Where I got my heart
Let's hear it for my new laptop. It's been a long time coming, bitches. Long time. Having gotten that out of the way...
I haven't posted anything of substance in a while, and it hasn't been for a lack of anything to talk about. I've just been swamped with... I don't know... life, I guess. Well, here's the big recently. Last week, my grandma died. Not to be confused with my Nonny, my maternal grandmother, who died two years ago. I've never been as close with my father's side. This is due in large part to the fact that they were always at least an hour away, while my mother's family has always been fairly local, and that after my parents separated (and I was little more than a baby at the time) I just didn't spend as much time with my father or his relatives. This included Grandma. However, that doesn't mean I have a lack of anything to say.
I got a lot from my grandmothers, in some ways more than I got (personality-wise) from my parents. From Nonny I got my eccentricity and rebelliousness, my refusal to accept other people's bullshit rules. From her I got my spirit. From Grandma, I got my heart. I have never in my life seen that woman angry. Never. Not once. And even my mother, as her daughter-in-law, only has one story. One story out of the last forty years. Grandma just didn't hold onto bad vibes. She had every feeling the rest of us do, to be sure, but if not letting her anger out ever had any negative effect on her or anyone around her, no one could ever tell. She never had an unkind thing to say about anyone... even when she should've. She was marvelously uncomplicated, and that's not code for unintelligent. Margaret Mammano was uneducated, but smart like a whip. Not many people knew though, because all they ever saw was her heart.
All I ever see when I think of her is this little, plump Italian woman (full-on accent), cooking a three-course "snack" if she knew she'd be having company. Sometimes, when she merely suspected she'd be having company, and her intuition was dead on. And on her worst day, it was good. Amazingly, unbelievably good. "Your favorite Italian restaurant can suck my balls" good. And you could taste how much she loved you in every single bite. She was sweet, compassionate, forgiving, and so incredibly humble (not a trait we share). But whoever you were, she loved you, sight unseen, right there on the spot. Maybe it was because she never took love for granted. She was born here in the States, but sent to live with her grandmother in Sicily when she was only a few weeks old. She grew up in pastoral Sicily, the adored only "child" of her grandmother. Ironically, financial difficulty -- the reason her family sent her away in the first place -- was the reason they sent for her to come home. She didn't want to. She'd spent her first thirteen years living this idyllic life in the Italian countryside, and the prospect of sailing away from it for a dirty, overcrowded city was not her idea of a good time. But she did it, knowing full well she'd likely never see her grandmother again. When she got here, she was teased mercilessly by her brothers and sister for not speaking English, and later on not speaking it without her trademark accent. She even overheard her own mother saying at one point, when she was thought to be sleeping, "I could never love her like I love my other daughter." But she didn't let it poison her. She just kept on growing up into this lovely young woman, and did what was expected of her: she married, had three kids, went to church every Sunday. Some might think that a rather narrow existence, but the truth is she was very happy. Her husband died when he was fifty-seven, but she just kept on going. She became a grandmother, then a great-grandmother, and she was really good at it. Even her grandkids would sometimes just call her "Ma." That was the kind of person she was. Her great-granddaughters (my cousin Marguerite's girls) would stop by her place on the way home from school almost every day, just to say hi, spend a little time with her. Once, when my parents were still married, she called my mother a Morta Cristo with NO IDEA that it was a pejorative way to say "Jew", and when my dad pointed it out to her, she was mortified and hugged my mother and said, "Oh, no. Nina, I love you." My mom just laughed it off.
My relationship with her was always great. She was one of the only people who, when I was a child, could manage to call me "Mikey" without it sounding condescending. It was like everything else she did, always full of love. For a while, when my dad was separated from his third wife, he was staying with her, and I saw her every weekend. I confess, I never got to know her as well I could've... should've. I do remember one time my sister said to her, "We know why you really want us to go to sleep, Grandma. It's so you can out on the town. Pick up some guys." Mind you this woman was seventy when I was born. We all laughed pretty hard at that one, and I just remember Grandma laughing with us and saying, "No no no. Not for so long." Then quietly, one might say wistfully, she trailed off, "Long time ago." That was, I think, the first time I'd ever given thought to the fact that people were different people before I was born. The thought of my parents being young and crazy was weird, but I could see it. But the thought of my Grandmother running around as a hot little number with some foreign mystique in the 1930's was simply amazing to me. I've seen pictures. She was a hot little number. And with a heart like hers, how could Grandpa have picked anyone else?
She lived on her own until about ten years ago, when she moved in with my Aunt Caroline and Uncle Pete, her daughter and son-in-law. But they are themselves seniors and were struggling to take care of themselves, so they eventually put her in a very good home, and between them and their own kids, Grandma got several visits a week. My Uncle Nick and his family are in Florida, so their visits were few, and the lack of times I visited her was my own damn fault. But it was hard. By the end, she couldn't remember anything past a few minutes. When my mom would visit her, she'd completely forget that my dad divorced her over twenty-five years ago.
Like I said, from Nonny I got my spirit, but from Grandma I got my heart, my capacity to forgive, to give people chances, to connect with strangers and show them the kindness I show my own family, sometimes more. That thing I do that brings people together, that made many of you friends with one another in the first place... that didn't come from the air. It came from her. And you know what? I didn't even realize it until right now.
My dad called me last week, around Tuesday to tell me Grandma was in the hospital and that she was dying. I always felt bad that I didn't fear this more. I was so much closer with Nonny and was fairly at peace with her death that I felt like a horrible grandson. But then again, Grandma was nearly 100 years old. She would've been 98 this November. Maybe I'd just accepted it. I didn't know. But I always knew somewhere inside that I wouldn't be as hurt by her passing as I would by Nonny's, and I felt bad about it, so I never bothered to ask myself why. So, I thanked my dad for telling me and asked him if he needed anything. He said no and hung up. I went back to what I was doing when he called... I was cooking pasta, heating up sauce and meatballs, and suddenly I just stopped and stared at the stove, and all I could think was, "Jesus, I'm a fucking hack." Even attempting to make a vaguely Italian meal for myself felt like the very height of hubris, because it would never be like hers, more a goddess of the home and hearth than Vesta herself. Have any of you ever tasted the perfect meatball? I mean perfect. Not too firm, not too mushy, not too salty: perfect. I have. And I never will again. And I'll never hear anyone call me Mikey the way she did. I'll never be stymied by all the Catholic paraphernalia that only in her possession didn't seem maudlin or ostentatious. I'll never hear an Italian accent and know that it's part of me.
The viewing was Saturday. Loranth came with me, and he really didn't want to for several very valid reasons, but he did it for me, and he gets major points. I saw my paternal cousins for the first time in over a year. Grandma's iconic pocket book, this behemoth that she took everywhere, was up on a board of flowers, and instead of one of those marquee boards that indicate whose viewing it is, they just put up a little plastic sign that they'd kept on her door in the nursing home. It simply said "Ma's Room." Everyone knew which one was hers. The frock they put her in was fairly hideous. It was this noxious, dull shade of pink. I mean, for Christ's sake, the woman's an autumn. But other than that, she looked good. The funeral was the following day. Right before we left for the church... which was across the street, I lingered in the slumber room. There were only a few other stragglers, one of the them my cousin Roseanne. Just before they closed the casket, she said, "Wait." Then she grabbed Grandma's pocket book off the board and laid it in the casket with her. "She took it everywhere," she said. The funeral director did her one better and put it in Grandma's hands, and they closet the lid.
The service was good, short, and much smaller than Nonny's. She wasn't terribly cosmopolitan, my Grandma, and she didn't really have any friends. Just her family, and she was happy with that. And there we all were. We said our goodbyes, remembered her fondly, the Catholics there took communion, and then we did what Italians do after everything major: we ate. And it was a great time, oddly enough. Family that hadn't seen each other for years were talking, catching up. Vows were made to renew our relationships, vows that one could dismiss as empty promises, but seemed pretty real to me. And I was fine. I had a few stray tears at the burial, but other than that, I was really, truly fine. Because to have her family together, laughing and talking over a good meal, was all that "Ma" could have wanted, and pretty much all she ever did.
And I'm okay. And for far better reasons than I thought I'd be.
I haven't posted anything of substance in a while, and it hasn't been for a lack of anything to talk about. I've just been swamped with... I don't know... life, I guess. Well, here's the big recently. Last week, my grandma died. Not to be confused with my Nonny, my maternal grandmother, who died two years ago. I've never been as close with my father's side. This is due in large part to the fact that they were always at least an hour away, while my mother's family has always been fairly local, and that after my parents separated (and I was little more than a baby at the time) I just didn't spend as much time with my father or his relatives. This included Grandma. However, that doesn't mean I have a lack of anything to say.
I got a lot from my grandmothers, in some ways more than I got (personality-wise) from my parents. From Nonny I got my eccentricity and rebelliousness, my refusal to accept other people's bullshit rules. From her I got my spirit. From Grandma, I got my heart. I have never in my life seen that woman angry. Never. Not once. And even my mother, as her daughter-in-law, only has one story. One story out of the last forty years. Grandma just didn't hold onto bad vibes. She had every feeling the rest of us do, to be sure, but if not letting her anger out ever had any negative effect on her or anyone around her, no one could ever tell. She never had an unkind thing to say about anyone... even when she should've. She was marvelously uncomplicated, and that's not code for unintelligent. Margaret Mammano was uneducated, but smart like a whip. Not many people knew though, because all they ever saw was her heart.
All I ever see when I think of her is this little, plump Italian woman (full-on accent), cooking a three-course "snack" if she knew she'd be having company. Sometimes, when she merely suspected she'd be having company, and her intuition was dead on. And on her worst day, it was good. Amazingly, unbelievably good. "Your favorite Italian restaurant can suck my balls" good. And you could taste how much she loved you in every single bite. She was sweet, compassionate, forgiving, and so incredibly humble (not a trait we share). But whoever you were, she loved you, sight unseen, right there on the spot. Maybe it was because she never took love for granted. She was born here in the States, but sent to live with her grandmother in Sicily when she was only a few weeks old. She grew up in pastoral Sicily, the adored only "child" of her grandmother. Ironically, financial difficulty -- the reason her family sent her away in the first place -- was the reason they sent for her to come home. She didn't want to. She'd spent her first thirteen years living this idyllic life in the Italian countryside, and the prospect of sailing away from it for a dirty, overcrowded city was not her idea of a good time. But she did it, knowing full well she'd likely never see her grandmother again. When she got here, she was teased mercilessly by her brothers and sister for not speaking English, and later on not speaking it without her trademark accent. She even overheard her own mother saying at one point, when she was thought to be sleeping, "I could never love her like I love my other daughter." But she didn't let it poison her. She just kept on growing up into this lovely young woman, and did what was expected of her: she married, had three kids, went to church every Sunday. Some might think that a rather narrow existence, but the truth is she was very happy. Her husband died when he was fifty-seven, but she just kept on going. She became a grandmother, then a great-grandmother, and she was really good at it. Even her grandkids would sometimes just call her "Ma." That was the kind of person she was. Her great-granddaughters (my cousin Marguerite's girls) would stop by her place on the way home from school almost every day, just to say hi, spend a little time with her. Once, when my parents were still married, she called my mother a Morta Cristo with NO IDEA that it was a pejorative way to say "Jew", and when my dad pointed it out to her, she was mortified and hugged my mother and said, "Oh, no. Nina, I love you." My mom just laughed it off.
My relationship with her was always great. She was one of the only people who, when I was a child, could manage to call me "Mikey" without it sounding condescending. It was like everything else she did, always full of love. For a while, when my dad was separated from his third wife, he was staying with her, and I saw her every weekend. I confess, I never got to know her as well I could've... should've. I do remember one time my sister said to her, "We know why you really want us to go to sleep, Grandma. It's so you can out on the town. Pick up some guys." Mind you this woman was seventy when I was born. We all laughed pretty hard at that one, and I just remember Grandma laughing with us and saying, "No no no. Not for so long." Then quietly, one might say wistfully, she trailed off, "Long time ago." That was, I think, the first time I'd ever given thought to the fact that people were different people before I was born. The thought of my parents being young and crazy was weird, but I could see it. But the thought of my Grandmother running around as a hot little number with some foreign mystique in the 1930's was simply amazing to me. I've seen pictures. She was a hot little number. And with a heart like hers, how could Grandpa have picked anyone else?
She lived on her own until about ten years ago, when she moved in with my Aunt Caroline and Uncle Pete, her daughter and son-in-law. But they are themselves seniors and were struggling to take care of themselves, so they eventually put her in a very good home, and between them and their own kids, Grandma got several visits a week. My Uncle Nick and his family are in Florida, so their visits were few, and the lack of times I visited her was my own damn fault. But it was hard. By the end, she couldn't remember anything past a few minutes. When my mom would visit her, she'd completely forget that my dad divorced her over twenty-five years ago.
Like I said, from Nonny I got my spirit, but from Grandma I got my heart, my capacity to forgive, to give people chances, to connect with strangers and show them the kindness I show my own family, sometimes more. That thing I do that brings people together, that made many of you friends with one another in the first place... that didn't come from the air. It came from her. And you know what? I didn't even realize it until right now.
My dad called me last week, around Tuesday to tell me Grandma was in the hospital and that she was dying. I always felt bad that I didn't fear this more. I was so much closer with Nonny and was fairly at peace with her death that I felt like a horrible grandson. But then again, Grandma was nearly 100 years old. She would've been 98 this November. Maybe I'd just accepted it. I didn't know. But I always knew somewhere inside that I wouldn't be as hurt by her passing as I would by Nonny's, and I felt bad about it, so I never bothered to ask myself why. So, I thanked my dad for telling me and asked him if he needed anything. He said no and hung up. I went back to what I was doing when he called... I was cooking pasta, heating up sauce and meatballs, and suddenly I just stopped and stared at the stove, and all I could think was, "Jesus, I'm a fucking hack." Even attempting to make a vaguely Italian meal for myself felt like the very height of hubris, because it would never be like hers, more a goddess of the home and hearth than Vesta herself. Have any of you ever tasted the perfect meatball? I mean perfect. Not too firm, not too mushy, not too salty: perfect. I have. And I never will again. And I'll never hear anyone call me Mikey the way she did. I'll never be stymied by all the Catholic paraphernalia that only in her possession didn't seem maudlin or ostentatious. I'll never hear an Italian accent and know that it's part of me.
The viewing was Saturday. Loranth came with me, and he really didn't want to for several very valid reasons, but he did it for me, and he gets major points. I saw my paternal cousins for the first time in over a year. Grandma's iconic pocket book, this behemoth that she took everywhere, was up on a board of flowers, and instead of one of those marquee boards that indicate whose viewing it is, they just put up a little plastic sign that they'd kept on her door in the nursing home. It simply said "Ma's Room." Everyone knew which one was hers. The frock they put her in was fairly hideous. It was this noxious, dull shade of pink. I mean, for Christ's sake, the woman's an autumn. But other than that, she looked good. The funeral was the following day. Right before we left for the church... which was across the street, I lingered in the slumber room. There were only a few other stragglers, one of the them my cousin Roseanne. Just before they closed the casket, she said, "Wait." Then she grabbed Grandma's pocket book off the board and laid it in the casket with her. "She took it everywhere," she said. The funeral director did her one better and put it in Grandma's hands, and they closet the lid.
The service was good, short, and much smaller than Nonny's. She wasn't terribly cosmopolitan, my Grandma, and she didn't really have any friends. Just her family, and she was happy with that. And there we all were. We said our goodbyes, remembered her fondly, the Catholics there took communion, and then we did what Italians do after everything major: we ate. And it was a great time, oddly enough. Family that hadn't seen each other for years were talking, catching up. Vows were made to renew our relationships, vows that one could dismiss as empty promises, but seemed pretty real to me. And I was fine. I had a few stray tears at the burial, but other than that, I was really, truly fine. Because to have her family together, laughing and talking over a good meal, was all that "Ma" could have wanted, and pretty much all she ever did.
And I'm okay. And for far better reasons than I thought I'd be.