The End of an Era—Farewell to Grandma

My family left Brooklyn in 1967 when I was just seven years old. My dad was a civilian with the Navy and he wanted a different life for his kids. His disdain for bustling New York City life was the cause of many heated arguments with his family, but he believed that a different lifestyle would offer more opportunities for his children. He had three naval training centers to choose from -- San Juan, Puerto Rico, Phoenix, Arizona, and Orlando, Florida. He chose the rural, unpopulated town of Orlando, unaware that Walt Disney had also chosen this then-sleepy little town in Central Florida for the city of his dreams. My dad “pried” his wife and three young children from the comfort of the downstairs apartment of his in-laws home on Bay 11th Street and introduced us to the wide open Florida “boondocks” -- complete with severe lightning storms, six-foot-rattlesnakes and a wide array of insects.

Most of my memories of Brooklyn and my paternal grandmother, Domenica “Dora” (Nitti) Portoghese (known to many as Grandma “Nunnie”) were of aunts, uncles and cousins gathered around the huge table in her basement. Hailing from the seacoast town of Bari, Italy, we enjoyed all of her great traditional Italian delicacies and, at the time, some more unusual food -- we were eating calamari way before it was served in mainstream restaurants. Over the next decades visits “home” to Brooklyn were infrequent. As an adult, however, I did make several trips back to New York to reconnect with my extended family. Those trips really began in August 2000 following the death of my beloved mother. I took my dad to visit his mother and then, whenever I could, I would find ways to include visits with her during business trips to maintain the connection.

Unfortunately, on April 20, 2010, I found myself back in New York for my grandmother’s funeral. My older brother, Joe, and I made the trip to represent our 79-year-old dad who could no longer travel easily. Trips to New York have always been an adventure and this trip would be no exception. Just 15 minutes after leaving JFK Airport, the “shortcut” up Atlantic Avenue to our Brooklyn hotel would prove disastrous thanks to double parked cars, speeding traffic and an enormous pothole.

Thump, thump, wobble, wobble. “That doesn’t sound good,” I said. After a few blocks, we pulled over to discover two bent rims and a flat right front tire. After AAA changed the flat tire, it was back to the airport to exchange the car (thankfully the $8.99 add-on insurance would cover the two bent rims) and we finally made it (an hour late) to the wake at Scarpacci’s Funeral Home. Grandson John did a great job reflecting on this little “whippersnapper” of a woman who was quietly demanding and totally aware of everything until the very end.

When we headed back to the funeral home the next morning, we found the entrance to the freeway that we had used the night before was now closed. “Turn around and go back,” I advised my brother.“No, we’ll find another ramp up ahead,” he replied. “Uh, see the sign for the Battery Tunnel?” I quipped sarcastically. “We DON’T want to go to Manhattan!”

Thanks to a quick u-turn and a mobile GPS system, we were able to find our way back to the funeral home “via fewer freeways.” From there, three limousines transported the grandchildren and great grandchildren to Saint Finbars Catholic Church. The three Portoghese children -- Teresa, Joseph and Archangela -- were all married in this beautiful cathedral. And eight of their children -- Vincent, Christine, Doreen, Vincent, John, Joseph, Ann Marie and Dominick -- were all baptized there. Only one -- Rocco -- would be born and baptized years later in Florida. As we walked behind grandma’s casket into the ornate cathedral, I had flashbacks to masses in Latin and kneeling for communion when you had to stick your tongue out to receive the host.

Unfortunately, since she was housebound for years, the young priest had never met grandma -- she had always watched Sunday mass on television. And he apparently hadn’t bothered to read the information that granddaughter Doreen had prepared for him.

“What do you say about someone who has lived 101 years?” he asked us in a very thick African accent as he began his sermon.

Umm ... how about -- she had three children, nine grandchildren and 19 great grandchildren -- I thought to myself.

What can you say about someone who has lived 101 years?” he asked again.

Let’s see -- she came to this country through Ellis Island and her life spanned most of the 20th century. She witnessed countless advances -- indoor plumbing, air conditioning and refrigeration, the automobile, air travel and space exploration -- and too much of man’s inhumanity to man—two world wars, the Korean War, the Viet Nam War and 9-11, practically in her own backyard.

I’m not sure what he said next, but I was jerked back into consciousness when I heard him say …“There’s so much wrong with today’s society. Women today don’t even know how to cook.”

What!? Yeah, she was a great cook, but why doesn’t he say that she experienced a lot of joy, but also a lot of loss. She actually outlived most of her loved ones— her husband, her two dearly-loved daughters and all but two of her eight, younger siblings. If she’d died 10 years ago, this church would have been filled!

“Children are killing one another, there’s so much violence,” he continued. “And divorce is rampant in our society. When you find a good woman, you hold onto to her … when you find a good man, you hold on to him."

“Is this a wedding or a funeral?” I whispered to my brother, “and what does this have to do with grandma?” I noticed granddaughter-in-law Kathy was now crying.

“Does anyone know how long she was married?” I heard him ask. “Seventy-six years,” answered Doreen. “See … that’s not how it is in today’s society,” he chastised. “People give up … some marriages end within the first year.”

She got married at 16, I thought to myself, and it was an arranged marriage. And while a long marriage is admirable, grandpa was a sour young man and a grumpy old man who suffered from paranoid schizophrenia at the end of his life. She probably should have left him! And, by the way, five of her nine grandchildren are divorced so I’m sure this is painful for them. I looked around and saw great granddaughter Jessica begin to raise her hand.

And then … “Excuse me,” said John, who could no longer sit in silence. “Can we move this along? My family is suffering because of the loss of our grandmother and we don’t need your damn commentary on society.”

You go, John, I thought … maybe the “damn” could have been left out … but I’m with you, buddy! While perhaps well meaning, this young priest should have focused on remembering the life of a dear, sweet woman who will be missed … not pontificating about the ills of today’s society!

Following an apology should his “comments have offended anyone,” the priest concluded the funeral mass and we headed out to the cemetery in Staten Island for our final farewell.

Back in Brooklyn at Tommasso’s Restaurant later that afternoon, we all gathered for a five-course Italian feast. Great granddaughter, Alyssa, teased her dad about society driving us to bad behavior and laughter filled the room. “I’ve only been in New York for 24 hours,” said my brother Joe, “but I could write a movie about this!”

As I scanned the room, it struck me that she had done it again -- grandma had brought us all together around the table! And I realized that we were her legacy because to her family was everything. We all will remember and love her forever. And from the oldest grandson Vincent, 60, to the youngest great grandson, eight-week-old Anthony, we’ll always glimpse a little of her when we see our reflection in the mirror … or when, one day not so far into the future, we look into the eyes of our own grandchildren.

That’s what you say about someone who lived for 101 years!

~Ann Marie (Portoghese) Varga