You always ended the conversation with God Bless You
Never goodbye.
Was it because you knew goodbye was senseless,
And that blessings would transcend all things of this world?
I lost my grandmothers when I was in college. One passed my freshman year, the other my sophomore year. I was close to both women. In their own ways, they played a big part in raising me. Pieces of them live on in my actions and beliefs for sure. I’d like to think I rock my maternal grandmother Amelia’s cooking skills, and I can only hope I am as welcoming and authentic a host as my paternal Nana Maria.
My mom’s mom lived with us during my teen years. I was blind then to the blessing it was to have her unique point of view available to me in day-to-day life. Like others of a certain age, she didn’t worry much. She was a calm port in the storm of my teenage angst, one I sought out regularly for advice and a willing ear. When she laughed, her eyes sparkled like two lightning bugs, and she loved to joke. On the rare occasion that she was angry, her voice boomed and echoed through the house. She was strong but soft.
As a young child, I spent countless hours at my dad’s mother’s home in the city, delighted by both its urban surroundings and the quirkiness of my immigrant Nana with her broken English and false teeth. She told me stories of what it was like to grow up in the “old country,” she cooked big breakfasts for my brother and me in her signature cast-iron fry pan, and she delighted in us. From this woman who was a fount of generosity despite the poverty she’d grown to live with, I learned by example. Family first. Kindness always.
After their passing and as years went on, I found myself craving one more story, one sound piece of advice, an answer to a question that nobody but one of my Nanas could give. I wished selfishly and continually that they could have lived into my years of womanhood, wifehood, motherhood. Later, when I wrote my book, Beautiful Secret, I imagined my Nana Maria looking over my shoulder, whispering details into my fingertips as they tapped out my romanticized account of her life story on my keyboard. I hope I did it some sort of justice. I wish she would have told me the tale in her own words when she was alive to tell it.
About seven years ago, my husband took me to visit some distant cousins who were vacationing at their beach cottages in Margate City, New Jersey. The moment I started up the steep stairwell in the tiny row house by the shore, I was greeted by an aroma I can only describe as Nana’s fry. My head didn’t have time to spin into heady memories before I was introduced to Lil Dipilla, the Nana God gifted to me in my adult life.
She was a pint-sized woman. Broad shouldered, with strong arms that could roll out ten pounds of pasta dough in a blink, but tiny enough that I had to lean down deeply to kiss her pretty cheek in greeting.
“Nice to meet you,” Lil said, taking my hand in one of hers and covering it with the other, a gesture of my Nana Maria’s. The Italian lilt to her words fell over my ears like a rush of warm, comforting water.
She embraced my children, smoothing their little girl hair and marveling at their beauty. She spoke of her own granddaughters and how the cousins should get to know each other.
“Sit down and eat. I made macaroni,” she told us.
Macaroni – the word my mom’s mom had used to refer to her homemade spaghetti.
That first evening at the beach house, we sat at the dining room table where perfectly salted fried zucchini flowers and garden marinara from Heaven filled our bellies as we talked. Lil’s cherry cheeks lifted in a sunny smile as we dove into the amazing meal she’d prepared.
“These are delicious,” I raved – speaking of the zucchini flowers.
“They easy,” she said and proceeded to tell me the first recipe of many she would share.
As the weekend wore on, I found myself drawn like a magnet to Lil’s shiny golden personality. I’d spend days at the beach, watching my children play in the easy waves of the August Atlantic. Then, in the evenings, when the cousins went out for Margate’s famous water ice, I’d urge my husband to take the girls without me, preferring to huddle next to Lil on the couch, my sun-kissed legs tucked girlishly beneath me, my eyes and ears begging for conversation. The others would bring us back a taste. For Lil – mango or coconut or maybe pistachio. For me, it didn’t matter. She was the flavor I’d craved for too many years. Lil and her brilliant stories were enough for me.
During each visit to Margate Beach, I became closer to Lil. We shared recipes, our stories of Italy and family. I even confided secrets and shared some of my motherhood worries with her. She’d promise to pray to Saint Somebody for me and would always end our chats with -
“Everything gonna work out fine. You see.”
And it always did.
Lil told me of her childhood in Italy, where her family, like my own Nana’s, was so poor, they played with rags and rocks. She came to America as a young woman and married soon after. When her husband left her with two babies to raise alone, she grieved him deeply, but forced her fingers into the grind, She worked tirelessly to support her family at a time when single-motherhood was uncommon. She found ways to work the system and raised her kids with values and a strong knowledge of their culture. Life was hard, but it was also joyful.
The thrill in her voice when she spoke of her granddaughters, the baby especially, was unmistakably genuine. Just like my grandmothers had, Lil lived for the pleasure of helping to raise her daughter’s children. As she got older, the babies, as she called them, became her life. And so, she cooked for them and ironed their clothes and kept their house while her daughter and son-in-law worked.
“I make pasta on Wednesday, but this one no like pasta, so I make a meatball. They all eat a meatball,” she’d say. The day after this particular conversation, when my husband walked back to the house in mid-afternoon, she had a dish of meatballs waiting for him. She’d fried dozens of them while we were at the beach.
Superstitious and terrified of the dead, Lil held tightly to her beliefs in the supernatural. She had ghost stories in her pockets and more accounts of paranormal activity than you could find in Hollywood. Because these fears were very real to her, Lil never slept in a house alone.
“I’m a bag lady!” she’d slap her knee and say with a chuckle, because she always took an overnight bag with her wherever she went. The bag usually contained several goodies she’d concocted in her tiny kitchen – corn fritters, lasagna, eggplant parmigiana – and always a set of clothes so she could stay at friends’ houses.
I feel so lucky to have been privy to these nuances of such a dynamic woman.
That she taught my daughter to play Italian cards.
That she showed me how to make “pasta on the grill.”
That she blessed me with her presence just by sharing her true nature.
For these things I am eternally grateful.
At the end of every phone conversation, Lil would always say “God bless your family. God bless you.”
Never goodbye.
When I found out that Lil had passed away unexpectedly, my heart ripped in half. I felt cheated of the coming summers I’d planned to spend with her, the meals and chats I was looking forward to. I was also bothered by the fact that I hadn’t been able to formally say goodbye.
After a few days of grieving over such a devastating loss, I wondered if Lil never used the word, “goodbye,” because she was trying to teach me something about life. That goodbye is inconsequential. That it’s only the blessings that matter.
That we’re here to be touched by others’ gifts and to touch them back with our own.
Lil shared her gift of gab, her passion for fresh food and Italian culture.
I shared my enthusiastic ears, a few good recipes, and my genuine love for her.
In my heart, I know she felt blessed by me too. She knew how much she meant to me. And, if I’m right
in my beliefs about the hereafter, she’s playing angel to me and my little girls. She might even play poltergeist if things get a little tiresome for her.
One thing’s for sure - I’ll never forget her.
Sometimes people come into our lives and touch us and move on, and we are forever changed.
For me, this was Lil Dipilla.
I’ll never again look at a zucchini flower without thinking of her beautiful smile.