Some blogs are easy to write and some have to be pulled out of you. This one is being pulled because with every word I write, I’m still in disbelief that Uncle Richard is gone. He passed away in the early hours of November 22nd.
Although I knew it was coming because he’d been ill for several months, I held out hope he might make it through the holidays because more than anything, he loved cooking, serving, and eating great food, especially at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I can just hear him saying, “Who the hell will make the baccala now?”
He made it to 94 years old.
You may recall my glee over him finally agreeing (after years of me begging) to share his pasta sauce recipe. Then I realized he was sharing his meatball recipe too and I could barely contain myself. I was so excited, I videotaped it! Watching the video on my blog post, Uncle Richard’s Famous Meatballs and Sauce, makes me feel like he’s still with us, cracking jokes as he always did.
Some people are old at 30, but Uncle Richard never seemed to age. I couldn’t help but laugh when I’d knock on his door and hear, “Who the hell is it at my door? What do YOU want?” Then he’d fold me in a hug and sit me down for a chat. His sense of humor combined with his energy made him perennially young. I’m so glad I moved back in time to cook with him a little, making Pastina Pies with him and my cousin Nancy at Easter was a highlight of my spring.
I wasn’t the only one to love him. Everyone did, especially my kids. Any time we came to Pennsylvania, we always had to visit Uncle Richard, the life of the party. My son hadn’t planned to be here for Thanksgiving, but made the trip in hopes of seeing him one last time before he passed away. He slipped away before Andy had a chance..
When my daughter came back a year ago in October we got in a delightful early autumn walk with our beloved Zio (uncle in Italian). At 93, he was sharp, funny, interesting and had the energy of a 25-year-old. My daughter made him her new favorite pasta sauce and he gave it his nod of approval. With him, you really couldn’t ask for more.
His favorite thing was cooking for his family. He made delicious pasta every Sunday and Aunt Blanche made salad and dessert. His daughter Nancy and her family, and my father (after Mom passed away) were always invited. When his son, Rich and his family were in town, he was overjoyed to see his children and grandchildren all around his table. Uncle Richard said those were his happiest days. Nancy took over cooking after he became ill, but he still wanted to dish out the pasta, offering seconds and thirds.
His work ethic was something to behold. He worked as a brick mason well past normal retirement age like my father did. He even kept a few pair of the insulated pants workers had to wear when they laid the bricks that lined the inside walls of coke ovens. They could only work for 15 minutes because it was so hot. Workers had to wear special wooden platforms on the bottoms of their shoes or their feet would burn. Both he and my dad were always grateful for the work because it paid so well.
He always offered encouragement on anything you undertook, “You can do it! he’d say emphatically. Of course he said almost everything emphatically, it was just the way he spoke.
He was a master of the art of teasing people. He used to joke about my father’s special dancing shoes, prodding me to ask my dad where they were. (They did not exist.) My dad had a lovely voice, but dancing was definitely not his strong suit. He shuffled around as best he could but was always a bit shy and uncomfortable on a dance floor. Whereas Uncle Richard hopped around like a crazed rooster, singing and dancing with abandon.
He loved targeting my mom too. We were sitting around the dinner table at his house when I was in my teens and he told my mother he had psychic powers. He said he used to make his living as a fortune teller named, The Great Mojo. Of course, my mom believed him, and asked what was in store for her. He described remarkable riches from a lottery hit (my mom’s other dream besides being on the Price is Right). My mom bought it all saying, “Yeah? When? How do you know?” with my dad just shaking his head and muttering, “She is so gullible.”
I loved hearing his stories about his family in Italy, and how he managed during the war. He told about my Uncle Olindo, who was held in a concentration camp in Germany, subsisting on stolen food and garbage he scavenged under cover of darkness.
When the prisoners were finally released at the end of the war, Olindo walked all the way back from Germany to Italy. He was on the road near home when his young sister, Sara was outside walking with a friend. She didn’t recognize him at first because war had left him so very thin and nothing like the brother who left. When she finally realized who he was, she leaped into his arms and he carried her all the way home.
Sitting with him and listening to his stories about being an adolescent living through World War II was riveting for me. We’d sit nibbling on salami and cheese, enjoying a glass of wine and he’d tell one story after another…and there were many.
There was the story of the day his mother died in 1940 when he was just eleven years old. He said when he last saw her that morning she said to be careful because it was very dark outside and it might rain. He said he and his brother Sesto exchanged glances because the sun was up and shining brightly. Later that day some kid from town came into the hills to find him and said, “You need to go home, your mother is dead.” Then he asked if he could have the bread and cheese my uncle had been given to eat that day.
He recounted the story of two British soldiers, Cyril and George, who were hiding in the hills near Roio Poggio during the war. The townspeople kept them alive through the winter with food, etc.. Then one day when Uncle Richard was taking the sheep up the hill to graze he saw smoke coming out of the cave they’d been hiding in. The townspeople assumed that someone in town gave the soldiers’ location to the Germans who paid for information.
Another story was how he got his fingers blown off. After the war, lots of dangerous things were left like igniters for explosives. Apparently they were small enough to put in a pocket and Uncle Richard and some friends had found some. He put them in his pocket and they were setting them off. When he reached into his pocket for one, it went off, taking half of two fingers and a thumb. In later years he joked that it ruined his typing career, then in true Uncle Richard form, he would give the peace sign with his untouched right hand, then give little peace with his left hand. The man was walking history with a great sense of humor.
I asked him what he thought his biggest lesson learned from being a child who lived through World War II was. He said, “You gotta take care of yourself.” I’m sure if I’d lost my mother when I was just eleven-years-old, during a hellish war, I’d feel the same way. But I never saw a trace of bitterness or anger.
He just carried on, getting up every day, reading the paper, working in his garden, walking, cooking, and entertaining everyone who walked through his door.
And his sense of humor never waned. In his final days his family surrounded his bedside. His granddaughters told me he’d been dreaming he was tending sheep in Italy like he did as a boy. I leaned over and said, “Really Uncle, what did the sheep have to say?” He replied, “BAAAAAHHHH,” which sent us into peals of laughter.
His family wrote a beautiful obituary, which appeared in the Beaver County Times and Ellwood City Ledger and captured him beautifully.
He always had a smile on his face and a twinkle of mischief in his eye. Thank you Uncle Richard for filling our days with fun, pasta, meatballs, wine, eggplant parmesan, beautiful tomatoes, a great work ethic, riveting stories and so much love. You were indeed the Great Mojo and will live forever, wrapped in our warmest memories.