local heritage as well, Fr. Ferretti said.
While exiting St. Lucy’s Church, visitors can see a Latin inscription around the choir loft that translates to, “Awesome is this shrine! It is nothing else but the abode of God and the gateway to Heaven!”
As the sun shines off of the church’s white marble façade, it becomes quite clear that, perhaps, St. Lucy’s church is one of Scranton’s most treasured gateways to Heaven.

La Befana Arriva di Notte (The Befana Comes at Night)

She comes around once a year, after Santa Claus and along with the Three Wise Men. To Italian and Italian-American children, her arrival means the end of the Christmas holiday season; she is "La Befana."
Also known as the "Christmas Witch," the Befana is an old woman who delivers gifts to children throughout Italy on the eve of the Epiphany, January 5. In the United States, the feast of the Epiphany is fluid-- it was celebrated this past weekend. In Italy, on the other hand, the feast is always celebrated on January 6.
According to folklore, the Befana was approached by the Three Wise Men before Jesus's birth, asking her for directions to the manger. Not knowing how to direct them to where Jesus was, she provided them with shelter for the night. The Wise Men invited her to come with them on their journey the next day, but she said she was too busy with housework. She later changed her mind and followed them. To this day, she is still looking for the baby and travels house to house looking for him.
While traveling, the Befana brings Italian children gifts of candy and presents, placed in their stockings, if they are well-behaved. Or, like Santa, she'll give them a lump of coal or garlic if they are bad. In some of the poorer parts of Italy, including rural Sicily, the Befana will put a stick in a stocking instead of a piece of coal. Legend also dictates that the Befana sweeps the floor before she leaves, a sign of sweeping away the previous year's problems.
Instead of leaving out milk and cookies, Italian families leave the Befana a small glass of wine and a plate with some food, usually regional or local specialties.
Like a Halloween-style witch, the Befana will arrive riding a broomstick through the air but, unlike the wicked witches of October, she is kindly and usually portrayed as smiling. 
A well-known poem by Giovanni Pascoli about the Befana reads as follows...

Viene, viene la Befana
Vien dai monti a notte fonda
Come è stanca! la circonda
Neve e gelo e tramontana!
Viene, viene la Befana

The English translation is:

Here comes, here comes the Befana
She comes from the mountains in the deep of the night
Look how tired she is! All wrapped up
In snow and frost and the north wind!
Here comes, here comes the Befana!

Viva la Befana e Buona Epifania, everyone!