My great grandfather grew up in rural central Sicily.  He was a musician.  There was some kind of dispute with the mayor of his town.  A parade.  A request for a bribe.  An assault with a clarinet.  So he fled the island.  And landed in New York City.  In the nineteen teens I think.

When he arrived, he found himself in a Little Italy situation.  He found some other Sicilians.  Rural people.  People like him.  And made some great friends.

And, every Sunday, he and a few of those dudes would hop on the Long Island Railway and cruise east, out of the city.

And, when they'd get where they were going, they'd wander off into fields or woods, separate, dig holes, squat, and poop.

They did it, they said, for the breeze on their balls.