The last box to unpack was labeled “MISCELLANEOUS”; clearly the last box packed, comprised mainly of items rescued at the eleventh hour. I was finally facing the material reminders of my previous life, hastily gathered under the supervision of a police officer as my (soon to be ex) husband of 25 years looked on, enraged. Almost a year had passed before I was reunited with the possessions I salvaged, during which time I realized how few of them truly mattered. And then I found them: my grandmother’s antique Italian tarot cards. With “La Forza” (Strength) flashing me a Mona Lisa smile from the top of the deck. My grandmother has been dead for 40 years, almost twice the time I had with her, and she’s still guiding me with humor and wisdom.
She looms large in my earliest memories. As the only daughter of her only daughter, we shared a special bond. She provided a soft landing in my often-chaotic world and the unconditional love I didn’t find anywhere else. The days I spent on my grandparents’ truck farm were rich with discovery and freedom and pure happiness.
My grandfather’s death when I was seven years old meant that my grandmother spent more time with us. For the rest of her life we occasionally shared my room and the contents of our hearts. “You awake?” was invariably the way the conversation started. Sometimes it was the conversation; the mutual reassurance of our presence.
Genetically and temperamentally, we couldn’t have been more opposite. With her alabaster skin, electric blue eyes and halo of white waves, she was more typical of a northern Italian, whereas my olive skin, cow eyes and dark hair made it seem as if I’d sprung from my Sicilian-American father’s forehead. Her default setting was a slightly mischievous grin that highlighted her dimples; mine was a forlorn, melancholy gaze. It would take me years to learn that we shared something far more important than any of that; something that would allow me, one day, to adopt her positive outlook.
My grandmother died just as I was ostensibly entering adulthood. Remarkably, at the time I didn’t relate my pervasive sadness and lack of hope to this loss. She was, after all, 87 years old and had lived a good life. An offhand remark by a therapist several years later, about how I’d lost my “fellow pioneer”, marked the turning point in my understanding of my beloved “Big G” and of her legacy to me. With relative maturity and the vicissitudes of marriage and parenthood I finally came to fully grasp her singular character.
We were indeed both pioneers, quietly but resolutely blazing alternate paths from those expected of us. Despite her mother’s insistence that she leave school after 8th grade, my grandmother, newly immigrated, educated herself. Her English was flawless, and there was not a day that she didn’t read the newspaper in its entirety. Instead of her life grinding to a halt with widowhood, as was common for her culture, she got busy and happily explored sports and driving and all manner of “unconventional” pursuits. For my part, I was, in the eyes of my typical 1960s Italian-American family, a runaway: leaving home for college, traveling to Italy to explore my roots, living on my own, joining the Navy, failing to “settle down”, until, when I finally did, I eloped.
As the milestones of my life unfolded, my grandmother was with me in spirit. And whether it was wearing her diamond earrings at the birth of both of my children, serving a special meal on her china for my 40th birthday, or carrying her “La Forza” tarot card in my purse to a terrifying court hearing, there was always my wonder at what she would think, or what she would do. Somewhere along the way, the truth of my grandmother’s life fully dawned on me.
With a husband selected for her by her domineering mother, she raised six children while running a household and a small farm. She was surrounded by narcissists and alcoholics and had more than her share of family heartbreak. She was constrained by her culture and her time. She had it so much worse than me, even in my most unimaginable darkness. But here’s the thing: in her quiet strength, she decided to be happy. Every day. And she truly was.
Maybe she was more of a pioneer, or made of sterner stuff, but it took what now seems far too long for this discovery to effect change in my life. The events of the last few years (my daughter’s diagnosis with a debilitating chronic illness, a nuclear divorce, a major relocation, and abandonment by those I counted on most) left me reeling and in survival mode. As the dust settled and I began to claw my way out of the pit (and my few treasured possessions arrived, reminding me of my ancestry), I realized that maybe I wasn’t going to “get over it”; that maybe my life was never going to have any semblance of what I used to consider normalcy. And I decided not to wait. Like my grandmother before me, I made the choice to embrace my strength and be happy. Every day.
So now I focus on all that I have instead of what I’ve lost. I savor the silver linings of a less-than-perfect life. I make a point of making others happy while remaining true to myself whenever I can. And although she’s been gone 40 years, I think of my grandmother and her incredible legacy to me
often and with deep gratitude. I like to think she’d be proud of me. I know she’d love the new, mischievous gleam in my eye when I flash my dimples. The new tattoo might momentarily give her pause, but it’s my favorite reminder of her and of my strength.
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