By: Karen White-Walker

Like payments on an expensive purchase, this is the last installment on my writings about Uncle Giuseppe. If they’ve bored you I haven’t done ‘Biggie’ justice, because you never yawned when he was around, more like you got a migraine because he always operated on high C.

Papa, my gentle grandfather, had to wait till almost the very end of his life to witness his son’s goodness. To think, Papa worried all those years, and for what? Giuseppe passed the final test---scoring points that can only be calculated in heaven.

In his 86th year, Papa suffered a debilitating stroke that left him bed-ridden. Mama kept wringing her hands and sobbing, “Get-up, get –up, Papa, we-a only had 62 years-a together, that’s-a nothin’, nada. I’m-a selfish-a pig. I wanna more. I know I gotta bigga mouth and drive-a you crazia in the head, but I love-a you. And if-a there was no-a God, no-a children, you would be-a first.”

Papa’s failing body cringed at the sound of ‘no-a God,’ that could never ever be. Family and friends came and went and paraded passed Papa’s bed. Just because the dear man couldn’t talk, they assumed he couldn’t hear, too.

“He’s gonna die!” wailed my aunts, and my uncles smacked their smothering hands over their sisters’ blubbering mouths. Yes, many people came and went, but only one stayed---one. And he stayed around the clock with his mouth and hands going every minute.

“If you think I’m going to just sit here and watch you rot, Pa, you’re wrong,” warned Uncle Giuseppe. “There’s still life left in you and I’m giving you a jump-start at getting it going again. Hey Pa, all men need a jump-start once in a while, huh?” he devishly grinned.

Uncle Guiseppe gave Papa three vigorous rubdowns every day. ‘Biggie’ couldn’t sing a lick, but he belted out arias that would have made Enrico Caruso cry, not from joy, but from regret at how an Italian could crucify such majestic music. Papa tried to smile, but he looked pained, and pretty soon he was struggling to speak, if for no other reason than to say, “Giuseppe, shut-up-a your face!”

Strength slowly came back into his limp arms and legs and suddenly, there was bold ‘Biggie,’ leading Papa around the backyard. He became his father’s human walking stick, and Papa never stumbled. Papa eventually learned to talk again, but it was difficult for them to reminisce about the ‘good old times,’ because after all Giuseppe had pulled in the past, things were best left unsaid. Besides, Papa believed you don’t go back, only ahead. For Mama it wasn’t so easy.

“I used to no trust-a you this-a much,” and she measured less than half an inch with her thumb and forefinger.

“You’re not bringing THAT up again?” and Giuseppe’s eyes rolled back into his head.

“You were like-a snake, son. I pray-a for saints and what do I-a get?”

“You get a snake, Ma,” mumbled her son.

“I pray-a for saints and I get-a sinners AND a snake, shame-a shame.”

“Leave-a the kid alone,” begged Papa.

“Please Pa, I’m 60 years old; I don’t need my father fighting my battles for me.”

“Who’s-a fighting?” asked a surprised Mama. “I was just-a remembering when---that reminds-a me, don’t remind-a me.”

Giuseppe gave his father his last shave and Papa gave his son his final smile that reflected true love, gratitude and inner peace. Papa’s waiting was over.

To read more of Karen’s previous articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com