My Grandfather's Lesson

A month ago, my grandfather died. He was one of my most favorite persons in my life.  There are very few times in my life that I ever remember him being mad at me. My grandfather adored me; and I adored him back.  He was very proud of me, always bragging about my going to college down in "Alleghenia" as he called it.

I admired him: my Papa had been born in Italy during the Great Depression, he had been in the Italian army before WWII broke out, and then was forced to continue serving during the war.  He left Italy, seeing it as a place where there were limited opportunities.  After receiving a letter from relatives in Canada, he traveled by boat from Naples to Hailifax, Nova Scotia, with, as he told me, $10 in his pocket.  Most of that money was gone by the time he paid for train passage and food to Niagara Falls, Ontario.  He worked at the Gerber Baby Food factory and met my grandmother at a dance.  In 1960 he, my grandmother, mother, and uncle moved to the states and took up residence in Niagara Falls, New York.  He and my grandmother traveled- to California, to Atlantic City, to my great-uncle's cottage up on Lake George.  At 65, 6 months after I was born, he retired from the Brick Layer's Union and with my grandmother took care of me most days while my mother was at work. 

He liked to give me phases of advice, such as: "You gotta marry the President's son" and "You gotta go to college, you can't wash the dishes."  Quite the forward feminist thinker, yet conservative mindset my grandfather had there.  He told me some stories about growing up in Italy and some about the war- never the ones I asked about, however.  The war stories were minimal and usually full of jokes.  As though it was a time he had blocked out of his memory.  I however, I wanted to know as much as I could. I wanted to know in what battles my grandfather had been engaged in.  Yet, I never will know the answer to those questions now. 

He told me of loss. The loss of his cousin/best friend during the war.  When I came to him with a broken heart over a boy, he made it seem like he understood- always telling me that there is someone better out there. Many other boys.  That it would happen for me.  [I just wish he could have seen it come true.]

So many conversations; so many afternoons spent in the summer sun or in the front room;  Chauffering him to Canada to see his sister; Getting him something to drink; Hearing him call me "dollie."

I learned so much from him. I didn't think I was like him at all (except for maybe my temper at times), but as he was lying in the hospital this past March, barely saying a word, I realized that I was very much like him. 

I saw that there was nothing for me where I had grown up.  Yes, Western New York was a great place to live; just like Rome had been for him, but there wasn't anything there for me.  The only thing that was keeping me there was my family and I was an adult now and needed to make my own way.  A different way. 

While his leaving and journey were probably more leaps of faith than mine were, the reason behind the leap was the same: the chance at a better life for myself and my future.  I like to imagine the life I'm forging here in Georgia will be the place where I meet my future husband and have my children...I wonder if my grandfather thought the same way about being in Canada.

And hopefully, just like my grandfather, the leap of faith, the chance I am taking so far away from home will bring me a greater and more grander life than I could only dream of when I was living in Western New York.