The Etna I would want for the future is alive my memory. A memory nostalgic and poignant, that crosses all the senses. The more intense the emotion, the more it remains indelible. And it is in the past tense that it returns, often in moments of sadness, sometimes a wine is an accomplice: its scent, its taste, so unique, excites me and immediately takes me back in time to childhood among the Etnean millstones and cellars. I loved the October days. In that month the real refreshing autumn arrived, after the long summer, which sometimes continued even beyond the middle of September. With the new season, the first rains brought scents, colors, and new life. The air, full of energy, crisp, fresh; I liked feeling it on my body.

As children, it doesn’t take much to make us happy. As adults, we often don’t fully appreciate what we have. We want more and now. We have to hurry up, grab as much as possible. Selfishness increases, it makes us worse. Patience begins to thin out, like vision. Bombed, pressed to have more, we do more, but less well. We lack the time. We are struggling with it on a daily basis. Time is our great limit, anxiety is its consequence. We are less attentive to detail, form, completeness, and listening to others. It seems that we are no longer capable of even wanting to endure perfection, the pleasure of the small thing, of the moment.

Admire a bright beam of sunlight that kisses the pink flowers of the soapwort, the silver-gray of the lichens on the black rock, the bright yellow of the broom flowers. All this happens in an instant and can remain imprinted on us forever. Can a moment be enough to make us happy?

Nature has the art of diversity. The capacity for perfection. It all makes sense for those who have the ability to grasp all this. Happy was Alexis de Tocqueville, who, struck by the vision, not of Etna, but only of its shadow, speaks of “a spectacle as it is to see it only once in a lifetime.”

The time available, then immense for a child, often took me to walk willingly in the middle of the vineyards. I looked with pleasure at the vineyards, centuries old, which mingled with the wood, with the orchards, with the hazelnut groves and with them shared the black terraces and the vital soil. The vines were never regular. Different from each other, twisted around their chestnut pole, they appeared proud of their differences.

The chasing of the clouds in the sky, which in October play with the timid rays of the sun, highlighted even more a rainbow of colors, scents, emotions.

October on Etna was and is a special month. The month of mystery, of the miracle that has been repeated every year for millennia: the harvest. On Etna the harvest comes late, often when it is already over in the rest of Sicily. With the arrival of autumn, I already seemed to feel the acrid and pungent smell in the air that from then on a few days would be released everywhere, intense, during the fermentation of musts, from the millstones. A perfume that, like a mistral wind, filled the streets, intoxicated, excited us all.

In those days the roads leading to the vineyards were filled, at dawn and in the evening, with noisy people: the grape harvesters, who reached the vineyard in groups. We children watched the “chirume” [harvesters] paraded down the street. Intrigued by all those people unknown to us, festive, joyful. During the harvest, the day started early also for us “carusi” [boys], who wanted to help, participate in that party. We filled our small baskets with grapes until, in a short time, we were not tired. There was a strong curiosity to go around, never wanting to sit still: now in the vineyard to eat a bunch of grapes and then run to the palmento.

The palmento fascinated me. I stayed for a long time, maybe hours, watching my grandfather and his helpers go up the stairs and, through the window overlooking the outside, unload the grapes into the “pista,” a large and low lava stone basin, and “pistaturi” who, barefoot or after wearing heavy boots, crushed those large black and turgid clusters.

I remember the sound of their small rhythmic steps, their hands behind their backs, they seemed to me to be dancers. Their songs that helped them keep the rhythm are still present in the memory. From time to time, the group stopped just as my grandfather screamed. He yelled every time he found me unprepared, making me jump with fright. Immediately everyone took the shovel and pushed the pressed grapes into the central part of the “pista,” reforming a new bunch of bunches. At that point the thing that amused me most happened: the pressing with the “sceccu,” the donkey.

To further press the grapes, a kind of wheel built with intertwined willow branches was placed on it, precisely the “sceccu,” on which the “pistaturi” climbed at the same time. With their arms placed each on the shoulders of the other, they began to climb onto the “sceccu” by placing only one foot on it, while the other remained firmly on the ground. At a certain point all together jumped over at the same time and flexing and extending the knees, further pressed what remained of the bunches. The red must drained in batches, first more abundant then more and more sparse.

Then came the pressing of the pomace with the press called “conzu.” The “conzu” was a difficult machine, where I noticed, more than at other times, my grandfather’s apprehension. I watched the large oak beam move in a state of fear and curiosity, petrified in front of that device, until I heard my grandfather scream at me. Worried I might be hurt, he sent me away. Frightened, I ran out. Not much time passed and I returned to the palmento looking in excitement for the face of my grandfather. His smile and the dripping sweat on his forehead made me understand that he wanted me to bring him “u bummulu,” the terracotta jug with water.

Frantic, intense days. The harvest was a mix of colors, people, songs, sounds. And in the chaos of the millstones, as if by magic every year the mystery was repeated—the fruit of the vine, the grapes, sweet, juicy, and just pressed, began to bubble and emanate an intense aroma and heat, until it was transformed into something completely different. For me as a child, the mystery was even more inconceivable, because it was allowed to eat grapes, but it was forbidden to drink the result of that mysterious transformation: wine.

Curiosity and pleasure made me fearless and in the general confusion of those days I repeatedly drank a little of that bubbling, tepid and sparkling liquid that quickly changed his way of being. The taste, initially sweet and fresh, then became acid, sour, savory. The stomach ache that I regularly got and that I tried to keep hidden from my grandparents, was never a sufficient deterrent to stop my constant tastings, to give up that subtle pleasure.

October, every year, also brought with it a strange pathos made of anxiety, trepidation, excitement. It was the prelude to the harvest that put us all in a state of worry mixed with joy. We were aware that it didn’t take much for a year of work to go bad. The gray clouds, full of humidity, passed over our upturned noses; the scent of rain was intense in the air. The eyes seemed indifferent, but there was the concern to see the clouds attracted by Muntagna [the mountain, Etna] stop. The rain so desired at other times was now frightening. We pretended nothing happened. In Muntagna you say, “Ca nu gniovi … na paura [the mountain says it doesn’t rain … don’t be afraid], “ my grandfather said.

In the evening, all around the basin (the warmer), we listened to u Nannu [grandfather]. His stories, deliberately scary for us children, fascinated us. On one of those evenings, around the hearth, waiting for the harvest, with an expression of someone who is confiding a secret, a great truth, u Nannu [grandfather] ruled, “Carusi, riurdativillo sempri u vinu ca racina, sulu ca racina! [Boys, always keep in mind it’s the grapes that make a wine, only the grapes!]”

I was amazed by this banality. Of course no, wine is made with grapes, only with grapes!

Many harvests have passed since then and this banal truth often comes back to my mind. In the era of the most sophisticated techniques, of global knowledge, of capable biotechnologies, it seems, of everything, my great-grandfather’s words come back to mind: Riurdativillo sempri u vinu si fa ca racina! [Always keep in mind it’s the grapes that make a wine, only the grapes!]

Yes, wine must be made with grapes, with love, honesty, respect for the environment and for man. These are the best ingredients of a wine, the real one, which has always been etched in my memory.

And this is the Etna I had and this is the Etna I would like for my children.