grandpa

he doesn't want me to use his name on the "intuhnets", but it's fine.  i can still tell you that he's the most warm-hearted, lovable, talented grandpa a girl could have.  and great-grandpa to my daughters?  fuhgettaboutit.  the best.

. . .

he is an artist, foremost, but a storyteller at heart.  for a man who shied away from public speaking his professional life (afraid that his english was never good enough), he can sure hold the attention of a roomful of people with one of his stories.  

for example (and i will do my best to tell it the way he does):

antony's day at the dump

there was that time that my cousin antony (it's actually anthony, but the "h" is apparently silent) was driving a garbage truck (i'm not even sure if uncle anthony was a garbage man, but whatever) and he went to the dump to deliver the garbage.  at the dump, there was a huge hole in the ground, where all the garbage would fall outta the backs of the trucks.  so the garbage men would have to back their trucks very close to the edge of the big hole, careful not to go too far or else the truck could fall in.  then they lifted the back of their trucks up, and all the trash would fall out.  

"so, antony backs his truck up to the very edge, in between two other trucks.  he presses a button- i guess there was a button- to make the back lift up, and all the garbage starts falling out.  while this is happening, the two trucks next to him had finished and began pulling away AT THE SAME TIME.  antony thought that his truck was falling into the big hole, so he opened his door and jumped to the ground.  (he erupts with laughter from his own storytelling at this point, barely able to reiterate the punchline.)  it was an illuuuuuusion!"

or the way he describes his journey to germany, just after WWII... 

a peek for a puff

"there were storms and everyone was told to stay in the cabin, but the cabin smelled like vomit because everyone was so sea sick.  so i climb up to the top, and i tell the guard i'll give him all my cigarettes if he just lets me poke my head up for some fresh air.  he said okay, and i looked up to see the waves as tall as skyscrapers!  it was really somethin', i tell ya.  but the smell, dera.  it was disgusting."

beware of the sicilian with a steak knife

or the time he went to visit an artist friend...

"...who thought he was a big shot.  well, he was cursin' and cursin', and bein' disrespectful to the ladies, and i warned him.  i says, 'why don't you watch ya mouth?', but he wouldn't stop.  and after the third time i asks him to be a gentleman, he laughs at me and says, 'look at you, so mad at me.  you're such a christian, what are ya gonna do?'  so i kicked my chair back (and this is the point when my grandmother chimes in to tell us that he broke the chair, reminding us how mortified she was), and with the steak knife in my hand i says, "as i christian i love you... (pause for effect)... but as a sicilian, i'll cut ya throat!" 

this story is so amazing because no one can picture it.  no one is more gentle than him.

my favorite, more than anything else, was the time we spent alone when i was younger.  he would take me into his big painting studio and blast wagner or beethoven and we would dance around like lunatics with his painting sticks in hand.  if my grandma had caught us, she'd remark how crazy we looked.  he'd tell me stories about when he was a little boy, stealing fruit of the fruit carts on the streets, or playing in the water of a busted fire hydrant, or hiding under the bed with a pot full of snails or meeting my grandmother when she was only 12.  "he didn't know it yet, but he loved her."  

. . .

happy 84th birthday, papa.  you're a treasure to me, grandma, your kids, your other grandkids, my husband, and now our daughters.  i love you.