Ten years gone
On August 6, 1996, my paternal grandfather succumbed to lung and prostate cancer after a two-plus-year battle. He was 82. He had just celebrated his 50th wedding anniversary with my grandmother, who will be 90 at the end of this month.
My grandfather was an amazing person. His parents immigrated to the US from the Naples area of Italy -- the same town my grandmother's parents were from, incidentally -- and Grandpa was born here. He had two brothers, one of whom died young, and a sister. The only one left is his brother, who I will see tomorrow at a memorial mass for Grandpa.
Grandpa was a World War II vet, a gunner who fought in China, Burma and Africa. This contributed to his poor hearing, but he loved telling amazingly detailed stories about the war -- the people he had met, the places he had seen. He remembered all vividly.
Grandpa was also a jokester. He loved to mold my grandma's brownies into a turd shape and leave them on the table. He also created what my 10 cousins and I call fart machines -- a bent piece of wire with a washer held in the middle by two elastics. You spun the elastic fast, then put under your leg and lifted. The resulting sound of the unwinding washer against your chair seat provoked uncontrollable giggles.
Most of all, Grandpa loved his family, especially his sweet "mummy" or "hun" -- my grandma. Theirs was a love story. They still held hands after 50 years and five kids. They still ate lunch together at Papa Gino's, stealing napkins and sugar packets while chatting about their days. They did the Globe crossword puzzle together every week , my grandpa's blocky penmanship juxtaposed against my grandma's flowery script. These are the things I remember. And miss.
I love you, Grandpa. After 10 years gone, I still miss you all the time.
My grandfather was an amazing person. His parents immigrated to the US from the Naples area of Italy -- the same town my grandmother's parents were from, incidentally -- and Grandpa was born here. He had two brothers, one of whom died young, and a sister. The only one left is his brother, who I will see tomorrow at a memorial mass for Grandpa.
Grandpa was a World War II vet, a gunner who fought in China, Burma and Africa. This contributed to his poor hearing, but he loved telling amazingly detailed stories about the war -- the people he had met, the places he had seen. He remembered all vividly.
Grandpa was also a jokester. He loved to mold my grandma's brownies into a turd shape and leave them on the table. He also created what my 10 cousins and I call fart machines -- a bent piece of wire with a washer held in the middle by two elastics. You spun the elastic fast, then put under your leg and lifted. The resulting sound of the unwinding washer against your chair seat provoked uncontrollable giggles.
Most of all, Grandpa loved his family, especially his sweet "mummy" or "hun" -- my grandma. Theirs was a love story. They still held hands after 50 years and five kids. They still ate lunch together at Papa Gino's, stealing napkins and sugar packets while chatting about their days. They did the Globe crossword puzzle together every week , my grandpa's blocky penmanship juxtaposed against my grandma's flowery script. These are the things I remember. And miss.
I love you, Grandpa. After 10 years gone, I still miss you all the time.
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