A visit to a relative's house
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Visiting Relatives
BY OUR READERS • JANUARY 2002
MY ITALIAN GRANDMOTHER cried easily and often: when she received news of a relative’s illness, when her oldest son walked in the door after a year’s absence, or even just when the Pope appeared on TV. Each time, her crying would go from a weepy trickle to a raging torrent in seconds. Her face, hair, and blouse would soon be wet with tears. Sometimes, during a lull, she would pull me to her, planting salty kisses all over my head and face, saying, “I love you; oh, I love you, belligramma,” her Italian pet name for all her American-born grandchildren. “Don’t be sad like me.”
For a few weeks each summer, I visited my grandmother’s farm in upstate New York. Once a week, we went into town to tend my grandfather’s grave. He’d died of complications from surgery several years earlier, and my grandmother was vigilant about keeping pots of geraniums blooming by his headstone from April to October. We had to fetch water from a distant spigot and haul it up a steep hill to wet the soil in the pots. After we had swept away the dead leaves and watered the plants, my grandmother would fall to her knees and sob inconsolably. Then I would receive her salty hugs and kisses.
Years later, I learned that my grandfather had been alcoholic, and abusive toward my grandmother; during one drunken confrontation in the barn, he’d threatened to kill her with a pitchfork and throw her body in the manure pile so it would never be found. It was tough to reconcile that story with my memory of the sobbing woman who made sure there were always flowers blooming at his grave.
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