Family Can Be Scary

            For all the desperation I felt about getting details about my family, I took it for granted that, for even a short time, I was given something that my father did not have – grandparents.

     

            My grandfather, Ma’s dad, is buried alone, passing away at just the age of 33 from the flu. His wife followed him shortly thereafter at 42 and was buried with Ma’s sister, my godmother, Jenny who died at only 35 from cancer. Jenny and Ma’s next sister, Florence  were born in the same year. Jenny in January, Flori in December. The only boy, Tony, followed and then there was Lil, the youngest, in 1917.



     

My Auntie Flori and Uncle Frank at my parents' wedding. Either she doesn't like what she's eating or someone is giving her the evil eye.

             





     

            I have but one memory of my Auntie Flori and that was of being held in her arms in a kitchen. Black hair is the only memory that remains with me.

     

            Pa and I would stop by a house on Putnam Street to visit an old lady who was always sitting in the front parlor on the first floor of a 3-decker house. It was always lit in semi-darkness and she was dressed as always, in black. She never moved nor did she speak any English. It turns out; this woman was Ma’s grandmother on her father’s side. I can’t spell her name, but Aunt Lil tells me she was a witch and they called her Mammarella. Her son died on the streets of Boston during the flu epidemic of 1918 and the city would pick up the bodies. Mammarella found out where they took her son and went there only to be stopped by the guard. She pulled out a knife from her leg and threatened him. Without a second thought, he allowed her to see him.

     

            It was a story I’d heard before from my grandmother’s brother, Tony, but not to that extent. I pictured this little Italian woman terrorizing all the children and family members. Such a far cry from my grandmother that it made me realize that we are not our relatives. They are our ancestors, but the blood that runs in our veins is ours alone. We can be raised by the most generous and kind or by the wicked and hurtful, but it is up to us to be the best we can be. I’ve always strived to do that in my life - I wanted to make my parents proud but also relish in who I was as a person.

     

            Ma’s mother had a sister, Josephine who owned a house at the corner of Broadway and Green. We lived two blocks away and it was said that I spent much time there as a baby, although I have no recollection of that. Aunt Josey was known for her Christmas Honey Cookies. Fate gave her Alzheimer’s and she was put into a home in Winthrop and my father and I visited her one weekend afternoon. She was sitting up in bed and she was as I remembered her, but she looked up at me with a blank stare for she had lost her ability to speak. With Pa on her right side and me on her left, I started to feed her ice cream and I asked her if she knew who I was. She gazed right at me and I was rewarded with a great big smile.

     

            Growing up, we spent an almost obscene amount of time visiting relatives. Holidays were especially chaotic. Today, being across the country, I relish my quiet time away from the hustle and bustle of the endless get togethers. My Christmas Eves are simple, my Thanksgivings quiet and my birthday, sometimes, passes as quietly as it arrives. Perhaps it’s because I had all of the craziness and wonderment of relatives that I relish my solitude. Without all of that, I could never be truly happy in the life I lead. Even today, my parents still spend New Year’s Eve with my grandmother’s sister. They stay up long past midnight, which always seems amazing as all of them are in bed by 9pm at any other time of the year. But as all things, it’s rooted in the past.

     

            For many years, on Christmas Eve, all of Ma’s sisters and brother would meet at one of their homes. It began as far back as 1940 and there was always a big feast. Of course, there were presents galore. For many years, all the men would play poker until the early hours of Christmas Day. Jenny’s husband would cheat and Flori’s husband would win and quit early. This went on for many years until the women and youngsters got weary and leaving a warm house to only brave the bitter cold. The tradition lives as we gather at Flori’s granddaughter’s house every year and leave by 11. Aunt Lil is older these days, so the only thing that seems to have changed is we join her at her house first. But every New Year’s Eve, we stay up and play cards till will past the New Year.

     

            Our relatives are a mix of professions and I’m not sure when I first entertained the idea of becoming a priest. There was a time I wanted to be an altar boy, but for some reason, I never did. In looking back now, with the rotating clergy that came in and out of our parish – was probably a good thing. I would steal the missellette from the church, which was no doubt a sin right there, and practice mass in our living room. Except for holiday masses, my father never joined us at church. We would go, without fail, every Saturday afternoon. I suppose that it was okay to sleep in on Sundays in God’s eyes if you said your penance the night before.



     

            While many Italians have priests in the family, we had a Mother Superior, Clementina who was the half sister to Angelo LePore who was my grandmother’s brother. No matter what the separation, everyone called her, Auntie. Ma said she was a tomboy and loved to climb trees. She traveled the world, made a 16mm color film of her Franciscan Order’s ten missions to Australia and New Guinea. On her three months trip around the world, she was to visit Egypt, Rome and Ireland. I remember her as pleasant and attractive and she passed away in the 1960s from a brain tumor.  



     



Mother Superior



            I often think what would have happened if I'd followed the religious path. Would I have understood life more or been more accepting of what it threw in my path? How did Mother Superior see life? In time, I put away the missellette and even gave up walking through the doors of a church. Last year, as my mom and I were in Paris, I had to stop and think if I was making the sign of the cross correctly. But, like my grandfather before me always did, I removed my hat.