Harry pulled off his shirt and splashed water on his face, neck and chest. He gulped a mouthful of water and let it trickle down his throat. The wonderful feeling of plunging off the rocks at Fullerton Beach in Chicago swept into his mind. He thought about stripping and soaking in the pool, but then reminded himself that he needed to get to Vinco before dark.

As he walked, he gloried in the wonderful scent of the lush, green forest which he had entered.
The tanginess of pine needles was reminiscent of mushroom hunts with Papa and Uncle Francesco. As he ambled along the road, he gazed among the trees. He noted clusters of brown, white, and orange fungi shoving their heads through the pine needle carpet. Harry loved mushrooms, especially morels that grew in the forests west of the Chicago city limits. He enjoyed listening to Papa and his friends tell of their adventures as boys finding porcini mushrooms.

Harry grew weary, he rested himself against the gnarled trunk of a beech tree. He gloried in the coolness under the spreading branches. Pages of his memory book turned to when he was ten and Papa said he could go on his first mushroom hunt.

"Okay, I think he's ready," Uncle Francisco said.

At the forest preserves west of Chicago Uncle Francesco handed Harry a brown paper bag, saying, "Now you hunter like us."

Harry raced into the forest. His heart beat like a jackhammer when he spotted clusters of orange headed mushrooms growing next to a rotting tree. He fell to his knees, poised to pick a clump of long stemmed fungi.

"No! No!" Harry's hand froze. "Those Galerina, they poison," Papa shouted. "Demetrio, some mushrooms bad poison. Capisce?"

Harry recalled tears of shame pooling in his eyes. Papa said, "Don't be sad, I tell for own good. You cousin in Italy, her name Nicoletta," Papa made the sign of the cross. "She die after she eat poison ones her husband pick."

"Come." Papa led him to the base of a large maple tree. "See these?" Papa pointed to a clump of yellow-grayish morel mushrooms. "You pick these. They good, ask before you pick, okay?"

"Yes, Papa."

Homesickness ran rampant in Harry's soul. He missed home, his family and his friends. Maybe this whole thing about finding Papa's secret wasn't a such good idea, he thought.

Mushrooms grew abundantly in Italian forests, he was tempted, but Papa's caution about Great Aunt Nicoletta weighed on his mind. He rose and brushed leaves and pine needles from his trousers and shirt, and continued his journey. He emerged from the patch of forest into the sunlight and was again on the dusty, wind-blown road. He glanced back over his shoulder; to the red and brown tile roofs of Reggio di Calabria. Out to sea, the island of Sicily was visible. A serene Mt. Etna stood silhouetted against a cloudless sky. Goose bumps exploded, as he realized he was looking at the murderer of his mother's family. Harry turned and ran up the mountain road, not able to shake the image of an erupting volcano.

Breathless, Harry slowed, in the distance he saw a sign. He walked deliberately toward it, the sign read, VINCO. Harry swallowed hard, his stomach churned. The signed pointed to the beginnings of a dusty, cobblestone street. The street meandered among one and two story buildings, their roofs covered with bruised and cracked tiles. Anxiety swept over Harry, butterflies danced in his gut. He said to himself, "This is where papa grew up! This is where my family lives! This is where I'll find the secret!"
***