My nonnie passed away on wednesday, after a long illness and despite all the prayers and wishes of so many who loved her. Her funeral was today, and I was honored to give the eulogy. Below is the transcript.
As we were having coffee yesterday, my sister turned to me and said: “The world just isn’t the same without Nonnie in it.” She’s right. My Nonnie was a fierce woman, and I mean that with all the love, respect, and pride my heart can hold. I always felt special to her, because I was her daugher’s eldest daughter, and I feel so fortunate to have had my nonnie to take care of me. I’m sure we all have our own special memories of her, and today I would like to share a few of mine. Maybe then you can know the extraordinary woman I knew, as I knew her.
I have always described Nonnie as the matriarch of the family. Nonnie was in charge, and we all knew it; but I also knew that everything she did, she did out of love and worry for us. I don’t remember Nonnie ever yelling at me. She worked hard all of her life, and she appreciated traditional values; she approved of a girl who was good in the kitchen and around the house. I, however, was not such a girl. “That’s OK,” she’d tell me, “Because you will go to school, and get a good job, and support yourself.” I know she was proud of me, but she was also resigned to the fact that I would never be a good ‘Italian girl’. She figured that if I didn’t have a husband to take care of me, at least I was smart enough that maybe I could get a good job, and make enough money to take care of myself. So the day came when it was time for me to go away go college. Before my dad sent in the first tuition payment we had to make a special trip to show Nonnie the campus. It was a small women’s college on a sprawling campus, and I knew we had her approval when, as we were looking at some of the ivy covered dormitories, she remarked to my mom “It reminds me a little bit of Italy.” Still, as a young girl itching for some independence, I was a little horrified when she mentioned the possibility of moving to massachusets so that she could cook for me and look after me. If she didn’t have so many other grandchildren to worry over, I think she might have done it.
I think some people underestimated Nonnie because of her poor English, but I realized at a young age that she understood a lot more then most people gave her credit for. As many young kids probably do, I often though of her as old fashioned. Every once in a while, though, she would say something that would make me realize that she really did get it. After graduating college and living with my parents for a year, I decided I wanted to move into an apartment with some girl friends of mine. I knew my mom would be upset, but I didn’t realize how upset Nonnie would be. To add insult to injury, I didn’t even tell her myself; she heard it through the grapevine. You know how things never say secret for long in an Italian family! I remember the morning my dad told me that I had better go over to Nonnie’s house and apologize. I wasn’t sure why I was apologizing; but it didn’t matter; Nonnie was upset and I had to face the consequences. As I made the five minute drive from my mom’s house over to Nonnie’s, I was sitting in the drivers seat working myself up, trying to get up the courage to face Nonnie. When I got there, I couldn’t say a word. I just sat in the kitchen, at the table, silently eating homemade cheese and bread- because no matter what, Nonnie always fed you when you came over- while Nonnie chastised. “You should stay with your parents,” she told me. “I know you think you want your freedom. I know you want to be able to go out, and do whatever you want, without your mom or dad there looking over your shoulder. This is natural.” As I sat there stunned at the depth of her understanding, she continued: “But you should save your money and stay with your mother.”
My nonnie. We spent many holidays at Nonnies house, our as a good friend used to call it, “The house of seven tables”. You can’t buy a table big enough to fit everyone, nor a tablecloth to cover it, but Nonnie would push a few tables together, drape cloths over them, and make room for everyone. I remember so many dinners surrounded by family, Bebop at the head of the table drinking his glass of wine, and Nonnie in the kitchen. It was always a feast of excess. We would eat, and eat, and eat, til we couldn’t even move. Then Nonnie would come in from the kitchen, and see that there was still food on the trays or a few bites left on our plates, and ask “What’s the matter, you didn’t like it?” A few years ago, during what turned out be one of the last holiday dinners at Nonnie and Bebops house, I decided to go into the kitchen and help Nonnie out. My motives were twofold: First, I really did want to help. And second: I wanted to prove to Nonnie that I could find my way around a kitchen a little bit. She told me to take over the macaroni, which was furiously boiling away on the stove. Now, I like my macaroni al dente. Nonnie, however, liked hers well done. So after a few minutes, I took out a macaroni and tested it. It was cooked through but still a little chewy in the middle… perfect. I drained the macaroni and sat the colander on the counter and called out “What now, Nonnie?” She came over to the counter with a look of doubt on her face. I knew right away that I was in trouble. Looking back, I’m sure she knew instinctually how long it should take for that pasta to cook thoroughly, and that it hadn’t been that long yet. She poked her finger in the hot macaroni, then fished out a piece and ate it. And before I could blink an eye I heard her shout “Jimmy! Venica!” and I watched from the corner as she instructed Bebop to fill up a pot with water and put it on the stove so that she could re-cook the macaroni. I retreated in humiliation, horrified that Nonnie believed that her granddaughter couldn’t even cook a pot of pasta.
Recently, I told her that I was lucky enough to marry a man who liked to cook for me. Her response was “He cooks for you now because he loves you. But that will fade, and then what will happen? You should still learn how to cook for yourself.”
Nonnie was always taking care of everyone, and that is why it was so hard to see her these last few years. Often she would cry in frustration- not because she wanted for herself, but because she was less and less able to do for us. A few days ago, I gave her a kiss and told her “I love you nonnie. You always took care of me.” She responded “I love you. I will always love you, and I will always watch over you.” Then she took my hand and kissed it, and kissed it, and kissed it. And then she said “The last kiss is always the biggest.”
That was the last thing she ever said to me. And she was right. All the millions of times she kissed me over the years, but the last one is the one I will remember.
