a memorial for my beloved grandmother, Phyllis Timpanaro (1918-2010)

Remembering my grandmother is simply the story of a spoiled grandson.  I got everything I wanted from this amazing woman, even when it was too much . . .

. . . like the summer after 7th grade.  In July of 1982, I showed up in Lyndhurst, NJ for a fun two-week visit; but it ended up being sort of a Reverse Fat Camp.  I put on about 15 pounds and added probably 2-3 inches to my waistline.  How did this happen, you ask?  Easy:  about 5 meals per day, sprinkled in with Mazur’s Jelly Donuts, bowling alley snacks, and daily visits to Bruno’s Pizza just down the street.  Oh, and I was a growing boy.

Sure, I waddled into the 8th grade that year to a few snickers and guffaws.  But it was a small price to pay.  I was loved and well-fed, and that was that.

Even from when I was a small boy, I have the fondest memories of grandma’s house.  I loved how she cut my PB & J into perfect triangles.  I loved eating at the shiny small table in the kitchen, or at the giant octagon table with the rolling-wheeled chairs.  Always cooking, always serving, always fattening us up; this is what we expect out of our grandmothers, and Phyllis delivered it like no one else.

It is impossible for me to recall grandma’s life without recalling also the physical layout of the house she kept.  I could navigate every square foot of 375 Sanford Ave. blindfolded.  It was almost like a person I knew; it lived and it breathed.  It was neat and orderly, yet always the hub of some fun activity.  It smelled like oregano, soppressata, amazing bread, and the best damn gravy (that’s Italian tomato sauce for you non-paisanos) you could possibly imagine. Its rooms and memories will always be in my mind; especially – for some reason – the basement.

“Grandma, can I get a drink?”

“Of course, dear.  They’re in the basement.”

Like a bad thief I would creak-creak-CREAK down those steep stairs into the cellar.  On the way down I would see upon the wall pictures of my own father on his way to Queen of Peace Parish when he was 5, or my Aunt Gayle when she was getting married to Uncle Al, or Phyllis and Tippy frolicking at the beach before I was even alive.  It was like a photographic family tree and a history of Lyndhurst all at once.

When I looked at these pictures, everything in life seemed so perfect, so pristine, so . . . Italian American.

In a weird way, these pictures probably do a disservice to the hardships that were endured by our family – the Great Depression, WWII, the Korean War, Vietnam, just to name a few.  But I always think of these pictures as snapshots of a great country – and a proud family – being built.

As I neared the bottom of the steps, I always moved faster and veered slightly to the right.  This was because, as everyone knew, the entire left side of the cellar was inhabited by ghosts and vampires.  It was always dark; always full of odd sounds and creepy smells and wild tools from the 1920s that were used for who-knows-what – maybe repairing Model-Ts or rotary phones.  On the few occasions I ventured into this part of the cellar, I made sure there were at least two adults present and every light switch turned to ‘On’.

The right side, however, was where all the fun took place.  The ping pong table, where – despite some feeble debate from my sister – I still reign as family champion.  The cedar closet full of ancient baseball caps.  The robot-lamp with the magnifying glass and circular bulb – which I now own and will own – until I am dead (take THAT cousins!).  And finally, the impossibly cool, way-ahead-of-its-time laundry chute that dropped clothes from the upstairs hamper.  WOW.

But that wasn’t all.  There was the cellar escape hatch, the best “blaster” shower head known to mankind, and of course the beloved fridge with the soft drinks.  Oh, yes, the fridge!  You had a dizzying number of choices:  you could have Fresca or Tab or Mello Yello or any array of Shasta offerings (Grape, Root Beer, Black Cherry) usually in those cool little 8 oz. cans.

Even in later years, the basement was home to some landmark moments.  Like when I was 17 and I decided I wanted to smoke a cigarette during a large family gathering at the house.  Hell, I had snuck a few beers already and stealing a smoke from cousin Peter was like taking a McNugget from my 2 year old – pretty simple stuff (“Look over there!”).  So I hid myself away in the basement bathroom, opened the window, and puffed away.  I think I barfed 5 minutes later but still no one found out about this, even though I must have been green in the face upon returning to the upstairs.

Phyllis Elardy Timpanaro R.I.P. (1918 - 2010)

But what does this have to do with Grandma?  Well, even if she’d known about – or confessed to having a hand in – some of my indiscretions (too many beers, pizzas, Shastas, or even the Marlboro), she would have still just pinched my cheek and said, “OH DEAR, you know better than that.” Then she would have simply suggested I have another meal she had prepared or to get some rest.

Grandma was truly amazing, and truly hospitable, no matter what kind of travelers the wind would blow in.  On a few occasions, I would just plan trips to NYC with a gaggle of friends, and we would somewhat presumptuously CRASH & BOARD at their place.  Like most young people, we would stay out until ridiculous hours of the night, drinking ridiculous amounts of booze, and then sleep until the middle of the afternoon.

In retrospect this must have been inconvenient but she & Tippy were always so willing to SERVE FOOD and keep their doors open to family and friends alike.  (I am fairly sure she did everyone’s laundry on these occasions as well. ) Indeed, if every grandmother could cook, clean, and serve people like Phyllis did, their lives will have been a hallmark of success.  If my own future grandkids have such fond memories of us as grandparents, we will have done really well.

Finally, I am so thankful that she’s now able to rejoin Tippy in celestial dwellings.  I bet she’s glad to be back in the saddle, making sure he’s saving his coins, eating well, and not wearing plaid pants with argyle sweaters.  Although heaven probably provides adequate guest services, Grandma has probably applied for some position as cook, cleaner, or bottle washer.

No matter the case, I trust she has at least taken a 15 minute break and let St. Peter do the vacuuming this time.

Rest in peace, Grandma!  You deserve it. And while I totally forgive you for all those times you pinched my cheeks way too hard, I cannot forgive you for having a higher lifetime bowling score than my disgraceful 199.  We can settle that when I join you several decades from now.

Love, Your Spoiled Rotten Grandson,

Jeff Timpanaro

2/11/10