The last Tarentella picnic weekend began with a series of bad omens. I've heard them recited by my aunts at countless Sunday dinners over the years. First, Carlo broke a bag of salt in the bakery. He was trying to fill the bin and got careless. The bag split and most of the salt hit the floor. Spilling a little salt is bad enough and throwing a dash over the shoulder usually wards off bad luck. But this was a vast pile of salt, so Carlo threw a fistful over his shoulder just as Alberto was walking by. Some got in Alberto's eyes, and he stumbled toward the sink, knocking over a can of olive oil in the process. The oil opened and spilled as well. In my family you don't spill salt and you don't spill oil and you never, ever spill both at the same time.

"Carlo and Alberto never should have been working in the first place," Rae told me the very first time I heard the story. I was a teenager at the time, and we were eating tiramisu after dinner at my father's table.

"They spilled salt and oil because we broke tradition," Sal added as Zia went to refill her wineglass. "We baked wedding cakes on picnic Saturday. One shouldn't break traditions lightly. It invites mischievous spirits and dangerous stregas to work their magic."

Before I tell you what happened next, I need to share something: I really don't cry very often. I keep in mind what Aunt Rae says about when one should shed tears: for births and deaths. That's it. She says people cry too easily. Perhaps. But at times I feel maybe we just don't cry enough. I know I don't.

Now, I'm not saying I never shed tears. I've had some good, hard cries here and there. I cried when I learned I would never hear again. Aunt Rae would surely call that a death: my life as a hearing person had officially ended. The sounds of my children laughing; rich music pouring from my piano on Christmas morning as I played Bach to gently wake the children; bubbling food simmering on the stove; my Joe's laughter; soda fizzing madly in a glass; my Joe's torrid but softly whispered words during a passionate embrace: for those losses, yes, I let myself cry.

I also cried when my sons were born, joyous waterworks as I looked at their tiny, fragile bodies and their scrunched up little faces. I cherish the memory of those particular tears because they were tears of joy. Those are so few in our lives, aren't they? Rare diamonds among vast, cold, dark fields of coal.

My aunts looked forward to the annual picnic. The hard work didn't bother them. That's fortunate, because the picnic was essentially a second full-time job for a few weeks each summer. But while all the preparations could be exhausting, the picnic was also the high point of the summer for my family. Grandfather and Uncle Gio kept everything on track, and unlike the rest of the year they never argued. The picnic brought them together each summer in a way nothing else in their lives ever could. Zia says that for a few weeks each year the brothers Tarentella almost seemed to enjoy each other's company.

My aunts were all grown up by the time the Tarentella's had their last picnic. My father, the baby, was in junior high. Uncle Gio and Grandfather weren't old men yet, but they were slowing down a little bit. They sorely appreciated having their "Little Paulie" handy during picnic week to run quick errands or help prepare the grounds. Of course they had to find my father first, and like many teenagers, he had a remarkable tendency to go missing just when work needed to be done.

It is time to tell you about the picnics.

Aunt Zia says this annual event should have been called 'The Festival Tarentella.' "A picnic is a basket of sandwiches, cold chicken, potato salad and maybe a bottle of wine," she says. "Papa and Uncle Gio fed and entertained most of Walnutwood. It cost a fortune!"

They started as modest affairs: simple celebrations for our family and the families of those who worked in the bakery. The scope of the celebration grew slowly, beginning with a decision by the Tarentella brothers to invite some of the neighbors. Aunt Sal says it was a prudent decision: "The picnics were lasting late into the evening. There was singing and laughter until nearly midnight. Papa and Gio figured if the neighbors were there they couldn't call the police to complain about all the noise."

One year Grandfather decided to invite the bakery's biggest customers to the picnic. He didn't tell Gio until a few days beforehand. It was one of the few times they weren't on the same page for the picnic. Gio correctly predicted other customers would feel snubbed. There were hurt feelings and some lost business.

I promised to speak of Aunt Rae's great love. Let me tell you how I first learned of it. When I was in junior high I had my first real schoolgirl crush on a boy who was on the wrestling team. His name was Evan. He didn't seem to know I existed, despite my efforts. I tried everything I could think of to get his attention. I would approach him in the hallway at school and ask what his favorite band was. I'd talk about the snow, if it was snowing, the rain if it was raining, and any of a thousand other mundane and harmless, safe subjects. All I ever got in response were one-word answers and polite brush-offs. I tried making myself prettier, doing what I could to draw attention away from my little no-chin. I'd change my hair. He wouldn't notice. I'd put on lipstick and eyeliner in the lavatory (Dad would have never let me leave the house wearing any kind of makeup at that age). No effect whatsoever. I even wrote his name in permanent black marker on the cover of my notebook. Thick, black strokes: EVAN. I'd hold that notebook where he could see it, but he seemed to have a curious blind spot where my notebook was concerned.

I've brought you something. Here, open the box. Do you see? Caramels! Aunt Sal made them for me last night. It's not a difficult thing, making caramels, as long as you have a good candy thermometer and a little patience. Some things can't be rushed. Certainly not Sal's caramels; they rival anything you can buy in a candy shop. So those are yours. It's my way of saying I'm sorry for keeping you here so long last week! The children didn't mind, of course. Between the slides, the swings, the monkey bars …well they'd play until midnight if we let them.

I really thought I'd be finished by now, but my little story keeps unfolding as I remember more and more, and as my aunts share their memories with me. But I really truly am nearing the end. I'd better be because the days are getting shorter at an alarming rate, aren't they? Soon the boys will be starting school and we'll be done with weekday visits to the park for a while.

Hopefully, one of the things that makes my website unique is my willingness to share my writing process with others. It is why I post early versions of my work, instead of the polished final versions that I submit to editors. Looking at a finished piece of work can be intimidating for a fledgling writer. It certainly is for me! By sharing my process "warts and all" I hope to drive home the point that first you write, then re-write and rewrite and rewrite ...and at some point you arrive at that polished, finished piece.

My own process is constantly evolving. A new arena is self-publishing. I've just published one of my early short stories as a Kindle e-book at Amazon. Coming shortly will be a blow-by-blow of how I did it and what I learned. For now, I'll share the link to the story so you can download it. (It will cost you a whopping $1.00). No Kindle? You can also download Amazon's free Kindle-for-PC software and read July 27 on your PC.

When you're done reading the story, kindly review it at Amazon. Give it an honest rating. The story did very well in competition, but when you download it... YOU'RE THE JUDGE!

James...

(P.S. I've been watching folks "catch up" a bit on From the Sky before unleashing the next segment. That's coming soon!)

The taxi driver walked to the bakery just before closing time. He approached the counter and said: "My fare wants to know if the Tarentella men are here today."

Rae and Sal glanced at each other.

"Are they?" the taxi driver implored.

"Papa is in his office," Rae replied.

"Uncle Gio went for a haircut," added Sal. "He'll be back soon."

"Who is looking for us?" asked Ernesto as he left his office for the day, ledger under his arm, pen behind his ear and tired eyes sparkling below arched, bushy eyebrows.

"The woman I picked up at the hotel."

"Papa, are you sick?"

Ernesto sat at the desk in the bakery's business office, a fisted hand up to his mouth, eyes closed. He looked up, ran his hand through his lightly-curled salt and pepper hair and tried to smile.

"Agita, Zia. Just agita. There's so much to do. The wedding cakes! The picnic!"

"You have agita because you and Uncle Gio fight all the time over a woman you barely know."

"Tell me her name," Ernesto urged his youngest daughter. "Surely you know it!"

"Of course I know her name, Papa."

Ernesto waited but Zia said nothing.

I was still angry with Zia as our plane circled the Fort Myers airport waiting to land. I watched through my window as tufts of grey-white clouds slid past us. I prayed Zia had a hangover of epic proportions. When we arrived at our honeymoon suite on Captiva Island Joe and I went to our balcony, which overlooked the Gulf of Mexico. It was late in the day. Below us, a glorious stretch of beach and above a cloudless sky with birds hovering over the water's edge looking for supper, I'm sure. As the sun set over the Gulf of Mexico in a splendid splash of gold and red, my anger vanished.