Hello, LJ
I'm not very good at follow-through, and so it's no wonder I never followed up on developing my lj. I've been living so much in the present for months now (which is certainly a good thing for me), that I really have taken no time to reflect or write, even in my private journal that I used to keep.
But when fall arrives, I always grow reflective. I tend towards reflective rather than prospective thinking as it is; it's no wonder that this fall, with its abrupt change in weather from sultry to distinctly autumnal, has triggered my propensity to reflect on the past.
Mik brought up an interesting subject in his LJ. Grandparents. Those wise elders we know so little about who themselves are in the autumn of their lives. I too wish I knew more. In what little I know of their lives I see pieces of a puzzle in how mine came to be the way it is. Plus, their lives are fascinating in and of themselves.
I have memories of three grandparents, plus a great-grandfather (see below). A great-grandmother, my father's grandmother, who I very much rue never having met, died when I was an infant. Her name was Victoria, she was born in 1888, and was among the very first children born of Italian immigrants in the city of Newark (a city that might as well be the homeland of my family). She had flaming red hair and was fluent in Italian, English and Polish, which she picked up from neighbhorhood children. She never had a music lesson in her life but could play many songs on the piano by ear. My father inherited that amazing skill. I, on the other hand, am fairly tone deaf.
A great-grandfather, Thomas, my mother's grandfather, died when I was 19. He was born in 1896, immigrated from Italy when he was three, and served in the American cavalry in the First World War. How incredible is that? He raised three daughters in a two-family house that he owned in East Orange, New Jersey. I remember that house. By the time I was born two of his daughters (but not my grandma) lived in either apartment. He lived with the youngest, Aida. I remember that house well. We went their every Christmas until the day Aida died, at the age of 61, of AIDS. Great-grandpa Thomas unfortunately had to live through that, at the age of 90. He had always been a very quiet man. Legendarily quiet, in a family that was extremely loud. After his favorite daughter died I never heard him say another word.
My mom's mom, Mary (Thomas' oldest daughter), is still alive. She has always been like a second mother to me. She's 82, her mind is in perfect shape, but unfortunately she is hobbled by severe arthritis, and can barely walk anymore. Until she hit 75 or so, she was an extremely chatty woman. Now, though, she is mostly silent. Is it out of sadness, or inner peace? Probably it's both. Nearly her entire family of her generation is dead. Both her sisters (and yet she was the oldest) and both her parents. Nearly all of her cousins, of whom their was once many, to whom she was very close, and by whom she was both beloved and the universal favorite.
I do know many stories about her. Of her three sisters, she was the most naive and least world-wise. They cherished her and considered her "a saint" for this. What this apparently meant, in fact, was that she was the only one who didn't "have to" get married due to a pre-marriage pregnancy.
Life was not easy for her. Here's one story. She loved school and wanted to go on to college to be a teacher. For a daughter of Italian immigrants in the 1930s, however, this was considered shocking. Her mother, who could not read or write, had never gone to school, put a stop to this. She was allowed to graduate from high school, but immediately thereafter sent to work in a factory. A cigar factory, it seems. During the Depression this was one of the few industries that didn't suffer much, and any job at the time was considered extremely precious. However, she would come home smelling of tobacco, and when she took the bus home, as an Italian immigrant who reeked of tobacco, she was forced to sit in the back. And this was the North, not the South.
It's no wonder she let this last only a few months. She married nearly the first man who asked her out on a date. That's my grandfather.
I could go on, but I'll end with this. I wonder if it is the nature of being old not to discuss much of the past? My parents told many, many more stories about their youth than they do now. I wonder what my nieces and my nephew know of my parents, to whom they are closer than they are to their own father. Do they know that their grandmother, my mother, used to play the accordion, used to type 150 words a minute, and almost married her first boss, who went on to own a major American professional basketball team? That their grandfather, my father, was headed for a life of crime and poverty before he met my mother and she saved him from himself? It makes me wonder, if I know this, what are the things that I don't know? Most assuredly, there are many.
But when fall arrives, I always grow reflective. I tend towards reflective rather than prospective thinking as it is; it's no wonder that this fall, with its abrupt change in weather from sultry to distinctly autumnal, has triggered my propensity to reflect on the past.
Mik brought up an interesting subject in his LJ. Grandparents. Those wise elders we know so little about who themselves are in the autumn of their lives. I too wish I knew more. In what little I know of their lives I see pieces of a puzzle in how mine came to be the way it is. Plus, their lives are fascinating in and of themselves.
I have memories of three grandparents, plus a great-grandfather (see below). A great-grandmother, my father's grandmother, who I very much rue never having met, died when I was an infant. Her name was Victoria, she was born in 1888, and was among the very first children born of Italian immigrants in the city of Newark (a city that might as well be the homeland of my family). She had flaming red hair and was fluent in Italian, English and Polish, which she picked up from neighbhorhood children. She never had a music lesson in her life but could play many songs on the piano by ear. My father inherited that amazing skill. I, on the other hand, am fairly tone deaf.
A great-grandfather, Thomas, my mother's grandfather, died when I was 19. He was born in 1896, immigrated from Italy when he was three, and served in the American cavalry in the First World War. How incredible is that? He raised three daughters in a two-family house that he owned in East Orange, New Jersey. I remember that house. By the time I was born two of his daughters (but not my grandma) lived in either apartment. He lived with the youngest, Aida. I remember that house well. We went their every Christmas until the day Aida died, at the age of 61, of AIDS. Great-grandpa Thomas unfortunately had to live through that, at the age of 90. He had always been a very quiet man. Legendarily quiet, in a family that was extremely loud. After his favorite daughter died I never heard him say another word.
My mom's mom, Mary (Thomas' oldest daughter), is still alive. She has always been like a second mother to me. She's 82, her mind is in perfect shape, but unfortunately she is hobbled by severe arthritis, and can barely walk anymore. Until she hit 75 or so, she was an extremely chatty woman. Now, though, she is mostly silent. Is it out of sadness, or inner peace? Probably it's both. Nearly her entire family of her generation is dead. Both her sisters (and yet she was the oldest) and both her parents. Nearly all of her cousins, of whom their was once many, to whom she was very close, and by whom she was both beloved and the universal favorite.
I do know many stories about her. Of her three sisters, she was the most naive and least world-wise. They cherished her and considered her "a saint" for this. What this apparently meant, in fact, was that she was the only one who didn't "have to" get married due to a pre-marriage pregnancy.
Life was not easy for her. Here's one story. She loved school and wanted to go on to college to be a teacher. For a daughter of Italian immigrants in the 1930s, however, this was considered shocking. Her mother, who could not read or write, had never gone to school, put a stop to this. She was allowed to graduate from high school, but immediately thereafter sent to work in a factory. A cigar factory, it seems. During the Depression this was one of the few industries that didn't suffer much, and any job at the time was considered extremely precious. However, she would come home smelling of tobacco, and when she took the bus home, as an Italian immigrant who reeked of tobacco, she was forced to sit in the back. And this was the North, not the South.
It's no wonder she let this last only a few months. She married nearly the first man who asked her out on a date. That's my grandfather.
I could go on, but I'll end with this. I wonder if it is the nature of being old not to discuss much of the past? My parents told many, many more stories about their youth than they do now. I wonder what my nieces and my nephew know of my parents, to whom they are closer than they are to their own father. Do they know that their grandmother, my mother, used to play the accordion, used to type 150 words a minute, and almost married her first boss, who went on to own a major American professional basketball team? That their grandfather, my father, was headed for a life of crime and poverty before he met my mother and she saved him from himself? It makes me wonder, if I know this, what are the things that I don't know? Most assuredly, there are many.