I just posted this picture on Facebook today.
Uncle Freddie (the "good lookin' guy" on the right) is the only Pecci sibling still here with to us make us laugh and shake out heads at (as in "are you for real?").
Surely a "Fred's Shed" blog will make an appearance here at some point.
There were two other Pecci siblings, Uncle Tony (who's wife, Auntie Julia, is still rocking the world with her amazing 95+ year-old-self) and Uncle Tilly. I never met Uncle Tony or Uncle Tilly. Boy, I wish I had.
I miss these three ladies above. More than words can ever say. And I am sad because Uncle Freddie is getting old and his laughs and jokes are not as loud or larger than life as they used to be. As we want them to be.
I am missing this picture above. A lot lately.
Here are three posts that I previously wrote about "Auntie" (Maffie), "Gram" (Angie) and "Auntie El" (Eleanor).
No need to read it all - it's a lot. (or any of it, for that matter). I take no offense.
I am posting this because I want to read about them. And I feel better (and really that's all that matters cuzit'sallaboutme).
AUNTIE MAFFIE
Auntie Maffie was one of my
gram's older sisters. The fourth oldest of the six Pecci siblings.
If you didn't know her, you can't possibly get an accurate picture of her. Not
a physical picture. Not an emotional picture. Not a social
picture. You truly had to know her to know her. I promise.
But I will do my best.
She had closets full of clothes,
still with tags on them and yet always shopped like there was no tomorrow.
She baked without recipes and
everything always came out nothing short of yummy.
She loved her house down the cape.
She would cry every Thanksgiving when she'd be leaving for the season.
Her cape house is one of the most treasured things in my life. It
connects me to her. It always will.
She made THE most delicious salad
(especially at the cape.) It was nothing fancy or all that crazy.
But it was delicious. Every time.
She had trouble hearing and
admittedly didn't have much formal schooling. As a result of both of
these things (in addition to the fact that she really didn't care if she was
wrong), she called many things by the incorrect (but close) name, no matter how
many times we told her. For example, Wendy=Windy, Davis Thayer-David
Thayer, Hannah and Madison=Hannison, Ocean State Job Lot=Ocean State Job Lock,
Betsy=Bessie, Cold=Coal, Dupe=Pooxie. I miss hearing her say those words,
right, wrong or otherwise.
She would call every few days
"just to say hi". She'd talk about the weather, what she had for
lunch, and how we should wear a hat outside so we don't catch a head
cold. *And if you weren't there to answer and she had to leave a message,
she'd always end the message with "Looooove, Auntie Maffie."
She had no shame. If she
needed to use the ladies' room and she was in the livingroom, she'd start
pulling at her pants, right then and there. I know that seems wack, and
it was, but man, it was funny too.
She would walk by her husband,
our Uncle Louie, suddenly start humming or singing a
song and dance with him in the middle of the kitchen. They loved, loved,
loved to dance.
Every birthday, she'd call and
whether you answered the phone or not, she'd sing the entire version of
"Happy Birthday" to you. * See above. (As if we ever
questioned who it was on the other end.)
When H and M were little, she
would say to them, "Hiiiiiii, Cookie". They started calling her
"Cookie". Always have. Always will.
We all could, so easily, get on
her Shit List. It was remarkable. If we didn't call, didn't write,
didn't visit, didn't visit enough, didn't visit long enough...you get the
picture-you heard about it. It was just as easy to get off the List, but
it wasn't fun when you were on It. Believe me.
No matter what time of day, if
you entered her house (and were of age), you'd be offered a shot of ginger
brandy. "A bukaruch". I have no idea how to spell it, but
many of you have heard her say it. If you refused, she'd drink by
herself. Even if it was before noon. That made no difference.
We still do that every time a visitor enters the house at the cape. You
can be sure of that.
When I was a teen, she would
often try to talk to me about "boys". I was so uncomfortable, I
blocked it all out of my mind. I do remember that she always told me and
some of my friends to "be sure that we always keep our knees
together." Who says that?!!? Auntie Maffie did.
If ever you were wearing
something that she liked or had something in your house that she liked, she'd
say "Oh, I like that. Did I give that to you?" or "Oh,
that's so pretty. I gave that to you, right?" It was so
funny. She always believed it to be true.
She was able to crochet and knit
like a champ. Some of our favorite blankets in our house were made my
her. I often want to wrap myself up in them, just be close to her.
She loved the Red Sox. And
Wheel of Fortune.
She had an amazing sense of
fashion. She knew just how to wear a scarf or a piece of jewelry.
She dressed impeccably and always looked "like a million bucks."
She always called Guy "the
surveyor". I'm sure she had no idea what he really did for
work. But that's what she always said. "How's the
surveyor? Good, I hope. He's so lucky to have you."
She never got a license and yet
she would tell Uncle Louie how to drive. "Wait, wait, Louie, now
wait." I don't know what she thought he should wait for but he did,
because he was a smart man. A very, very smart man!!
She always had a fab tan in the
summer. And crazy long nails. Oh and great jewelry.
Always. I wear one of her rings every day. With love, honor and
respect.
She would sit on her front porch
down the cape and say "hi" to everyone who walked by on their way to
or from the beach. She knew who was where, who was what, when who was
coming. You get the point. Nothing got past her.
She taught me to be proud of
myself. She taught me to stand up for myself. She taught me to love
myself. She taught me to love my family. She taught me to be a
better person. She was a one in a million lady. And there will
never be another one like her. Of that you can be sure.
Looooooooove you, Auntie.
Loooooooove you!!!!!
GRAM
I wrote this entry shortly after my gram passed away. One of the saddest times of our lives, to say the very least.
Dear
Gram,
To
say that your legacy lives on in me, my cousins and our children is an
understatement. We are all more like you in ways we don’t even realize
sometimes. (Sorry, Guy, but
it’s true…good luck. At least you know what you’re in for.)
We
joke that you called me “a miracle” to everyone who’d listen (or pretend to
listen). Your pride in me
and the rest of your grandchildren and great-grandchildren went unmatched. I beg anyone to challenge me on that
statement.
You
never missed a single First Day of School. Even when I was in college, you’d head
up to our house to say goodbye before we headed down to PC. At the time, it was sort of
“expected” because I knew you’d be there. Now, looking back, I am in awe of it. What a simple, quick visit can do for
a kid.
I
can’t think of a single “thing” of mine that you weren’t there for, for 35 of
my years– recitals, shows, presentations, parties, meetings, you name it. In fact, when H and M were little and
we enrolled them in their first “class”, I was afraid to take them by myself. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to handle
both of them. Who came with
me each week? You did.
While
I would sing in church, you would tell every single person who walked by you,
that I was your granddaughter. Yes,
Gram, they thought I was beautiful. And
yes, Gram, they had never heard a more beautiful voice. (At least they knew that was
what they were supposed to say.) Oh, and by the way, it was very clear to
them that I was your granddaughter. You had already told them for that
past 2,619 Sundays.
Your
ability to not take things too seriously (including yourself) is a quality that
I am proud to say I see in myself. Like
you, I let most things roll off my back. And like you, if I do get upset about
something – look out. I
mean business.
Every
time I need something to be hemmed or mended in some way, (honestly) my first
thought is to give it to Gram. That’s
one thing that, unfortunately, you didn’t teach me. I truly can’t thread a needle
successfully. Oh well, I
love you anyway. You taught
me lots of other things…
Most
of the phrases that I have coined as “mine” are really not mine– they are
“yours”. I share them with you. And I melt a little when I hear Maddie
and Hannah saying them now as well.
But
Gram, I am angry about one thing. And
it’s a pretty big thing. It’s
not your fault. It’s not
your fault at all. It’s no
one’s fault. And yet, I
can’t get it out of my mind. It
creeps in to my head when I least expect it and I get angry. So angry. (See “I mean business” angry above.)
Gram,
you were taken from us too early. For
a few years, you were “here” with us, but “you” weren’t. It started innocently enough and,
because we didn’t know enough about what was happening, when you said or did
things that didn’t make sense, we all just thought “Oh, that’s just Gram…she’s
being, well, Gram.” Soon
enough though, that didn’t cut it anymore. We knew that you were leaving us. It happened slowly at first and then,
as if in a blink, “you” were gone. Suddenly we didn’t know you anymore. You looked like you. You sounded like you, sort of. But you weren’t you. We lost
you. And we didn’t have a map.
I
would say on my way down the hallway to visit, “maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of
Gram today. Maybe she’ll
say something that will be ‘just like Gram’ today. Maybe she’ll remember exactly who we
are and why we are there and she’ll understand what I’m trying to say to her.” Some days, at the beginning, my
prayers would be answered. I’d
catch a “glimpse of Gram”. And I’d be so happy, like a little kid.
I had my Gram back. And
then you’d be gone. As
time went on though, these glimpses were fewer and fewer.
It
just didn’t make sense. In
my head, I would shout, “what do you mean, you don’t know this, that or the
other thing? You’re Gram! How
can you not know what I’m talking about?” I’d get in my car and cry. You know,
the big, from the toes cry. I’d
sob. And I’m sure I’m not
the only one in our family who did that.
And
then, I’d hope for a glimpse again, the next time I saw you. Up until the
very last day.
I would say, “I miss you more than you know.”
But the amazing
thing now is, I believe that you do know. You know every breath I have taken
and will take. Now, you understand everything – everything that has
happened and will happen.
You
have more than a glimpse of me. You have an eternity.
AUNTIE ELLIE
During our crazy record breaking "snowinter" (that is, thank God, behind us), I thought a lot about the Blizzard of '78.
My parents were managers of
Ledgewood Apartments at the time. They had been for years. In fact, we lived there until the
summer before when we moved to our house. Before, during and after the storm,
they, understandably, had to spend days on end dealing with “landlord-type”
stuff at the apartments – plowing, shoveling, loss of power, etc. Only being six at the time, I needed
someplace to stay while they were busy working.
Where did I stay? Ledgewood Apartment C-5. Auntie Ellie’s.
My Auntie Ellie passed away when she was 94. I had the incredible honor of
delivering the eulogy at her funeral. I
am beyond words thankful to have been given the opportunity to share with our family
and friends my thoughts on this amazing lady. Among the thoughts I shared, were
my memories of Apartment C-5.
I spent a lot of time in that
apartment with her over the years. I think about it a lot. It was really the “hub” of Ledgewood.
There were 48 units and yet, everyone knew where the action was. Apartment C-5. It was where all the repair folks,
delivery folks, perspective renters, and current renters (not to mention family
and friends) knew they could go – for a laugh, a drink, some food, a hug, or
big juicy kiss – whatever they needed. There was always something cooking on
the stove. There was also
always something in the oven. And
something on deck…in case more company showed up…It was truly amazing. She could whip up something delicious in to seconds flat, without hesitation. (When she was in her 80's, she'd love to tell us how she'd "cook for elderly" who lived in her apartment building. She had no idea that she was decades older than most of the "elderly" about whom she spoke).
She truly never said an unkind word. About anyone. No joke. It was really laughable. Everything and everyone was beautiful. Just, just beautiful.
She loved her family more than anything else. If the entire world was caving in around her, as long as she had her family with her, she'd be okay. And she always was.
My most treasured memories of
Apartment C-5 took place in a red recliner chair. I often wonder what happened to that
chair. I would give
anything to have it in our house now. Auntie
Ellie and I would spend hours sitting side by side in the chair. She, in her snap up the front apron. Me, with my pageboy haircut and cords. She’d say, “Push over. I’m sooo fat! My big behind can’t fit.”
She'd laugh, I’d giggle and push
over as far as I could. To me, though, the more squooshed we were, the better. We’d grab our songbook from her drawer
and sing: “Five Foot Two”, “After the Ball”, “Take Me Out To The Ballgame”,
"Side by Side", "Ain't She Sweet", "If You Knew
Suzie". We’d sing at
the top of our lungs. We
didn’t care what we sounded like. We
thought we sounded amazing. It
was pure joy for both of us. Pure.
Simple. Joy.
Auntie Ellie gave me our songbook
for Christmas in 1990. On
the note with it, she wrote, “Dear Kim, This was our special book. It has
such beautiful memories. Love you. Merry Christmas. Love,
Auntie Ellie.” As I look at her handwriting, I can hear her voice and
smell her perfume.
Our songbook and its note sit in
my jewelry box. I
see them every day. And I am reminded of the love that
I felt in Apartment C-5.
THE 'PEKKI' SISTERS
These three ladies. They remind me of what I want to be when I grow up. 