NANCY HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

Hey! I know that a chick. You know her, too. It’s ME, the artist formerly known as Nancy Richy. Knew I couldn’t fool ya!

Well, it’s never too late to make some changes in life, teach an old dog new tricks, give the house a fresh coat of paint, etc etc.

So, may I introduce to you the scribe you’ve known for all these years – The Sicilian Storyteller! I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse AND tell you a story at the same time! LOL!!

My website hasn’t changed; only my penname has been altered. It’s your same old friend with a new handle; don’t be afraid to turn that handle and come inside. I don’t bite – well, only those I like. 💋

Let’s get real: I’m proud of my heritage and the fact that I’m a writer; it’s who I am and what I do so why not go with it?!

Hello, all my friends! See you later! Ciau, tutti amichi! Ni sintemu doppo! 🙋🏼‍♀️

NAR © 2022

LAMB STEW

As she kneaded the dough for that night’s supper, Liliana caught a glimpse of her reflection in the open kitchen window. The wild child from years ago had been replaced with a confident, sexy woman. No cover girl, for sure, but not bad at all for a well-seasoned dame of a certain age. 

Long brown hair, hazel green eyes and a captivating smile more than made up for her slightly prominent Sicilian nose which only added to her unique beauty (or so she had been told). She was not tall and thin but her legs were long and her curves voluptuous. No skin and bones, this one. Laughing lustfully, she thought “more like a handful … or …. a ripe mouthful”. She laughed at herself often … another appealing characteristic (or so she had been told). 

Her laughter rippled through the sun-kissed Sicilian air. Brushing an errant lock of hair from her face, she continued kneading and massaging the dough with sensual, undulating back and forth motions. 

Looking outside, she noticed the handyman Gaetano across the veranda smiling, watching her appreciatively. Should she smile back or simply ignore him?  She had seen him working next door several times before … no movie star, he … but there was something intriguing about this stranger. That familiar fantasy began surging in her mind. Was it his powerful arms, the cigarette dangling from his lips, his crooked smile, the devilish twinkle in his chocolate eyes? 

Chuckling heartily, he pointed to her, then began wiping his face with his hand. Glancing quickly at her reflection, she saw a streak of flour across her forehead and nose. Mortified, and barely managing to maintain her composure, she reached for a towel to clean her face. Suddenly he roared with laughter and she realized in her haste she had wiped her face with the discarded flour sack, not a towel. 

Now she, too, was consumed with laughter, tears streaming down her floured face, doubled over in giddy convulsions. Regaining self-control, though still giggling despite herself, she stood … only to find she was face to face with this charming rogue. As if in a trance, she allowed him to gently wipe the flour from her face, her eyes never leaving his, tiny gold flecks dancing provocatively as he looked at her intently. 

“I prepared lamb stew for supper. Would you like to join me?”  

“Si, cara. I would love to.”  

NAR © 2018

THE LAST VIOLIN

It wasn’t often that we received a package from Sicily, so when one arrived that Thursday afternoon, Christmas Eve in 1964, we were all very excited. 

The family sat around the kitchen table as my mother painstakingly opened the package, being careful not to tear the stamps which my father would glue into an album. Finally the outer wrapping was removed, revealing a plain white box. My mother opened the box to find a card sitting atop tissue paper. Prolonging the excitement, she read the card silently to herself, then aloud, translating into English: 

“Dearest Concetta. We know you admired this while you were here on vacation. You left without buying it so here it is as a memento of your time spent with us. We hope you enjoy it as much now as you did then. With love – Cousins Paolo and Enza.” 

Slowly, carefully, mom removed the tissue paper to reveal the most beautiful music box I had ever seen. It was a miniature violin, made of highly lacquered ebony with mother of pearl inlay. We all sat in wonder as my mother gently wound the music box, then placed it on the table as an ancient Sicilian folk song began to play. It was wondrous and I immediately fell in love. 

Cradling it tenderly in her hands, my mother moved the violin into the living room and placed it on the marble coffee table where it became the glistening centerpiece of the room. 

Several times each day I would wind up the music box to listen to the hauntingly beautiful tune. I never tired of the glorious melody and treated the violin like a treasure, always careful to never over-wind it. I listened, mesmerized, until the final note was played. It was my delight for many years and I longed for the time when it would one day be mine. 

Decades later when my mom passed away, a few of her cherished items were placed in her coffin and buried with her….a small tin of pink sand from Bermuda where she and dad honeymooned, a toy which belonged to her precious firstborn who passed away at the age of two and…..unbeknown to me…. the magical violin music box. 

I grieved the passing of my beloved mother. I mourned the loss of that treasured music box……the first, last and only violin I would ever have. 

NAR © 2017