Poppy

I never fully grasped the saying “you never really know just how much you miss someone until they’re gone” as a child.  I never even understood what it meant to actually lose someone.  I didn’t know the meaning of death and that dying meant that you would never see someone ever again.  At five years of age I was presented with all of this with no clear understanding of what any of it meant.

In 1993, I lost my best friend, my hero, my world.   It was that year I lost my Poppy (other wise known as my grandfather Joseph Femia) My grandfather is originally from Calabria, Italy and immigrated to Utica, NY.  I get chills every time I hear the story of his childhood.  His family was very poor in Italy.  He didn’t even get a pair of shoes until he was 15! One day his father told him to leave and don’t look back because there was nothing in Calabria for him.  As a result he was a stow-away on a ship heading to America…where he later found his new home in Utica, NY…..

I had such a hard time understanding what my mother was telling me.  How was I supposed to know what death was? It was so hard for me to get it through my head that poppy was gone and never coming back.  For several Christmases I even asked “Santa” to bring a special gift for my poppy because deep down inside a part of me still didn’t want to accept he was no longer here.

My grandfather and I had a special relationship.  We were very close for several reasons.  One, my family lived upstairs from my grandparents so we were always together.  Every day I would spend the day with my grandparents while my parents were at work.  My grandfather and I did everything together.  There wasn’t one thing in the world he wouldn’t do for me.  I don’t even think there was anything he would say no to when it came to something I wanted to do. 

There are so many memories I have of Poppy and I.  We would take walks around the neighborhood of Utica, NY.  We would play house and school together.  I would play on the swing set while he tended to his wonderful garden filled with pretty much any type of vegetable the typical Italian would want to grow.  I also remember the weekly Sunday dinners of pasta and meatballs with nice fresh Italian bread that we all had together.  Of course being so young there are so many memories that I have not been fortunate to recall.

One of the memories that is the strongest is when I used to help my grandfather make home made sausage.  I can remember the smell of the red wine (which was homemade!) I can remember putting in the paprika and fennel seeds and the feeling of squishing the meat together.  I can even remember the sound from cranking the sausage maker.   My grandfather loved to cook and I loved to share in his passion of continuing the family tradition of making sausage.

 

My mother always says “Do you remember when you and Poppy ….” and sadly I would have to say no a lot of the times.  I enjoy hearing the stories she tells me of him and I because I will forever let the memory and Poppy live on inside me.  Sharing the stories of the good ol’days with him is a way of healing for me. 

(Making sausage // Gardening // Me & Poppy)