Memory Lane, Party of Two
Sometimes I swear I can hear my grandmother's voice. Tonight as I maneuverd my way through the busy mall, I could swear she was right there with me. I'm not sure what triggered this particular visit. But as I strolled along, I knew that I was not alone. Not by a long shot. My mom's mom, or Nani as all of her grandkids affectionately referred to her, was right there with me every step of the way.
It wasn't like a flood of memories came rushing back and brought her to mind. No, it was more like her whole presence was there with me. Still is now in fact. I can feel it. Nani has been gone from this earth for a long time, about 18 years or so if I am not mistaken. I think of her often, and she visits me in my dreams quite a bit. To say that I think she is watching over me most of the time is probably very accurate, at least as much as these things can be. I don't know how I know. I just do.
For whatever reason, tonight I am very sure of it.
I can hear her unmistakably robust, right-from-the-belly laughter in my mind and get washed over with a chill and a grin from ear to ear. I can also hear her singing to my grandfather, loud and totally off-key, just the way she used to enjoy doing on many occasions with an over-the top rendition of some old songs I had never heard of before. Any long visit with my grandparents would inevitably find Nani belting out "I love you truuuuuly....truuuuuly dear!" to my grandfather, who would smile sheepishly and try to wrangle away from her as she embraced him. He liked to pretend he hated it, but instead it was obvious that he loved it. We all did.
I spent alot of time at Nani and Grandpa's house over the years. She would put me to work during most visits, and the tasks would include anything from killing ants in her kitchen for pennies (my younger years) to paying me in dollars to rake her leaves in the fall (the older years). Even without the money as an incentive, I never minded any of it. In fact, I loved to help out. I loved visiting that house, the house my grandfather built with his two bare hands, complete with its knotty pine walls, hardwood floors and slightly moldy yet comforting scent. It was my home away from home growing up.
There are times I mysteriously catch a whiff of that unforgettable scent even today, and am instantly transported back in time right to their living room. Nani is on the other side of the couch from me, sitting against her heating pad (she swore by that thing) and asking me what is going on in my life. She always asked me lots of questions. She really cared. She enjoyed listening to the stories I would tell, or at least that was how it seemed. And she would even marvel at how fast I would talk as she tried, sometimes in vain, to follow along. I knew I could talk fast. But bless her heart, she always tried to listen.
Tonight I can't help but think of her place in my life. I don't know if it was the holiday decorations at the mall or what, but no matter the trigger, she and I walked hand in hand down memory lane together. To be sure, the holidays always bring back a ton of memories of Nani and Grandpa. I could go on and on about the legendary pancakes she would whip up on Christmas morning, how she and my grandfather would spoil my brother and I rotten with gifts, or how every year she cooked our deliciously Italian Christmas dinner (red sauce and meatballs for days), but I will spare most of those details here. On this night, I wasn't really thinking about any of that, even though my heart lights up whenever I do.
Instead, I remembered the year I opened up my stocking gifts and found a little bell to put on my bicycle. Sounds precious enough, right? It would have been, but I think I was probably about 13 years old at the time. I was horrified, as any teenager would have been. I could just see it all flashing before my eyes. There goes Paul riding his bike down the street with all of his teenage friends, the only one whose two-wheeler sported a cute little bell that would have been more appropriate on a tricycle. Yet for some unknown reason, Nani loved that bell. She asked me if I wanted Grandpa to put it on my bike for me. I thought about it. There was really only one answer.
Sure, I responded.
I think I even left it on for a little while, too. What choice did I have? It was a gift from Nani. I was her grandson, her little Paulie, and no matter how old I would get, nothing would ever change that. In that instant, I accepted my place. I accepted her point of view, and learned a lesson in sensitivity at the same time. Some battles are best left unfought. Besides, what else could I do?
She was my Nani. I was her Paulie. There was no other choice.
There were of course innumerable visits with Nani over the years, and as an adult looking back I cherish them all. So many visits, so many memories, but one in particular replays in my mind more than any other. I was probably about ten years old or so, and she was making me laugh really hard (not unusual for her). There we sat at Nani's kitchen table, hysterical over who-knows-what, when she interrupted her story to tell me what a beautiful smile I had. She said that I should smile more often, because my smile was really special and I should show it to the world. Looking back, I'm sure this is quite normal for most grandparents to say to their grandkids. But for young Paul, at that age, it was a game-changer. I never forgot it.
I don't know that anyone to that point in my life had ever touched my heart with such a simple statement the way she did in that moment. I felt like she saw me. She acknowledged my light, and made me see it too. In return I promised her I would try to smile more. I mean, if Nani said I had a great smile, then it had to be true right? And to this day, I aim to keep that promise as much as I possibly can. For her, and for myself.
I am smiling as I recall this. Smiling through tears, in fact. As if I needed more proof that she is always with me. What a trip. What a visit. Thank you, Nani.
It wasn't like a flood of memories came rushing back and brought her to mind. No, it was more like her whole presence was there with me. Still is now in fact. I can feel it. Nani has been gone from this earth for a long time, about 18 years or so if I am not mistaken. I think of her often, and she visits me in my dreams quite a bit. To say that I think she is watching over me most of the time is probably very accurate, at least as much as these things can be. I don't know how I know. I just do.
For whatever reason, tonight I am very sure of it.
I can hear her unmistakably robust, right-from-the-belly laughter in my mind and get washed over with a chill and a grin from ear to ear. I can also hear her singing to my grandfather, loud and totally off-key, just the way she used to enjoy doing on many occasions with an over-the top rendition of some old songs I had never heard of before. Any long visit with my grandparents would inevitably find Nani belting out "I love you truuuuuly....truuuuuly dear!" to my grandfather, who would smile sheepishly and try to wrangle away from her as she embraced him. He liked to pretend he hated it, but instead it was obvious that he loved it. We all did.
I spent alot of time at Nani and Grandpa's house over the years. She would put me to work during most visits, and the tasks would include anything from killing ants in her kitchen for pennies (my younger years) to paying me in dollars to rake her leaves in the fall (the older years). Even without the money as an incentive, I never minded any of it. In fact, I loved to help out. I loved visiting that house, the house my grandfather built with his two bare hands, complete with its knotty pine walls, hardwood floors and slightly moldy yet comforting scent. It was my home away from home growing up.
There are times I mysteriously catch a whiff of that unforgettable scent even today, and am instantly transported back in time right to their living room. Nani is on the other side of the couch from me, sitting against her heating pad (she swore by that thing) and asking me what is going on in my life. She always asked me lots of questions. She really cared. She enjoyed listening to the stories I would tell, or at least that was how it seemed. And she would even marvel at how fast I would talk as she tried, sometimes in vain, to follow along. I knew I could talk fast. But bless her heart, she always tried to listen.
Tonight I can't help but think of her place in my life. I don't know if it was the holiday decorations at the mall or what, but no matter the trigger, she and I walked hand in hand down memory lane together. To be sure, the holidays always bring back a ton of memories of Nani and Grandpa. I could go on and on about the legendary pancakes she would whip up on Christmas morning, how she and my grandfather would spoil my brother and I rotten with gifts, or how every year she cooked our deliciously Italian Christmas dinner (red sauce and meatballs for days), but I will spare most of those details here. On this night, I wasn't really thinking about any of that, even though my heart lights up whenever I do.
Instead, I remembered the year I opened up my stocking gifts and found a little bell to put on my bicycle. Sounds precious enough, right? It would have been, but I think I was probably about 13 years old at the time. I was horrified, as any teenager would have been. I could just see it all flashing before my eyes. There goes Paul riding his bike down the street with all of his teenage friends, the only one whose two-wheeler sported a cute little bell that would have been more appropriate on a tricycle. Yet for some unknown reason, Nani loved that bell. She asked me if I wanted Grandpa to put it on my bike for me. I thought about it. There was really only one answer.
Sure, I responded.
I think I even left it on for a little while, too. What choice did I have? It was a gift from Nani. I was her grandson, her little Paulie, and no matter how old I would get, nothing would ever change that. In that instant, I accepted my place. I accepted her point of view, and learned a lesson in sensitivity at the same time. Some battles are best left unfought. Besides, what else could I do?
She was my Nani. I was her Paulie. There was no other choice.
There were of course innumerable visits with Nani over the years, and as an adult looking back I cherish them all. So many visits, so many memories, but one in particular replays in my mind more than any other. I was probably about ten years old or so, and she was making me laugh really hard (not unusual for her). There we sat at Nani's kitchen table, hysterical over who-knows-what, when she interrupted her story to tell me what a beautiful smile I had. She said that I should smile more often, because my smile was really special and I should show it to the world. Looking back, I'm sure this is quite normal for most grandparents to say to their grandkids. But for young Paul, at that age, it was a game-changer. I never forgot it.
I don't know that anyone to that point in my life had ever touched my heart with such a simple statement the way she did in that moment. I felt like she saw me. She acknowledged my light, and made me see it too. In return I promised her I would try to smile more. I mean, if Nani said I had a great smile, then it had to be true right? And to this day, I aim to keep that promise as much as I possibly can. For her, and for myself.
I am smiling as I recall this. Smiling through tears, in fact. As if I needed more proof that she is always with me. What a trip. What a visit. Thank you, Nani.
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