Thinking about my mom and dad today.  April 25th was the date of their wedding anniversary. They always celebrated their anniversary.  They bought gifts for each other and often went out for dinner while my sisters babysat me. Being the youngest in the family, the caboose, I always felt that my parents had already had a lifetime of marriage and had experienced many complicated and complex life experiences together well before I was ever born. I was born hearing their stories of growing up in their Sicilian village, of the early days of their marriage in Grotte, of the later years in Liege, Belgium where, for thirteen years, my dad worked as a coal miner, of their time in Boston, and of their settling in Gary, Indiana, where finally I was born.

They passed away within 12 months of each other. I know it sounds strange, but though I know they are deceased, I like to imagine they are on vacation, far off, in some exotic land, having such a grand time that they have definitively put off coming home!  I wrote the following blog post a while back and am re-posting the following in their honor:

There is a close up photograph my nephew John took of my parents’ hands.  It is so unbelievably beautiful and, unfortunately, John cannot find it among his tens of thousands of negatives.  I would have loved to use that photo in this blog, but I have these other photos of my parents’ hands.

My parents got married in their hometown Grotte in Sicily on April 25, 1948!   Today, on my parents’ wedding anniversary, I think of them, of their undying love and respect for one another, and of their loving amazing hands.

(above) This is how I will always remember my parents.

Below (the early days in Grotte, Sicily):

The most beautiful hands in the world are not manicured, soft, and bejeweled.

They are lined,

calloused from coal mining,

encrusted with farmed earth.

They smell of onions and garlic.

They are stained with tomato sauce from canning,

dotted with wet bread dough,

snagged from knitting and crocheting socks, scarves, hats, baby blankets and sweaters.

They are sticky from picking apples, figs,

pears, peaches, plums, almonds, walnuts, and berries.

Their fingers are pierced from embroidery and sewing.

Sometimes they are covered with meat and fennel from sausage making

or sprinkled with wine from the press.

They have made countless meals.

These hands are strong, full of expression,

fearless, protective, hardworking, providing,

worn to the bone.

They are firm and gentle

and have held, caressed, fed, and cleaned many babies and children.

Yes, they are kind beautiful hands.  They speak.  They tell a story.

Written on mom and dad’s wedding anniversary: April 25, 1948 — to eternity