Grandpa Joe

⚠️ Hi, babes. I’m pausing the Finocchio Fund Drive until further notice, as my grandfather has passed away and I’m taking a break to travel home and be with my family. I’ll let you know when I pick it back up. In the meantime, I wanted to share a little bit about my Grandpa Joe. ❤️‍🩹

Two days ago, I spoke to my Grandpa Joe for the last time.

He was in hospice, drifting in and out of sleep and mostly not talking. I called my mom, and she woke him up, telling him Mike wanted to talk. He grunted in assent. She put the phone up to his ear.

“Hi grandpa. It’s Mike,” I told him in Italian. “I know you’re not doing well right now, and I wish I could be there with you.” I told him how grateful I was to have him in my life, for the wonderful memories together, especially fishing and crabbing together as a kid. And more recently, for his Italian citizenship that made it possible me to live my life in Italy.

When I was done, I told him I loved him, and my mom pulled the phone away from his ear.

“I know he heard you. I know he heard you,” she said.

I think he did too.

My grandpa Giuseppe was born during the Great Depression in Castellammare del Golfo, a small city on the coast of Sicily, near Palermo.

He was raised in a brood of eight siblings, many of whom would end up seeking a better life in the United States. Giuseppe made his own journey stateside at the age of 28, arriving in Brooklyn in 1964. He quickly found work with his fellow countrymen as a brickmason in Staten Island. 

He met his wife, the daughter of Italian immigrants, that same year. They quickly married and had two daughters, one of which was my mom. She tells me that Joe worked six-day weeks, often 10 or 12 hours a day. On his Sundays off, he took the family on fishing trips together.

My memories of my grandpa pick up after he and my grandma moved to suburban New Jersey. There, in retirement, Joe mostly spent his days fishing, crabbing and tending to his utterly abundant backyard garden, which produced an astounding bounty of fruits and vegetables. As a kid, I accompanied him on many outings to catch crabs—always followed by a stop at the legendary ice cream parlor around the corner.

When he later moved into a senior apartment complex, he was quick to befriend his Italian neighbors, become a regular at bingo and—of course—start up a garden plot. Always keen to keep a connection to his homeland, he missed not a minute of Italian television, and made a daily journey to the corner store to pick up an Italian newspaper.

But he was also a proud American resident. From his garden shed always hung two flags: That of his native Sicilia, and that of his adopted America. In fact, my Grandpa Joe always retained his Italian citizenship, never naturalizing as an American citizen. What started as perhaps a bureaucratic obstacle later became an enormous gift to me, as I was able to claim Italian citizenship by ancestry, and relocate full-time to Italy.

It dawns on me that the last time I spoke to my grandpa, on Sunday, was also maybe the first time I’ve ever spoken to him and been fully understood.

It was only the second or third time ever I’d spoken to him in Italian, having finally gained the confidence to do so after moving to Italy. But even then, he was prone to talk over me, as he alway did.

Yesterday was the only time I spoke to him in Italian, and he did nothing but listen.

When I found out the next morning that he died in his sleep, I was overwhelmed with sadness, but also gratitude that I got that last chance to tell my Grandpa Joe how much he meant to me, in a way that he could finally understand.

And I believe that he did.

This week, I leave you with a one of my favorite photos of my Grandpa Joe.