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I can tell you how my grandparents on both sides, as well as my parents, met.
On My Mother's Side…
The Maltese word for grandmother is “Nana”, though I think it may usually be transcribed “Nanna” like in Arabic (the languages have many parallels). I know this because my grandmother was born and raised in Malta, and that is what we call her. Back then, Malta was a British protectorate. Her father died when a bomb was dropped on their home while he was taking the usual afternoon nap and it collapsed on him. It was an old house, made of stone. My great uncle may have made it there before he died. I am not sure. Malta was the most bombed island in the world because of its proximity to Italy during the war. Afterword, my grandmother, who had been well-off, joined British intelligence and was stationed in Tripoli, Libya because of the multiple languages she spoke (I never remember…was it 5 or 7?)
My grandfather was an American. He was an Air Force pilot and officer when he was stationed at an Allies base in Tripoli. Swimming one day, he saw a pretty girl doing the same–she swam like a fish (from being raised right near the water, not that he knew) and he couldn't help but dunk her. Offended by his forwardness (and she had always been a proud and strong-minded woman, never taking nonsense from anyone), she chased him while he tried to swim away and escape. She caught him and grabbed him to dunk him back (or drown him–I'm never really sure which when she tells me the story.) Because he was slippery from the water and still swimming away, her long fingernails ripped some lines in his back. She walked with him to get it patched up and he insisted he was sorry for his behavior and offered to take her to dinner. She refused, but he begged until she gave in. After the “date” he claimed that now that they'd spoken and he was getting to know her, he'd have to marry her. She objected and scoffed, “you Yanks are all the same!”
They did marry eventually, though, so I suppose she ate her words later. :P They moved back to the States (she as a war-bride) and got a home in North Carolina while he was stationed there. Their children started coming, and would not stop (besides the time in-between, of course. =P) for years. They later moved to a town called Tonawanda outside of Buffalo, New York because he was stationed nearby. Then he was assigned to a base in Germany to oversee it as commander during the Reconstruction. Their 11th child was born on the base in Germany. My mother remembers the place vaguely. A few months before he was going to officially retire so they could return to Tonawanda, my grandfather died of a heart attack in his sleep. My uncle, the oldest child, was 16. My youngest aunt was about 6 months. Nana is a strong woman and raised them all. My family is very, very close, and we try to stick together even though we are hundreds of miles apart. I am one of 21 first-cousins, and the 11th great-grandchild is on the way (expected August 24th.) Due to a series of circumstances, Nana moved in with my parents years before they had children. It worked out for everyone. I grew up with her always with me. I saw her Alzheimer's progress. She still tends to recognize me as a relative of some sort, but doesn't always know who I am (her daughter Barbara, maybe?) It doesn't matter, because she just needs some love and support sometimes when she is confused and scared, or just lonely (because five minutes after going into her room because an hour-and-a-half conversation wore her out completely, she thinks she's been alone all day.) Right now I'm back home with my parents between university semesters, and for Nana's birthday in August we'll have a family reunion and celebrate 85 years of a wonderful, strong, faith-filled, inspiring woman. She is beautiful in so many ways. And she still loves and misses my grandfather, and tells me stories of my “father” often when she sees his pictures on her shelf or hanging on the wall.
On My Father's Side…
Grandma and Grandpa were both born in New York City, somewhere. I could ask Grandma where, since she also lives with my parents now, but Grandpa passed away about 10 years ago now.
Grandma was a Jewish girl, the oldest in the family (and second-oldest child). Her mother was a delightful, fun-filled, kindly woman about whom every family member on that side talks endlessly and affectionately. I was named in her honor–she died at 90 not too many years before I was born (as I understand it, I almost made it to see her). Grandma grew up during the Depression. She was very bright and finished high school at 16 because of an advanced program starting in middle school where they took some high school courses early. She had always dreamed of being a teacher, but her family was poor (one of her younger brothers was very sickly and malnourished as a child) and there just wasn't any money to send her to college to become a teacher. Instead, her older brother got her a job as a bookkeeper even though she had no experience–she was very sharp and he was known as a pretty honest and straightforward guy, so the man looking for help believed him when he said she was good with numbers, organized, and sharp in general, and he thought she could handle it. He was right, and she began work. She made $8/week and gave 5 of them to her mother to help pay for food for her 5 younger siblings.
Grandpa was an Italian Catholic. His older brother had married a Jewish girl and it hadn't worked out. He was several years older than Grandma, and had dropped out of school (breaking his mother's heart, since he was her best student and she hoped he would study and become a doctor) after the pigeons he raised to make money were stolen–he had to look for them. Afterward, he worked in plumbing and construction. He eventually did some business with gas (possibly related to the pipes and plumbing?) and somehow met my grandmother through the business deal. At the time, she was 17. I believe he was 24, but my math may be off.
They dated for several years, but both families were iffy about them thinking about engagement. There is a funny story about skating, and my grandfather pulling some rough-and-tough friends into line after my grandmother got a bloody lip from their roughhousing in the rink, and her being offered free admission whenever she wanted to skate again because he was so pleased that the hooligans that haunted his business were under control for once. =P But that's another story. The relationship between my grandparents was steady.
Finally, Grandpa realized that his draft number was drawing close. Because she was 20–too young to get married in New York independently–and since both families were concerned (Grandpa's because of the previous marriage of his brother, and Grandma's because even though they weren't orthodox, there were tensions between the communities and they were hesitant, as she was the oldest daughter and so the first one to marry), they eloped–I think to Baltimore? I could check–and got married there. (Funnily enough, I didn't know this until a few years ago. My mother mentioned it and I almost died of shock, and then laughter.) Sometimes I wonder if Grandma was sad that she never had a “real” or festive wedding, but then I think of Grandpa and how happy they were together and realize that the important part was full and beautiful enough that I'm sure it wasn't important enough to really bother her. Grandpa decided to sign up for the Navy–if he had to serve, he had heard they had better food and he would rather serve there (funny stories about how much my grandfather loved food…he was really an incredible eater. I can't even begin to explain his endless appetite and critical taste!) He found out that the army already had claimed him. Soon after, he got his draft notice, and off he went to the army! Grandma moved back in with her parents and lived there for 4 years, putting away the paychecks Grandpa sent back and any money he made (clever man, he found ways to sell little trinkets and bracelets made of native coins as they traveled…the men would send them back to their wives, daughters, mothers, etc. I'm certain there were other ideas, but I don't know of them. Grandma still has a bracelet he made and sent her…he truly was very handy.)
When Grandpa came back, he was very ill. He had gotten sick twice of some sort of flu in the Pacific…I keep forgetting what it is, but it might have been Dengue Fever?? He had tried to reinlist–he was so close, and the war was nearing the end, he should at least see Japan, he figured! But after a long service, they rejected his request and sent him home to recover. Grandma surprised him by still having basically all the money he had sent ready in the bank (she had continued working and living at her parents' house.) They got a place again and Grandma tried desperately to fatten him back up. She succeeded a little too well and his mother laughed–she had never seen him bordering heavy before, he had always been on the lean side! Grandma cut back on the whole cream and multiple eggs and Grandpa recovered enough to get back to work. He got his master plumbing license (sort of a minor engineering-type degree in that day, Grandma says) through night school and they went into business for themselves, Grandma as the bookkeeper. They bid on government jobs. Grandpa once added in–for free, since if he pointed out the mistake of sprinklers missing from the plans in a hallway in the school, the children would go weeks without the safety assurance of having them while the plans went back to the architect, the board, etc. etc.–fire sprinklers down an entire walkway when the plans had an error. He would often insist that his team of men scrap whole sections and start over if he thought they weren't working up to his standards of quality. Sometimes he would get angry and climb up to do it himself or “show them how to do it right.” He once ruined a very nice, new pair of slacks and made Grandma very angry. They worked very hard, and made a fabulous team. They were married over 50 years–I was present at the anniversary, but hardly remember a thing except confusion and big crowds, then falling asleep on a couple of put-together chairs in the corner because I was only about 2. They moved in and out of our house as time went on–Grandma broke her leg as they moved all the things from the New York house permanently to Florida (they had been snowbirds and had decided to make the move permanently since the winters were getting harder and the stairs in their home as well. …he planned and built that home himself…with a fieldstone fireplace like Grandma had always wanted.) Grandma got breast cancer. Grandpa started falling several times a week and needing my parents to rush to their house to help, as Grandma was not strong enough to help him up (she is a small woman, and became rather frail in her old age, though never, ever helpless!) Eventually, they agreed to move in until he “was well enough to move back to our mobile home.” While Grandpa never admitted it, Grandma and my parents basically realized he was staying until he passed. He had heart problems, and doctors had been predicting his imminent death for about 20 years. He still managed to proudly see my cousin, siblings, and me born and growing. He had had strokes, though not recently at that point, but ended up falling and needing surgery. They took him off blood-thinner and waited until enough time had passed to open him up. Still, he didn't make it long–he had a heart attack before they could do surgery. After he passed, Grandma stayed with us, and here she still is. I like to sit on my stomach at the end of her bed as she reads the newspaper with her magnifying glass (her vision is terrible, she fears she may go blind in the next few years. Surgery has helped greatly with the darkness, but it is still very difficult for her to see.) on her chair with her bright lamp from my mother. She always sets it down in her lap and smiles and talks–about the Depression, my grandfather, my aunt and father as children, occasionally about the one baby she lost (not often…it is too sad for her), or her siblings, or my dad's many cousins…if I tell her things or bring her troubles, she makes noted comments and explains her opinions. She loves to hear about news, especially science, and was very excited today to be reading about the moon around Saturn where they believe there is a salt-ocean, “which,” she explains, smiling, “they say is a precursor to planet life!” She often tells me to do whatever I want and go in school as far as I wish. My aunt was basically the first in the family to go to college, and now she's a professor. My father is a doctor. My cousin is studying art at a prestigious art school. Grandma insists that she is proud of us all, and she is beyond glad that she had such good children and wonderful grandchildren. She tells me about how Grandpa took part in their childhood, and things they all did together. She remembers his birthday, and his family (whom she adored after the marriage, and they her!), and his anniversary of death. She doesn't go a day without thinking about him, though not so sadly anymore–I would even venture to say it's happily, at least affectionately–and even though my memories of him are all from when I was young, the ones I have and the ones Grandma shares with me make me certain that they shared a deep and fulfilling love.
My Own Parents…
My father is not quite 6 years older than my mother. She was always very independent and a little wild. While he grew up in New York City, she grew up in Tonawanda, a small town outside of Buffalo in upstate New York. My father went to MIT, then SUNY at Buffalo for medical school. He is an extremely intelligent man with an Italian temper (that doesn't come out too often) and a funny, infectious laugh that he whips out often (and frequently without control, even before finishing whatever joke or thought he was relating, turning red and then purple with laughter so intense that he can no longer breathe, and leaving us staring, confused, and then laughing hysterically at him as he gasps for breath and laughs until he's practically on the floor.) She is a free-spirited, independent, honest, and caring woman–a no-longer-teaching special-education teacher with incredible talent and patience with children. Right now she spends most of her time somehow gardening in our yard and taking care of Nana, whose Alzheimer's leaves her in need of near-constant supervision and reassurance.
When my mother was 17, she convinced Nana that she wanted to get engaged to a boy Nana didn't like so she would let my mother move down to Fort Lauderdale with my aunt, who was married and living there. She moved in and discovered when she tried to start senior year that New York's school system was so far ahead of Florida's that she had all the credits she needed to graduate. She asked for her diploma, which they refused on the grounds that she had not even attended their school. So she attended for the first half of the year and took half-year courses, then worked for 6 months and picked up her diploma in June. She started college at a community college. At one point, she went to Buffalo in the winter to see Nana as Christmas neared…
My father went to SUNY at Buffalo for med. school, as mentioned. There he had a roommate with his same first name. His last name differed from his, but was the same as my mother's. This is easily explained, as he was her older brother, child #3 (to my mother's #8). My uncle was getting a PhD degree (I believe) in medical research while my father was getting an MD degree to practice as a physician. They would sometimes go to Nana and ask if she needed any handywork done. She told me softly, years later, with a smile, that she would always think of something for them, even if she hadn't really had anything she wanted done. They would work and “fix up” the problem, whatever it was, and then she would invite them to stay for a home-cooked dinner. They always accepted.
This particular winter day, my uncle and father had stopped by to see Nana. My mother, who had given up on men (“They were mostly stupid pigs.” She still asserts. “Your father was and is an exception to the rule.”) and decided to find a pretty “stud” and never see him again when she wanted to start a family. She would be a single mother with his pretty babies. …as intriguing as that plan seems (if somewhat strange, perhaps), I am rather glad that she saw my father as she walked in the door. She had never believed in such foolishness, but she felt like something shot through her when she saw him. She backed up and accidently shook the door by bumping into it, knocking off Nana's large crucifix. She had to stay pinned against the wall with her arms up a bit to keep in from falling to the ground and breaking. Nana rushed over and took it, but the damage was done: my parents began seeing each other. He still claims she never told him she was only 19. He was perhaps 25 at the time, I believe, and would never have dated a woman under 20, even if it wouldn't be for long. Luckily for him (and me!), he didn't realize until later.
After one semester apart (with some silly love letters to boot–my mother found one in their closet and laughed and showed us. As smart as he was, he playfully wrote in cooing language and used the word “muchly”. I almost died laughing…but it was sweet beyond belief.), my mother couldn't take it anymore and transferred to a school in Buffalo. She lived with her brother and future-husband for quite some time, though she hated returning to the freezing (really, quite below freezing!) cold winters of childhood. My father wished to marry her after a few years, but she kept him waiting for 6, not sure if she was ready to swear before her friends, family, and God (even though she had left the church in 4th grade after a nun at the school that gave Nana's children free tuition as charity claimed that her soul was so full of black spots that she was doomed to hell…this was Catholic, pre-Vatican-II schooling. ;P) that she wanted to be with him forever. They count their anniversary, however, including those years before they officially married, as they lived as if they were through several years of internship, my mother's graduate school, etc. For my mother's sake, they moved to Miami, FL, where they were joined by Nana after a strange situation led to her moving to Florida.
My father finished his residency and officially became an OB-GYN. He never once pushed the wild woman who is my mother to threaten her career by having children even though he desperately wanted some (she did too–eventually. They settled on 4, the last of which was conceptually “blown away” by Hurricane Andrew in 1992, when my youngest-and-only sister was only 6 months old. My older-and-only brother remembers it better, but I have a few fuzzy memories.) She started considering moving up her timeframe when one of the hospital nurses who took care of neonates in the hospital nursery mentioned how good and kind my father was, how well he deals with the patients and their new babies…but also how concerned and terrified she was that he may give in and try to steal one someday–she had seen how he looked and smiled at them when he held them in the nursery!–and she thought my mother should do something about it. My father still smiles slyly at me when he insists that he never once pushed her to give up her career or set it back to have us. When she suggested the idea, he insists, he was happy to “think about it” and agree. “Okay,” he imitates himself with a studied serious-look on his face, and then beams at me.
Even though the stresses of Nana and Alzheimer's, and my Grandma's fragility and occasional broken bones, surgeries, etc. have taken a toll on the whole family (my sister most notably of all), my parents are still obviously deeply in love. They support each other even when they argue or just disagree. They are patient with each other when one is snippy after having a bad day. When my siblings and I get frustrated with my mother, our father pounces on us pointing out our inconsistencies and how we're being unfair to her–even right after being annoyed that she fell asleep and didn't get up to give Nana her afternoon pills at the usual time, again, and he had to try to convince the paranoid woman to take them at a strange time when she already sometimes thinks we're going to accidentally kill her with overdose. Even after complaining that my father gets so frustrated from work sometimes and can't lighten up even enough to be pleasant while we make dinner, my mother is ready to spring to his defence if we complain about him–how hard he tries, how the hurricane effectively destroyed their financial stability, how much he is upset that he can't earn enough at his practice (insurance because of lawsuit-lust, HMOs, the way his practice pays the doctors, etc.) and to give us the things he never had but wanted us to have. She is all heart, and always trying to make sure we realize that all the hard work and struggles my father pulls through somehow…it's all for us, for our family.
I always lose count of the years my parents have been together, even though they seem to remember effortlessly (despite that my mother often has to think and count back to remember her own age!) I never know if they are counting from their official wedding, or living together in the attic they rented from an old lady while they were still relatively poor students. It doesn't matter. In recent years they celebrated 30. I'm beyond sure that they, like my father's parents before them, will happily and strongly push on to see 50 years, the “golden” anniversary, and (perhaps far) beyond.
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