This is a story about Italian meatballs and red gravy, a writing class, and how doing these simple things became a life-saving lesson for a grieving grandmother and her devoted grand-daughter.  

In 1959, when my grandfather became terminally ill with emphysema, he moved into our house to be with his favorite daughter (my mother) and to be more comfortable in a home with no stairs or cold drafts. I was seven years old, and because I knew why he was there, I felt lucky to have him so close. So, I made sure I spent as much time by his side as I could. I often wonder if those special days helped me “secure” who I would be as an adult: a care giver of mind, body, and spirit. Both grandfather and I would like to think so.

One day, my grandmother cried differently when she was sitting with grandfather and me. After she left the room, my grandfather looked at me with tears in his own eyes and said, “Quando vado, dovrai aiutarla – When I go, you will have to help her”. I nodded my head, but I never asked him what he meant. I trusted (and he knew) that when that day came, somehow no matter what I did, it would take into consideration some pieces of the many lessons he had shared with me. As expected, my dear grandfather did not live through that cold winter. I have another entire post about his peaceful passing, but this one is about trying to apply a life lesson to my grandmother and to me when we needed it the most.

A few Sundays after my grandfather died, grandmother and I were alone in her house, in the kitchen. Many years later, I learned that she had asked for me to be there with her as much as possible. Maybe I was her connection to grandfather or maybe she just knew I paid attention to how she was feeling and we could help each other. Anyway, that Sunday, she was standing at a huge wash sink holding onto a worn out black strap used by grandfather to keep her cooking tools sharpened. She was sobbing; I had never seen anyone sob like that before. I stood beside her and hugged her waist until the sobbing got lighter. After a long time, she said, “Carolina, che cosa abbiamo intenzione di fare ora – Carol Ann, what are we going to do now?” She was right to include me. This was about her and me; grief, mourning, and even healing together.

I didn’t have much time to think, but I knew doing something/anything was what we had to do to get better, and, what grandfather would have told me. So I took both of her soft hands and said, “Grandmother, I think we have two very important things to do: you must teach me to cook meatballs and red gravy and I must teach you to write.” My grandmother had never learned to read or write and additionally, I needed to learn all of the recipes in her head. She agreed and asked when we should start. I said, “Grandmother, we have to start today.”

So, we got our coats and quietly walked to the market holding hands on a sunny but freezing cold Jersey Shore day. I noticed every step she and I made on the crunchy ice as we clung to each other for “support”. Inside the market, she showed me exactly what to buy for the meatballs and red gravy. This task is something she had done hundreds of times before, but teaching me each step helped her brain slow down and focus. We picked out meats, vegetables and tomatoes for the sauce, plus cheeses, and herbs that I didn’t know existed. And, although I’m sure there was plenty of writing paper at grandmother’s house, she picked out a small composition book for her new task. She wore the tiniest hint of a smile as we headed home with our goods. Then, she methodically began to teach me to mix the meats, roll the meatballs and make the sauce.

Once the meatballs were cooking, and the house smelled like an Italian house should smell on Sunday, she said it was my turn to teach her to write. I asked her if she could write her name and she said no. I didn’t want her to know, but grandfather had already told me that. So, we started there, with her first name. We went into the parlor and worked at a small phone table she loved. I still have that little black table in my Florida home. We used the composition book and I wrote her first name in script like the nuns had taught me with my own name:

Caroline

Grandmother selected a wide carpenter pencil, whittled a point with a knife, and copied what I had done; over and over again until it was a very good duplicate of what I had written:

Caroline

She was very proud of what she had accomplished, and so was I. But most importantly, we had survived an entire Sunday together staying busy with meaningful tasks we shared with each other.

As the day was coming to an end, grandmother said, “Carol Ann, next Sunday I must teach you to cook Lasagna. We have it every holiday and I need your help.” As I nodded my head, I said, “And Grandmother, you must learn to write your last name. Grandfather told me he gave you that name as a gift”, and she nodded her head. So, this went on for many Sundays…for many months and years when time allowed, until we were both able to integrate grandfather’s passing into our new lives….our new normal without that wise man but with his lessons.

So, until 2011, I thought this lesson was a beautiful chapter successfully closed. In fact, I really didn’t think about it much until May of 2011, when my own husband died suddenly and my world was turned upside down as was my grandmother’s over 50 years before. A few weeks after my husband’s death, when I could think and breathe again, I literally began sobbing as grandmother had done so many years before. I found myself asking that same question I heard her ask: “What am I going to do now?” It took a while, but eventually I remembered my reply, as a 7 year old, to my grandmother….so; I got up, went to the grocery…..and then made delicious meatballs and red gravy for my neighbors and friends. Of course, the indirect lesson from grandfather wasn’t to make meatballs. But it WAS to do SOMETHING, anything meaningful in order to move forward (out of any situation). And, making meatballs was as good a start for me then as it was for grandmother so many years before.

So, I don’t know if this is a life lesson or just a helpful memory. But, I am sure I will NEED to make meatballs again someday for some other reason and maybe, you will want to learn too (see link below). For grandmother and me, making meatballs was familiar and synonymous with just putting one foot in front of the other and taking baby steps to healing and a new normal. As I got older, if I had a bad day at school, I used to call grandmother and joke that we’d better make meatballs on Sunday; and we always did. So, you should know that making meatballs works for any life change or healing period. Oh, that reminds me, I’d better go make some meatballs and red gravy now.

Note to readers: Here is a link to a simple but delicious recipe for meatballs and red gravy.

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