The cemetery’s on strike in Montréal, so instead of a burial we walked a few blocks through Little Italy listening to music my Great Uncle liked.
It felt a lot better, I think. More celebratory. And, he liked to walk. He was a healthy guy. He walked into the hospital where he died at 100 years and eight months old.
We walked and we listened to music and we chatted and I was told stories about nicknames, which were quite common, apparently. I don’t know my Great Uncle’s nickname, but my grandfather’s was: Four Eggs, Quattro Uova. When he was a kid his family had something to celebrate, and a turn of phrase that had to do with breaking four eggs was announced. He liked it and repeated it, as children do.
It’s an attitude of such bounty and beauty, and I think he carried that. It’s a great nickname.
It felt a lot better, I think. More celebratory. And, he liked to walk. He was a healthy guy. He walked into the hospital where he died at 100 years and eight months old.
We walked and we listened to music and we chatted and I was told stories about nicknames, which were quite common, apparently. I don’t know my Great Uncle’s nickname, but my grandfather’s was: Four Eggs, Quattro Uova. When he was a kid his family had something to celebrate, and a turn of phrase that had to do with breaking four eggs was announced. He liked it and repeated it, as children do.
It’s an attitude of such bounty and beauty, and I think he carried that. It’s a great nickname.
As we walked we saw a wine press in the street. It’s not disimilar to the one we’d later take from my grandfather’s basement and jigsaw into my father’s car.
We found old paintings, airplane boxes, tools, jugs, jigs. Rosanna, my aunt, has been reluctant, reticent, even, to let anyone take anything until recently. The wound of his passing is still too fresh.
The opportunity to breath new life into the wine press he would use each year seems a fitting transition in a time of transitions. For it to come home to the country where his first great grandchild will be born and grow up feels about as good as it gets, I think.
Just about as good as living to 100 years and eight months and walking into the hospital to die three days later surrounded by your family.
We found old paintings, airplane boxes, tools, jugs, jigs. Rosanna, my aunt, has been reluctant, reticent, even, to let anyone take anything until recently. The wound of his passing is still too fresh.
The opportunity to breath new life into the wine press he would use each year seems a fitting transition in a time of transitions. For it to come home to the country where his first great grandchild will be born and grow up feels about as good as it gets, I think.
Just about as good as living to 100 years and eight months and walking into the hospital to die three days later surrounded by your family.
Nothing but net.
