Clarity is a glass half spilled.

I have had a surge of unexpected energy and it motivated me to blog. Or perhaps it was the day I just had. Excuse me a moment whilst I turn off James Brown's YOWS-ing from xpn's Funky Friday segment ... I cannot compose my thoughts and listen to music simultaneously. Ah, that's better. The clicks and taps from the baseboard radiators and the Friday evening work traffic buzzing by are all I hear now.

Hot yoga with Dorian was how I began this Friday. Surrounded by 20 and 30 and 40 somethings, I feel like a powerful representation of what the new 55 looks like. I know it's not that old, but when I can keep up with and even surpass those youngsters, it feels like a super power reserved for only those who don't know what a Rolodex is. I think of how far I have come from when climbing steps meant sharp pain with each riser and squatting was impossible. How I can tolerate the intense heat and the drops of sweat that enter my nostrils and cling to my eyelashes like a prisoner valiantly withstanding a Chinese water torture. My lungs fill and my chest expands and contracts rhythmically as we are reminded that yoga is "breath with motion" and focusing on that clears my head for that 75 minutes. It is the only thing that is able to. Clear my head, that is.

Later, a sit down with my husband in a local bar. We have remained caring and patient with each other throughout this separation. It is time when important decisions must be made. Financial decisions. Divisional decisions. He insists it is so simple. I am made to feel like I am the antagonist, looking to complicate things unnecessarily and for selfish reasons. As is so many other aspects of our relationship, we disagree on the best way to handle this. We were partners, so I thought, in everything. But now, I am labeled a helper. This will all work out, as mom always says. Everything does. I pay the bill, and he thanks me for the drink. I say, laughingly, that's going in his column. He finds it unfunny and calls me insane and asks "you know what I can't figure out about you?" and I say don't tell me. Because after all this time, he should know.

Ma, tell me a story.

Not long ago, my son would ask me for a story as he drifted off to sleep. I’d always tell him tales of growing up as a 70s kid, making spook houses and backyard carnivals and bumper sledding. My son falls asleep with his phone. We all fall asleep with our phones. I remember how I used to fall asleep as a child. My mom sitting on the side of my bed, rhythmically bouncing so I’d feel a rocking motion, hand on my back and humming a song. Then, before leaving, she’d turn the crank on my music box, and the delicate tings of a lullaby filled the room. I’d sing the Apple Jacks lyrics to the melody and it fit perfectly. I can’t go back to being a kid, and times like these I wish I could. I can’t change the culture my kids will remember when they reflect on their childhood. Will they ever want to go back? I can’t relive the past. I can’t freeze time. I can still sing the Apple Jacks song, though.

Eulogy II

Coming up to one year since dad's passing. Now, my uncle (close to me like a dad) is failing. I never did get around to posting the eulogy I delivered for my dad on August 31, 2018 at St. Jude's Church, where I was baptized, confirmed, married. Where I remember hanging out in the parking lot with Lorraine, Lori and Linda, listening to The Shondells' Crystal Blue Persuasion blaring from the speakers of the Trabant on a hot summer carnival night...

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YO, Razz ...

As many of you know, that was one of my dad's endearing ways to greet you. 

YO, Razz! 

I can still hear him say it. It was meant for those he was happy to see. Today, you are all Razzes.

There were thousands of endearing things about my dad. It's difficult to know where to begin. Mostly, he shaped our lives in ways both colossal and subtle.

I want to start with a journal entry I wrote a few years back, one that I titled "You always want more."

"Looking across the table at my kids as we dine on sushi, I smile as I watch my son. He is fixated on the engineering behind chop sticks purposely rigged with a rubber band to make them 5-year-old friendly. The aroma of black tea as the cup nears my lips reminds me of pot incense. My daughter orders her usual steamed rice and edamame. 

Then, I overhear a request from a booth two doors down.

"Orange soda."

I want to immediately scream NO ICE. And at that moment, I realize how very different this dinner out with my kids is compared with those of my youth.

You see, growing up in the recession-burdened seventies in a blue collar neighborhood with a Depression-era father meant dinners out were either for a special occasion, or must involve a too-good-to-pass-up coupon. The special occasion was usually a birthday. As for the coupon, it was almost always McDonalds. I can still see him at the counter, always finishing his family of five order with TWO large orange sodas, NO ICE. And three extra courtesy cups.

So to this day, I am compelled to respond NO ICE to any mention of orange soda. And that is exactly what I did that evening in the Japanese restaurant. I chuckled to myself as I did so and thought of those days gone by, and all the other instances where my father's rationing and frugality made for good natured dad bashing conversations between my siblings and me. We eventually came to realize and appreciate that being raised by a spendthrift had no ill effect on us. It taught us conservation rather than wastefulness. It motivated us to work harder to earn more if more is indeed what you want. 

The only think I want more right now, is him.

My dad was a party. He was an aging child full of awe, finding humor in just about all situations. He was ever-questioning himself and others on topics both simplistic and profound. He possessed delightful spontenaity, whether it be coming home with a stray pet, a curbside treasure or another mechanical dancing figurine to add to his man cave decor. He had a sly style of slipping in clever one liners when you least expected it. Even though rendomly expressed hundreds of times, I never not laughed at Joe Bananas and His Bunch, music with a peel! He was extremely resourceful, and could and would fix anything, from Lincoln Continentals to lawn chairs. He was much smarter than he realized. His heart was immense. He was loved and respected by many, but not as much as by his devoted wife of 58 years, Catherine (yay, mom!) whom he cherished and with whom he flourished. And by his children. 

My dad will continue to bless our lives as we remember what he taught us by example, and as we share memories of him with each other. I thank all of you for being here this morning to celebrate his life. 

Eulogy

I'd like to read to you a portion of a travel journal I keep. This is from 2013, and it describes moments from the day that Pop introduced his home town, Maida, to my children.  It is titled Day Three In Maida. 

"Nonno pours espresso, thick and black, while Giovanna pins whites along the terrace clothesline. She has finally changed her blouse from the lively floral printed sleeveless to a plain blue tee.  Nonno still wears the button down he sported at the airport upon our arrival. Change is not common here.

We hike the steep road leading to the town square, "la piazza". Tall, rugged walls of slate gray rock to our left, a guardrail bordering our right. And beyond, the Appennino mountains rise and then fall, offering a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea. The town is a series of dilapidated layers. Nonno leads us to the house where he was born. It resembles a large stall made of weathered burnt orange brick, pale stone and cement. One floor, one door, and a terra cotta shingled roof out of which sprouts vines and weeds and tangled thorny branches. Eight children lived in that house, once upon a time. He points to a small courtyard just below, and tells my kids that this is where he kept his donkey, many years ago. 

"And my girl-a-friends, I bring here, too," he confesses only to me, smiling. I laugh, and imagine this, his inspiration point ... Two teens, bathed in moonlight, sharing romance atop a scrappy, work-worn mule."

Reading this again, I am taken by how this one casual exchange exemplifies so much of that which defined my father-in-law. His humble beginnings. His powerful work ethic built upon being the eldest of a large family, and doing whatever was needed to provide. His ever-present pride in his roots and family, most especially of his son, the true light of his life. His charisma and passion for finding love, which he so successfully accomplished by marrying S, my mother-in-law, a beautiful woman who adored him and whom he cherished as well. His humor. And how hilarious he could be at the most unexpected times, like that afternoon in Maida. Or the thousands of other times we made memories together. Pop always made us laugh. He was generous and quick to happily share himself, from good stories to a good meal to the shirt off his back.

Most of all, he made us feel loved and protected. He made others feel welcomed, appreciated, valuable. He saw the potential in people, and cultivated it, just as he lovingly and diligently cultivated flowerbeds and his amazing vegetable garden. Gabe, Gabriele, Gabi, Nonno, Pop ... enriched so many lives, simply by example. I bet you are thinking of how he had an impact on your life, and you are grateful for that. We are all very lucky to have those memories, and to have been influenced and loved by one so loved. On behalf of  S, and our children, I thank you for sharing these memories and this morning with us.

My Best Boy

Separation is tough. The most difficult moments inevitably involve my stressing over how my children are handling it. There are two homes now. Split time and halved wardrobes. To them, this back and forth must feel like parallel parking using a manual clutch on a steep incline. And I was 21 when I mastered that skill, not 10. One thing I can say, they consistently make me proud. And make me laugh. And when those two things happen simultaneously, the voice inside whispers "it's going to be okay."

Him: Are you going to dad's house today? 

Me: It's not just dad's house. It's my house, too. 

Him: (laughing) I know. That was a test. 

Me: (laughing) Did I pass?

Him: Yes. 

Dick or Treat ? An easy call.

The dog sits comfortably next to me, occasionally peering up with eyes that offer reassurance and unspoken loyalty. He calls her from downstairs, his voice shrill and commanding. She starts. Hears  "Come! Treat!" She scampers underneath the bed, hiding. :) Animal instinct. Don't fuck with it. :) 

And so it goes ...

Nonno is losing weight steadily, but his appetite hasn't waned. Nor have his habits changed.  He leaves delightful surprises at every turn.

For as many doctor appointments he's had, we've not yet confirmed the name for this condition. 

Crumbatosis? Dontgiveafuckanoia? I best consult with a Smashandgrabbacakeologist.