Portrait of a Teacher as a Young Dad

2016, this slum of a year, claimed the lives of so many beloved artists. Sadly, my clever, sharpshooting, musical father's was one of them. Here is the section of his eulogy I gave on September 15, 2016.

Whether we acknowledge it or not, parents are always their children’s first teachers.  Dad not only acknowledged this, he embraced it, and conveniently, he was  an actual educator anyway.

I remember at a very young age sitting on Dad’s lap and him teaching me to count on my fingers, add and subtract, letters and the sounds they made, and so forth.  He was really impressed when one time I pulled off my sock and showed him that I could count to 11.  

Well, that was the beginning.

My parents were young and creative when I came along, which is my current, short-handed explanation for the extra S in my name.  Being Lissa with 2 esses was simple until first grade, when I had to defend both the spelling and the pronunciation. I hope this generation of people with non-traditionally spelled names appreciates the battles I fought with school personnel who told me my name was spelled wrong; it could be exhausting for a six year old.  And, I wasn’t the only Lisa in my class - the other one, naturally, spelled her name “correctly.”

One day, about half way through the school year, I brought home a paper and my name was spelled with one s.  Dad said, this must be some mistake, that my paper must have mixed up with Lisa Butterworth’s, and I should bring it back the next day and straighten this out.  When I told him that I spelled my name with one S myself because I was fed up with having to explain my name every day, he was visibly upset.  

What a teachable moment!  He told me that my name is not a word, that no one got to tell me that my name was spelled wrong, and that correcting people about it was important, because it was MY NAME, and I shouldn’t let anyone take it away from me.  

Did I mention I was six?  

But this story speaks to his character - the name is more than 5 letters instead of 4 - it’s an identifier, a gift from two young parents who collaborated to give me something special.   Nearly half a century later, it’s a powerful lesson in self-advocacy.  And for me, who teaches a generation of people who have as many spellings for a particular name as there are people with the name - it’s a lesson in treating children with very basic respect and dignity.

After that, Dad taught me (among other things) how to take efficient notes for high school history lectures that lasted 45 minutes every day, how to multiply by 11 even faster than a calculator, and that a shot of whiskey is a very effective remedy for menstrual cramps.

He taught us to value freedom, to own my choices, and to question authority.  And sometimes, in doing so, heartbreak was involved. And we had our share.  

But heartbreak wasn’t the most important part of Walt’s story.  

The most important part of this family’s narrative is love.  In the meltdown moments, Dad encouraged us with love by reminding us that we are surrounded by love.  He had a way of saying it that made you know it was true.

Earlier this year, during a very dark moment for me, Dad shared a perspective that made all the difference.  His words revealed the only logical choice of how to deal with the crisis:  remember the truth, review the facts, and approach the situation love and compassion,  Do it that way, and you’ll have no regrets.  

Glad I took that to heart.

I will miss his voice, and his text messages.  Dad hated texting, so he kept it brief.

Some examples:

• Roads are slippery, call when you get home.
• 
  
• Back up on Sagamore Bridge. Call when you get home.
• 
  
• Sharks off Plymouth Beach. Swim in a pool.
• 
  
• Hot, hot hot!
• 
  
• Half nude guy in White Horse Beach Houses.

I thought his autocorrect took over that last one.

And I’ll miss his maxims:

• Apples don’t make oranges.
• 
  
• Tell the truth; it’s easier to remember.
• 
  
• Whatever you do - don’t panic. You are surrounded by love.

So are you, Dad.

In loving memory of Walt Magee (1943 - 2016)

Something Elsa

On Thursday morning, September 25, 2014, Elsa Marella, my grandmother, passed away.  This was her eulogy:

You better believe it.

This is really Elsa’s story, but it’s so hard for me to tell it detached from my own, because Nana is so present in my life. One of the perks of being born to young parents is the ministry of grandparents.  I had the good fortune to be born when all four of my grandparents were alive, and three of them were only in their forties.  They were active, creative, hard-working people who really enjoyed grandchildren.

Elsa was born to a privileged mother in an Italian village called Tolo.  Her father, Biagio, whose beginnings were more humble, wanted his children to have the American dream.  And so they came to America and settled in South Quincy and Nana grew up with 2 sisters, 3 brothers, and some Salvatore cousins.  She told us stories about her father’s wine-making, growing up during the depression, sleeping several children to a bed, and being excited to get an orange as a special Christmas treat.  If there was deprivation, she didn’t express it that way.  She loved her family, growing up in Quincy, and her friends. She not only had life-long friends, but she continued to make friends throughout her life. She had a few different circles of friends, but one in particular, “the club girls” got together at least once a month for nearly sixty years.

As a teenager, she fell in love with Rocco, my grandfather, and from his mother, she learned how to cook.  Nana and Grampa loved music and dancing, especially at family weddings, Sons of Italy events and the Firemen’s Ball.  They told a story about how when Elsa was 16, she snuck out of the house one night without her father’s permission to go to a jitterbug contest with Rocco.  They won, but she couldn’t bring the trophy home because that would have been evidence of the crime.

Elsa had a beautiful smile that lit up a room; she was vivacious, fun, and good at a lot of things.  She loved to dress up, and when she went out, she was really put together. Accessorizing was a bit of a passion for her.  Whenever I made earrings at her house, she’d add more beads and dangly things on to  whatever I started with, and she loved them:  the gaudier the better.

She was an incredible cook, she not only baked for every holiday, but well into her eighties, she watched cooking shows like Emeril and Rachel Ray, and she’d challenge herself to try new recipes.  Every decade from the 1940s on was represented in cookware in her house. There are so many memories of Nana making  pizzellis, cutlets, meatballs, sauce.  And there was always home-made soup. “Nonni soup” meant something special to Dave, Liz and Arianna. 

She could sew, too, and knit, and crochet.  Anytime she heard of a relative getting married or having a baby, they could count on a hand-made afghan from Auntie Elsa.  That was one kind of gift she really respected. One thing Nana was not good at was receiving gifts.  Typically, we’d give her a gift with a receipt, because even if it was exactly what we thought she was wishing for, she’d return it to the store.  But a hand-made gift, something that someone created with you in mind; that’s a gift that’s made with love, something you can’t put a price tag on. That’s one of my take-aways from growing up as Elsa’s grand-daughter.  So, if Elsa made something for you, you better believe she loved you.

And she loved a lot of people, especially those she considered her family. If they were asked how many kids they had, Elsa & Rocky would say, “three, Sandy, Lissa and Mike.” She was super-protective and loyal, maybe to a fault, and she assumed a lot of responsibility for providing for her loved ones. That meant a great deal of cooking, sewing, networking, hand-feeding, bill-paying, and just plain showing up.  She cared - a lot, and doing right by your family, and taking responsibility were two things she took very seriously.  She had pretty high standards, and could be hard on herself when she didn’t think she’d done enough, or given enough.

Nana loved being an Italian American.  And like her father, she believed in the American dream, so the year she turned 30, she officially became an American citizen.  She had a good run.  As much as my grandfather’s unexpected death blind-sided her, she managed to have another 20 active years after that, even taking her first airplane ride to visit us in Salisbury, Maryland in 1992.  After flying to see us in Virginia in 2000, she had the confidence to plan her life-long dream of returning to Italy, this time, as an American.  She went and you better believe she loved every minute of it.

As she became less active, and less verbal, she still had a beautiful smile.  She still enjoyed staying social though, and when it was time to move into Hancock Park, she did it with grace, anticipating more time with Mary Cain, one of her “club girls,” who lived on the same wing. She was OK with leaving the house, just as long as Sandy was going to be OK.  Isn’t it funny how a mother doesn’t stop being a mother? So, she made that transition easy on us, still protective of her kids.

Not everyone does great things.  Most of us, like Elsa, accomplish small things.  But her example, another take away for me, is that a person can do many, many small things with great love.  So, you better believe it, Nana accomplished a great deal with great love, and a smile that lit up any place she happened to be. 

So, if they have jitterbug contests in heaven, are Elsa and Rocco winning another trophy?  One their parents and brothers and sisters are cheering them onto?

You better believe it.