To my grandma, with grief and laughter
I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandmother this week.
One reason is we’ve had a family loss. My uncle passed away a couple of weeks ago, and Tuesday evening we attended his memorial service (remotely, of course). I hadn’t seen him – or really anyone in my extended family – in about three years. But despite that, and the fact I was taking part only through a screen, I found myself crying at just about everything. My aunt, one of the sweetest ladies you’ll ever meet, thanking us for being there, her tears wetting her mask. My cousins, each heartbroken and one of them almost speechless at the loss of their dad. Several of their children paying beautiful tribute to the unique relationship they each had with their grandfather.
This last part not only juiced my tears but also a twinge of jealousy. My uncle’s grandchildren range from their teens to their early thirties, so they had many years with him. They had a chance to experience not only his doting love as children but also his wisdom through their adolescence and, for some, into adulthood. I wish I had those years, even a handful of them, with my grandmother. I have so many questions for her that I wasn’t old enough to ask when she was around. I want to ask about her youth, my dad’s youth, her family, grandpa’s family, what the world and America were like in the 20s, 30s, and 40s. I want to know what she thinks about who I’ve grown up to become, about Dan and the long road we’ve taken, about my son whom I named after hers. I just want some time with her.
That brings me to the second reason. She left us on Feb. 20, 1995. It was her 81st birthday; this year she’d be 107. There’s a fascinating story about the days before she passed that I won’t go into, partly because I don’t completely trust my memory about it. But I do have solid recollections about her funeral.
I remember Father Deviney, the lovable priest of her parish, mastering the ceremonies from viewing to funeral service. There was a steady stream of mourners whose names I recognized from Mom’s Christmas card lists but whom I’d never met before (a common occurrence for Italian-American funerals, I’m told). I wrote something about Grandma for a school project that Dad included in his eulogy. I viscerally remember being shocked to see him cry – to this day, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen tears on his face. And I cried too because, although Grandpa had died four years before, this was the first loss I was old enough to understand.
But most of all, I remember the limo ride to New York.
Decades earlier, Dad purchased a small home for my grandparents on a lake in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains. But the Simonetti family plot was in St. John Cemetery, in Queens, where they once lived. It was about a two hour drive from the church to the cemetery, so Dad rented a limo to take us so neither our family or my aunt’s would have to drive in our grief. Despite my sister and I being stoked to be riding in a limo, the mood as we began our journey was somber. Until Mom pulled some scratch-off lottery tickets out of her purse. She’d gotten them to help keep Kaitlin and I occupied for a few minutes and, maybe, lift the mood for the drive.
We furiously scratched our tickets with coins someone in the car gave us. My lottery tickets amounted to nothing (a trend that would continue to this day). Kaitlin – who was 7 at the time – handed hers to Mom. And Mom got a weird look on her face.
“Tom, look at this. I think she won.”
Dad took the ticket. He, too, got a weird look on his face.
“Maryann, look at this. I think she won.”
He handed it to my aunt.
“I think she won.”
And she did. $650. On a scratch-off, in a limo, on the way to Grandma’s burial. Incredulous laughter filled the car (mitigated by my jealousy, which we’ll address in the PS to this story), and the somberness melted along with it. We chalked it up to Grandma looking out for us, sending us one last little gift before we said our last goodbyes, and launched into a series of our favorite stories about her.
There were more tears to come for all of us – on that day, and in many that followed. But that laughter and warmth is what I’ll remember most about that day, and about Grandma.
PS – Pre-teen me was not ok with my sister winning anything if she didn’t, particularly not $650. So Mom did the only thing she could to solve the problem. We each had an equal chance of getting that ticket, she said, so it’s only fair that Kaitlin should share her winnings with me. Right down the middle. Kaitlin’s never let me live that down (nor should she), but we’re still friends.