Memorial Day....It's Not Just About Picnics

Every year on Memorial Day, I plant flowers at my Dad's grave.

Remember a Veteran today.

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N

I'm starting to get a little concerned.  Our vacation is only a week away and I'm not sure my husband will be able to go. Since it's a family thing and about a dozen other people will be there, coming and going, all week, maybe this doesn't seem like a huge issue. But to me it is.  I mean, here we've paid for a week's vacation - and believe me for what we're getting with this cottage, we've paid more than enough - and he won't even be able to enjoy it. Oh, and right...I'll be there all alone. With no vehicle and hence will  be stranded on a cottage at the beach in the middle of no and where. (Which isn't actually a bad thing if you have the ability to leave it should you so desire. It's less good when you're trapped.)

But why, you ask, why can't he go?  Well, you see, last year when we went on vacation in August, he took the week off from work and when he came back, it turned out that there was no more work for him until June of this year. So if he's only going to work for three months of the year, he needs to be working.

Of course, when you say it like that, it makes sense that if he's going to be off for the next 9 months, why don't we just go on vacation then,?  But, and I can't stress this enough, this is the stupid family vacation we go on every year and I have to book it a year in advance.

We don't even want this week. We want the week of Labor Day, but we couldn't get our cottage that week - not for the past three years, actually, but that's another story - so we had to take this week.

So now, here we are Or here we aren't. Or maybe just here I am. Alone, on vacation without my husband. (But did I mention the entire rest of my family will be there?)

I need a vacation.

In Loving Memory of Anthony Marchese

Anthony C. Marchese

September 15, 1925-August 13, 2011

"Don't forget Aunt Annie." My uncle Anthony pulled me close in a hug the day my Aunt died. We were all at his house afterwards, sitting around, aimless and numb.  He whispered those words in my ear as he held me with tears in his eyes.  Just two weeks after her funeral, to the day, we were once again at the same funeral home. But this time, it was my uncle in the casket at the front of the room.

Suddenly, the word numb takes on a whole new meaning.

He missed his wife, he was ready to go be with her. Plus, he was a stubborn man and once he made up his mind, he got things done.  So the fact that he lasted less than two weeks after she died isn't even a surprise. He was determined. But it really hurts.

I feel like I have so much to say about Uncle Anthony, but I'm not sure where to start. Of all the memorial blog posts I've written in the last few months, I think this one is the hardest.

He was in the Navy during WWII and his aircraft carrier was sunk. He was one of the few survivors. Then he worked at Bell Aircraft (it's Bell Areospace now) and was involved in developing the Rascal Missile and the Rocket Belt. Interestingly, his older brother, Anello, who died in 2006, was the lead engineer at Bell and worked on the X-1, the first supersonic aircraft.  So at least I was related to smart people.

Uncle Anthony then went on to work at Moog Music as Director of Engineering and developed a bunch of different musical devices, many of which were used by popular groups at the time. If you don't know about Moog, their synthesizers were a huge part of the musical scene, starting in the late 60's, and had a major influence on disco and rock. One of the first rock groups to use a Moog were the Doors in 1967 on their album, "Strange Days."



My uncle created the Moog Liberation, used by all sorts of people and groups, like Santana, Devo and Herbie Hancock.  This isn't a great pic, since I took a pic of a picture with my cell phone at the funeral, but here's my uncle - back in the 70's - pretending to play it.  He thinks he's tall here.

In 2008, Uncle Anthony was inducted into the Buffalo Music Hall of Fame. The best part was my Aunt Annie calling everyone she knew, all excited, and tell them, "Anthony has just been indicted!"  People weren't sure if they should be happy or worried.

According to our pastor, my uncle was a humble man. While delivering the funeral service, pastor made mention that even though he had known my uncle for over 30 years, he didn't know many of the things that Uncle Anthony had accomplished, but read them in the obit (which you can read here).

Our family had a different take on Uncle Anthony. He loved kids, especially his kids, grand kids and great grand kids, and when we were all little, he had us call him Uncle Beep-beep, cause we'd press on his rather sizable nose and he'd make a beep-beep sound, like a car horn. But he was also a cranky, stubborn old man who didn't like people. I get that from him. Alright, maybe he liked some people, but you know what I mean.

He was incredibly picky; his food couldn't touch on a plate. Seriously, the man had to eat every meal on those divided plates and wouldn't eat any kind of casserole or mixed dish.  He loved to travel and to "get out of the house." He dragged my aunt on long drives through the country, stopping at garage sales and drug stores, buying so much stuff they didn't need. Their house was just loaded, their cellar had stacks and stacks of...well, I guess the word is, again, stuff. They also went on tours with Ramblin' Lou. Maybe that's a Buffalo thing, but he was some sort of country music DJ and performer. Maybe he still is, I'm not sure. Anyway, he and his wife do these tours, all over the place, like cruises or trips to Atlantic City, and they went on so many that Ramblin' Lou knew them and came to the funeral.

It's still so hard to believe they are both gone.

But I won't forget Aunt Annie, Uncle Anthony, and I won't forget you.

In Loving Memory of Annie Marchese

My Aunt Annie passed away on Sunday after a four month illness with bone cancer. She was a wonderful, funny, sweet woman. She leaves behind a husband, three children, nine grandchildren and five great grandchildren.

Uncle Anthony, my mom's brother, met and fell in love with Yanette Petrillo, when she was only 13. They were married when she was 21. My mom still tells the story of her first encounter with Annie. Being the little brat she was, mom greeted the girl who liked her brother by sticking her tongue out and running away. 

But, somehow, even after that, the two became great friends. Their kids grew up together, more like siblings than cousins. Their friendship would last for 72 years. The last few years, since they weren't able to get around too much anymore, they mostly talked on the phone together. And talked. And talked. Every day. For hours and hours and hours. In all those many years, my mom was able to say that they never once had a major disagreement or fought about anything.  That's something when you consider they're both Italian, too!

A room in her house, dedicated to her doll collection.

Aunt Annie touched so many lives. She was one of those people who would give you anything she had. And she had lots and lots of stuff.  You've never seen so much stuff. She was the woman you could always go to if you needed something unusual, cause she probably had it. She decorated her entire house for every holiday, including Arbor Day, I think. But Christmas was when she went way over the top. She would buy presents all year round for her kids and grand kids, and then carry down big bags full of gifts for everyone. One year, when I was little, she took a Santa hat out of one of her many trunks full of costumes and gave it to me. I wore that hat until it fell apart and I still wear a Santa hat every year on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Because I did that, my four nephews always wore them, and now their children wear them, too. Even though they don't know it, it's a legacy from my Aunt Annie.

She had a saying for everything. For instance, she'd tell her grand kids, "Never marry a murderer" and "Don't make friends with a serious killer." OK, maybe she got those sayings a little wrong, but we knew what she meant. She was also fond of telling you that if you did something wrong or were with someone who did something wrong, you'd get worms. And she was always worried about what you were doing, even if it was just going out for ice cream. "Oh, dear, be careful, I knew a kid who died doing that."

What makes her sudden loss even worse for the family is that my cousin, Marianne, their youngest child, just died in November, the day before Thanksgiving, after fighting cancer for 5 years. She was only 53. I wrote a post about her, if you'd like to read it, she was an amazing person. 

Aunt Annie was still grieving her daughter when she started feeling ill, around Christmas, but she didn't get checked out until Easter.  They found a tumor in the bone of her shoulder and removed it surgically, inserting a metal rod into her arm where they had to remove bone.  But it was too late. The cancer had spread through her body.

She spent the next four months in and out of facilities, including Roswell Park Cancer Institute, having radiation and chemo.  A few days ago, they gave about three months to live, but said maybe a year with treatment.  While she was going through chemo last week the pain became unbearable and they started heavily medicating her. At that point, the doctor gave her two weeks.

Then we got the call at 2 am Sunday morning to get to the hospital and she died around 10:15 am.

I already miss her so much and I just can't imagine what we'll do without her. We won't forget you, Aunt Annie. We love you very, very much. 

My Cousin and My Friend

There were 19 of us.  Johnny, Mary Lou, Judy, Jimmy, Chuck, Angie, Linda, Mikki, Michael, Salvatore, Karen, Joey, Michael, Mark, Marci, Marianne, Maryann, Debbie and Toni. There have been 19 cousins since 1964, but as we end 2010, there are only 17 of us left.  Earlier this year we lost my cousin Judy, and just this week, we lost my cousin Marianne.  Age-wise, Marianne was my closest cousin, even closer in age than my sisters. We were born seven years and two days apart.

We were close in other ways, as well.  For several years, starting in the late 80's through the mid-90's Marianne was the director of an ensemble that I sang in. Not just me, but my mother, my sister, my husband, her sister, and several of our very closest friends. I'm not sure, maybe we were all close because of Ensemble. It was just one of those experiences that stays with you.

Marianne was amazing. She taught me so many things. She could do anything. She was like MacGyver when it came to sewing. You could ask her to make your wedding dress and she could create a perfect fairy princess gown out of paperclips and lace. In an hour. She taught me to sew, not like her, but still passably. She showed me how to cut out patterns and put all the pieces together.  She took me to buy what I needed for my own sewing box. It's pink with a flowery pattern. She gave me a set of straight pins and bought a red heart magnetic pin cushion and little pink snips for me.

When I told her I was getting married, she jumped right in and created all the decorations for the church, all the flowers, the corsages, the boutonnieres, even two topiary trees for the altar. I still have one of them at the turn of my staircase and it still looks beautiful.

Marianne taught me about music, too. When she needed a song transposed from one key to another for the Ensemble, she'd give it to me.  I know nothing about music.  I can carry a tune, but that's about it. I can't read music and I don't know one key from another.  But Marianne forced me to learn.  She taught me algebra, something I never managed to understand while in school, just by showing me how to transpose the keys in a song.  And she taught me to remember the notes in the five main lines of the treble clef by using the acronym Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge. It was years later before I found out that the real acronym is not about food.

We shared so many special times and we laughed. A lot.

Marianne had become ill with cancer about 5 years ago. She was a fighter and every time the cancer struck her, she hit back. It traveled around her body, attacking here and then there, but she never gave in. She was hopeful through all the treatment, through chemo and radiation, through all the pain. When one cancer center told her it was over, she found another that would keep on treating her.

Over the summer they told her that the cancer was in her bones and there was a tumor in her brain. Then they started the radiation.  We drove to Philadelphia to see her and I thought for sure that she would not be coming home. But she did.  A few weeks later, several of the Ensemble members met at her house to talk and sing and laugh, and it was amazing.  From the woman I had seen, laying in the hospital bed, doped up and barely able to speak, this was Marianne as we knew her, laughing, talking, directing.

She did have more radiation and we went to see her again, just about two weeks before she died. We all laughed a lot. It was a wonderful time. She was telling us all about a production she planned on directing in the summer. She was bed bound, but still cheerful, still hopeful, still busy. Marianne wasn't afraid to die, but she didn't think about it because she still had more she planned to do.

At her funeral today, so many people spoke and had wonderful things to say, stories to tell, songs to sing, laughter to share. One thing that her husband said really stuck with me. It epitomized what everyone else had been saying.  Marianne was a person who lived her life fully engaged. 

I love you, Marianne, and I'm going to miss you.

"Bambi" July 23, 1997 - June 22, 2010

Last Tuesday I had to do what was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do or ever will have to do. I had to bring my little baby, Bambi, to the vet and have her put to sleep.

We've had Bambi since she was a tiny little round puppy.  We almost didn't even get her. I remember it very clearly, even though it happened nearly 13 years ago. I had called the breeder and they only had one girl in the litter, but she was already promised to someone else. I was so disappointed, because we were all ready to get the puppy, had saved the money and everything.  We were gonna surprise my mom. This particular breeder had been recommended by a couple of independent sources, so I just felt it was the right place to go. But she wouldn't have any more litters that year.

A couple of days after she told me she didn't have anything for me, I decided to call her back one more time. Just in case. Maybe she knew someone else who had puppies now. But then the best thing happened. Turns out the other person hadn't shown to pick up the puppy so she was available again. We were so excited, driving out to Olcott, NY, nearly an hour away, to see her.  We thought we were going to see the puppy, discuss it, put down a deposit, come back to get her the next week.  Then we saw this little tiny ball of fur, all round and cuddly and playful and we had to have her. That minute. I wrote the check and we drove home in the dark with her shivering, tucked into the front of my husband's jacket.

We came home and put the puppy in a large paper bag to bring her to my mom. We had to wake her up to tell her we'd brought home a doggy bag from dinner.  Surprise!!  From that Friday night in October of 1997 to the very end, Bambi was the sweetest, most beautiful, patient, loving companion we could have had.

In November 2007, we thought we were going to lose her. She became very ill and had to be taken to the emergency vet.  Her lungs had filled with fluid. They said she had an enlarged heart and liver. They wanted to put her down then, but I  insisted that as soon as she was breathing properly, we were taking her home. We took her to see our vet the next day and she was diagnosed with Cushings. Turns out a lot of the things we thought were part of old age were actually because of the disease. Once she was on the medication, she perked up again, became more active and lost a lot of weight. She had been very overweight, which was another sign of her illness and not just that she loved food. 

And she did love food. She would eat anything you were eating, right off your fork or spoon, if you let her. My mother has eaten most of her meals that way over the last few years. One bite for mom, one for Bambi. Sometimes she just made up a plate for Bambi. Noodles were Bambi's very favorite and if you even mentioned them, her ears would lift up and she would tilt her head, ready to eat any and all noodles that were forthcoming.

Once, she modeled for Tops Markets, making the cover of their pet flyer. They told me she was the best dog they ever photographed, cause she just sat where they put her and smiled at the camera. What they didn't realize is that Bambi was just a very polite and patient girl. She always just sat where ever you put her. Maybe it was just easier than trying to do something else. She instinctively learned to do things that good dogs did, like wait for you to go first and walk next to you when on a leash. Certainly it's nothing we ever taught her to do. She slept in our bed, usually taking over one (or more) of our pillows, so that we had to sleep further down on the bed. How one little tiny dog managed to lay her body out over several pillows at once is still a mystery to me.

I know that we were blessed to have had in our lives. I'm thankful that we had the additional time with her that was almost lost to us.  But even so, there's a hole in my heart and it aches.

I miss her.  I know I will for a very long time.

Reunited

Some good did come from the two days of wake and funeral for my cousin Judy, and that was getting to see my cousin Jeffrey again. Jeff and I are only a year apart in age and we grew up together. He is actually my first cousin once removed (the child of my first cousin) but our close age and the closeness of our families at that time meant that we were together a lot. We stood up together in my sister's wedding (I was 6 and he was 5), and spent many weekends at my aunt's cottage on the lake. Jeff and his parents moved to Connecticut when he was 11 and I hadn't seen him in over 30 years. In all that time, I had always remembered him and thought of all the fun we'd had as children. From the moment we saw each other across the room, there was that flash of recognition and we spent the time together, afraid to let each other out of sight. The amazing part was that he remembered me the same way I remembered him.

Back in the 70's, when they moved away, pre-teens didn't have a lot of options to staying in contact. You could write letters, sure, but who really did that? You could call on the phone, but the cost of long-distance calls was an issue. Now, we can communicate so much more easily, through calls, texting, email, skype, twitter, facebook. This time, I have all his contact info and I plan to use it.