My Grandmothers

Jun 12 | Written By American Baroness

I often think about my grandmothers. I miss them both—the  maternal (Nancy, middle of frame, patterned dress) and paternal (Genevieve, far right, sleeveless).

Let’s start with Nancy, my Nana, who emigrated to the US from Italy, worked as a seamstress, and married my grandfather Francis (also from the old country) when she was in her early 40s. It was her first, and only, marriage.  Like Francis, she was from a little village in Abruzzo Italy. My grandfather was by then a widower with 4 children (his eldest, the first of 5, had died in WW2; 2 of the remaining 4 were out of the house; and the youngest two, twin girls, my mother and her sister, were 12). His 4 children became Nancy’s 4 children. 

He chose well when he chose Nancy. She was elegant and kind; she kept a spotless, pretty home and wow, could she cook. The immaculate kitchen, cool in summer and toasty in winter. She dressed so beautifully. She smelled so good. I remember sitting at her vanity, marveling at her fancy brush and comb set, her many bottles of powdery perfume, and tubes of matte red lipstick. 

Nana was a constant presence in our lives growing up and though her heavily-accented English was only so-so, her self-expression was seamless. She loved to laugh and did so readily. She also felt comfortable having a good cry, watching a sad movie or talking about family or friends. She taught us how to drink coffee. She grew rhubarb in the backyard and made the most delicious pies with it. We all loved her. My little sister is named after her. I believe she saved my mother and aunt from despair. She lived until 1981. 

Now, Genevieve. The enigma. The Irish one. By all accounts, an intellectual and self-taught theologian, a woman who never once suffered a fool, including her own husband, kids and grandkids. She was an RN who worked the night shift while raising two sons in the 1930s/40s, with her pickled parents from County Sligo living upstairs. When teachers told her that her son, my Dad, was a poor reader who had little hope of academic success, she pulled him out of school for a week and taught him how to read. Years later he went to Boston College on a scholarship. She was fierce. When I was 5, she died of emphysema. My little sister never met Genevieve but she named her own daughter Genevieve. I have very clear memories of her, in the kitchen, smoking and talking animatedly about things I didn’t understand. She was captivating, even in a housecoat.

That’s me, pictured far left, on my Aunt Connie’s lap.