Lamanna’s piece shares her recollections and observations of her Italian immigrant grandmother, who possessed a kind, loyal heart but a fiery personality.

Cynthia Lamanna loves her Grandma Littier – and may be reached at cynthialamanna@yahoo.com

Grandma Jenny Lyn Isabella; She was/is my beloved Grandmother, that I recall only in the misty early and part of middle childhood (she passed away when I was in my early teens); she slipped away from this world too young, in a veil of unanswered questions, resignation, and sadness, a faded beauty, slipping away before her time; she loved with the guilelessness of a child, and lived for her children’s dreams, and successes. She lit candles in the dark cathedrals. To her children, sisters, brothers, and in-laws, she was a lunar eclipse, and one in a million, with a beautiful smile shining like a rainbow through her soul’s darkest interludes.

By her later mid years, some of the spark and color of life had faded and drained out of her, and on the surface, she appeared a hollowed out version of the fully alive woman who loved so deeply, and would always be loved in return. In an inner battle between angels and demons she was sweet faced and volcanic-like; She would give her last loaf of bread, or harbor a refugee in an instant, but don’t cross her, or be stupid enough to downgrade her family, or shun her gift of love and good will. Without proper nutrition, and dental care, some of her teeth were worn down to little dark pebbles, and some were removed. Still, she was radiant.

In my earlier childhood, whenever my Mother told me that she and Grandpa would be coming for a visit, there would be a rejoicing. I would feel it all over, like a tingling of great joy, and I remember taking my sister by the hand whirling around with her in a frenzied circle dance and singing a little ditty I made up, (at the age of four). She would come and always with great adoration, and elfin mischievous joy would bestow upon us a little toy or treasure, retrieved from her full suitcase. It could be a dusted vintage toy from the past or an orange fruited candy; to see the look on her face was priceless.

It didn’t much matter to us what it was, for it was she herself our hearts yearned for and longed to see. As time went by, her visits grew fewer and farther between. For our lavish Christmas Eve traditions, usually in the home of my godmother-Aunt Julie-Ann, she was there celebrating with us, somewhere in the shadows, and light; still looming a large presence even in later childhood, when I don’t remember seeing her in visible form anymore.

 In her final days, though fading from my everyday life, after 11 or 12, when storms were brewing for me, fast, and all at once (it seemed), Grandma Littier must have taken delight in pictures of one of her grandchildren she could no longer travel to see, and might not have recognized in the same light, or as she recalled, but loved all the same. It seems, as a quiet ship sailing through the faded light blue, (once raging dark blue), and invisible but real storms of her life, she was slipping away from the shipwreck of broken things, broken lives, a mixed legacy; an Autumn baby, her coppery gold, singed- with- pain- life back in Italy, and later as a child bride on the East coast perplexed her, where winters hand had shown its gnarled brown and harsh white bleakness; the sting was sharp and cold long after, yet she remembered on even the coldest of days, the little home filled with mirth and the sound of her three little girls-&one little boy, with big luminous eyes that made a big warm bowl of pasta vasoulle better.

When ever I remember one of my favorite all time Shirley Temple movies, “Poor Little Rich Girl,” I think of my adoring Littiero grandparents, in those scenes with Shirley, the organ grinder, Tony (with his monkey), and his family. Beyond fuzzy feelings, the characters, and the ambiance of the scene (no matter how often I’ve watched), resonate deep within, as the face of my Uncle Louie, (Grandma’s brother) comes to mind, along with real or shadowed, unknown faces of my other ancestors, filling me with nostalgia.

Now as I write this, I wonder, what were my immigrant grandparents feeling and thinking in a new country far from their beloved homeland? In a few brief and unforgettable touching scenes that bring chills and what I would imagine, graphic shades of remembrances of my Dad’s childhood, I ponder; Tony coming home to a host of children running up with joy to hug and kiss their Papa; Tony, his wife, and children gathered around the table, laughing and eating spaghetti;  In the goodnight scene later, with loving gestures, they make up the bed, for little Shirley, and the Papa picks her up, rocks her in the rocking chair, and says to Mama, “Maybe we keep her, Mama?”

Grandma, (and Mama), Jenny Lyn, slipped away from the reality and sadness, of grown children too busy now to come and laugh and eat with her, starting families of their own.

Without enough help to care for herself and Grandpa, now barely functioning with just one lung and most likely ridden with chronic respiratory ailments, she gave in to some of her fears and bleak thoughts. She loved Mary, Jesus, and the saints, but she didn’t know how or always have the strength to fight the forces/demons from her cruel past, and her volatile emotions. Delusions play tricks and havoc on the mind. Add to this, severely limited education, little knowledge of psychology, few road maps or tools for a higher quality of life, and old school ways that did not ingratiate itself or conform to a modern world. Add to this the lack of financial means to accomplish all that she wanted to do with her gifts of mirth, mercy, and music on this earth.

Her grown married daughters and son, did what they could, and tried to help in monetary practical ways, but even so, they had families and struggles of their own now. Even during the Eisenhower/Kennedy years, life was tough on many immigrants who had few marketable skills, or only part of an elementary school level of education, and had not been able to rebound so well after fallouts from a cold dark depression. Hers was a hard life, starting back in the old country. Though not too much of her biography as a girl or young woman is known to me, I know in spirit a glimmer from the bits of overheard conversations, pieces weaved from stories handed down, and some intuition of a young girl’s hardship and impoverished beginnings, in a home with an unstable Father; an arranged wedding at a very young age took her through sobering, less than pristine, corridors, or a formula for happily ever after.

 Through it all, the spirit of this emerging girl/woman would not be broken, and her love and passion endured for her family. She loved the idea of higher things, ideals and dream castles for her children. Her youngest girl, Rosemary was a cannon ball of fire, and though ten years older than the youngest, and only boy, (my Father), she saw the love for learning in his big brown eyes early, and the potential for leadership with his winning charisma. She was the woman behind his tireless studies, visible success and academic heights.

A Halloween baby, Grandma Littier was mysterious and illuminating as the moon, enduring and generous to a fault. Possibly named after the Swedish singer, Jenny Lyn, (although I am not certain of this), what I don’t know in detail, I sense in spirit, I know from heart and by all accounts from her children; To them she was an angel, and loyal to the end as both friend, and Mother, with a deep capacity to love and demonstrate love.