3 of many eulogies I could've written last year. Sunday Scribblings

My maternal grandmother Renee
It's kinda awesome when the strongest woman you know is your Ita. She was also stubborn as hell and just a wee bit racist but you gotta take the bad with the good. She was born in Costa Rica as one of the many middle children in a family of 22 siblings. That's right I said 22. She married the love of her life, who turned out to be a philandering jerk with commitment issues. They had the first divorce in the small town, in a small very catholic country, in which they lived and my grandmother was forced to bear ridicule from the women and offensive overtures from the men for a long time. She also had to raise five children on her own.

My mother and her siblings (all born within 6 years) ate cabbage and coffee and some rice everyday and most developed worms in their tummies. Ironic given that her husband was a high ranking diplomat off fucking a different tart every few months, no? She went through some rough times, but persevered and started the community's first kindergarten, for which she was honoured at her 90th birthday town-wide celebration last year just before she died. All her children made it through and survived, even though she had to make some pretty questionable decisions in order to get cash (like pretty much selling my mom off to her aunt and uncle as they were childless). But poverty such as she lived in makes the survival instinct kick in in ways I simply cannot imagine.

As she got older, she became respected as a fabulous teacher and a very generous woman and the whole town mourned when she died. She did manage to live out her older days in comfort though, which gives me joy. My grandfather came down with Alzeimer's when he was in his late sixties and because of all the partying, quite soon ended up in an old folks' home. All his many tarts deserted him (surprise surprise) but it was okay because the only woman he could remember was my grandmother. And after all the years of cruelty between them, she took care of him. She went everyday to see him and spend time with him and he asked her to re-marry him. He told the priest that though he had treated her terribly, she has still been his only love (a bunch of latin-american male lies I'm sure, but sweet nonetheless). She accepted his offer and they got re-married. He died a number of years later, and left her all his cash. Whether she re-married him because he was still the love of her life or because she knew she'd receive a diplomat's pension I'm not sure, but I suspect it was a bit of both :)

A practical lady with a strong will and nerves of steel until the very end, I will always remember her 87 year old self walking about town in heels because dammit, ladies just don't wear orthopedic shoes. She made fuckin' lemonade at every opportunity, I'm damn proud to be of her stock.

My paternal grandmother Maria
I don't know if my Nonna was ever allowed a moment of pure joy in her life. She was born in a village in Southern Italy, the depression hit, she was never educated but was sent to work at a very early age. She married one man, her love, and he died in the war. She then married my grandfather and he took her away from her family to Canada where her proceeded to beat the shit out of her and her sons for the rest of her life. One of her sons had to run away quick lest he get devoured in the abuse (my dad) and her other son was epileptic and then became schizophrenic when he had the split-brain operation to get rid of the epilepsy (it is a risk of that particular procedure). I was very proud that my dad didn't try to make her life out to be some glorious thing in his eulogy, he acknowledged her suffering.

By the time I came along, she was pretty much destroyed, the essence of "victim." I never knew her very well, my father had needed to get out of an abusive situation and save himself and so we didn't visit all that often. But I still got to see the certain things that made her eyes light up and crinkle at the edges, her sons were her pride and joy, they made her smile a lot. But the biggest thing was that, in classic italian form, she was never happier than when she was in her garden or watching people enjoy her amazing food. She had this really big heart that had been beaten up, but was still there trying to get out. She tried to take care of people and love them, and the Italian community in her city was devastated when she died. Over 250 people came to her funeral. That she formed lasting and beautiful bonds with people shows me that something of herself had survived all the years of abuse. My one grandmother taught me that living without a partner is hard, the other grandmother taught me that living with the wrong man is a lot harder.

My paternal grandfather Pascuale.
God I wish I had been able to get up at my Nonno's funeral and just say it. "We're saying goodbye to an asshole." Everyone was thinking it, and it just made the whole thing awkward not to admit it. He sexually molested young girls, he was an alcoholic, and he beat his wife and children on a regular basis. I'd say that qualifies him as an asshole, wouldn't you? My father's voice quivered with unexpressed rage toward his father as he delivered this eulogy. This man beat my uncle with 2x4 planks of wood when was having epileptic seizures because he was sure the kid was faking it.

The thing is, as I have said before, he was a charming asshole (as was my maternal grandfather, though he was nowhere near as evil). And as I struggle to reconcile the fact that he was the worst of my grandparents, and yet I felt closest to him, I feel I have to describe the things he gave me. He made the best wine this side of Italy, he was generous with the Italian community and gave the get of his hunting and fishing to the old folks in the community all the time. He spent time as a prisoner of war in England and said they were the best years of his life, and he learned his trade there. He was a barber in Canada, and such a renouned one that at his funeral, businesses and old customers in his first Canadian city sent condolensce cards. He played a mean harmonica and accordion.

He gave me one of the best laughs of my life when I was seated with him and Nonna, I was around 25 at the time, and they were both questioning why I wasn't married yet (some older southern italian immigrants have a lot of trouble understanding the merit of being an educated/independent woman). My Nonna was saying "but once you are done this studying, you marry nice rich man and stop all this right?" and I was saying how I didn't really want to get married. Nonno perks up and says with a knowing smile "you know, I know women who never got married. They live together and there are no men. These are nice women, they are okay." And I'm pretty sure he was telling me that he'd figured out that I was a lesbian and that he was worldly enough to be okay with it. The fact that he thought a woman who wanted an education and not to get married at 20 must be a lesbian was hilarious and disturbing, but he was trying to be accepting and that just... well it impressed me.

And unlike my other grandparents, he taught me not one, but many lessons.
1. enjoy life dammit, life is for living.
2. you can't enjoy life without music.
3. a life of gardening/hunting/fishing and using/eating every scrap of food you eat, as well as always eating fresh food, is good for the body, soul, and the world.
4. that almost no human being is entirely evil, they all have redeeming qualities, there is no black and white line seperating the righteous from the monstrous.

My world feels their loss and I'm glad I finally have the time and peace of mind to write and feel this.