Crooked fingers

I heard from my niece, Heather, today. We've been out of touch for years. I keep up with her comings and goings by talking to my brother, Carl. He's her oldest child. She was born shortly after my son, Phil. So she's...I won't tell you how old she is. She might not appreciate it.

She asked me some questions about things that were my father's and mother's and if I knew where they were. Heather lived with my father for a while when she was in her 20s and struggling to get started in her career. She always seemed to really love her Grandfather (she stayed with him after my mom died) and he, her.

Anyway, she's engaged. No date set for the wedding. She said her fiance makes fun of her crooked pointy index fingers and was wondering if she got that from my father.

My dad had really bad arthritis in his hands and his fingers were so bent, I often wondered how he could hold a fork or play the piano, or type. Now, I have crooked fingers -- my pinkie, left-hand finger top points toward my ring finger, and my index finger, right hand, top points toward my thumb. So, I know the answer to my wondering now that I'm experiencing the same thing. I can type -- a little slower than I used to -- and I can hold a fork and a knife. I just figure I have the perfect curve in my index finger, right hand, to go around that mouse I've grown so fond of in the last 10-15 years!

My sister has crooked fingers as well. My mom, didn't. I mean, when she was 80 her fingers were gnarled and misshapen, but they weren't bent sideways like my father's were, and like mine are, and like my sister's are, and now, like Heather's are. It's in the genes!

Uncle Joe Sbaraglia

First, let me apologize about the picture transfer for the BLOG. I'm not really good at doing this, and am just doing what I know how to do to get the pictures copied. I can't seem to "clip" them and make them nice and even. That said...

Uncle Joe Sbaraglia, my mother's only brother, spent what I would say was a lot of time in Runnemede. He and his family -- Aunt Rita, Robert, Joan, and Lynn -- lived in South Philly in a house on Juniper Street. It was near where the Mummer's Parade starts. I loved that house for more reasons than one. But that's another tale.

Uncle Joe came often to visit. Now, I have to say, I didn't like the smoking. I'm not a smoker, have never had a cigarette, and frankly the smell really makes me ill -- gives me a headache. But I loved Uncle Joe. Who wouldn't? He always gave me a quarter when he came to visit. He had the most adorable children -- my cousins -- Joanie being my favorite. Robert and I played together when we were younger, I know because I have the pictures, but I don't remember enjoying times with Robert. With Joanie, I could say, we had some very good times when we were growing up, and into our teen age, boy crazy (she for her husband, me for mine) years. And the years when we LOVED Frankie Avalon and other male bee-bop singers. I still have sweet communion with Joanie and she is as sweet today as she always was then. There's just a sweet spirit in her.

Back to Uncle Joe. He came to take us kids (with his two oldest) to places we never would have gone had he not taken us there. He had a car. He came to visit to help my mother do things around the house that she couldn't do by herself, like paint the ceiling, wallpaper the living room, fix a window. It's not that we couldn't get someone else to help with those chores, the point is, Uncle Joe looked to find things he could do to help his sister. I recall several years he came to help my father replace the storm windows with screens, and vice versa.

Uncle Joe was married to Aunt Rita -- the lady who was the best cook in the family in the opinion of ME, and since I'm writing this, that's all that counts. Her spaghetti sauce (gravy) was the best. Micki's was good, too, but not as good as Aunt Rita's.

Uncle Joe encourage me so much when Alan left for Africa. I was devastated when he left, even though I knew it was inevitable. I just knew he would forget about me and I'd never see him again. Uncle Joe told me that first, he wouldn't forget. A guy doesn't forget his first love. But second, he told me that if Alan and I were to be married, he would return to me and we would be married. Of course, you know the end of that story! 42 years ago we were.

I know Uncle Joe loved the Lord a lot. Other spurts of memory come to me -- his asking my father questions about the Bible, his singing hymns, or humming them.

Uncle Joe could play the piano in such a jazzy style, I really envied him. It was a skill that took me a long time to learn, and it wasn't until I was in my mid-20s that I got a hold of the bluesy/jazzy type playing he did on the piano. He played the ukulele as well (Robert has his Uke now) and would sing silly songs along with his plucking.

I might say that all the Sbaraglias were musical in some respect. My mother, Uncle Joe, Aunt Annie, and Aunt Fran played the piano WELL -- it must have been part of the training their mom wanted them to have (I BLOGged that a couple of weeks ago). Aunt Diasy I don't know about, but here is Micki. She sure had a talent.

The last time I saw my uncle was the day of my sister's wedding. We were all gathered at the house afterwards. I had recently become pregnant with my first child and was so proud of my almost protruding stomach (three months, first pregnancy, you look for things like that). And he was very happy for me and we talked about my being pregnant and how I was feeling. We talked the way I would talk with my father, actually. He listened to me, and we enjoyed the back-and-forth chatter for quite a while. Anyway, when Uncle Joe was getting ready to head home after the wedding, I said, "Well, Uncle Joe, have a good trip home, if I don't see you again here, I'll see you There." Little did I know that would be the last time I would see him. But I shall see him again.

I'm bringing up Uncle Joe Sbaraglia again because, first, I recently had a visit with Robert, his son. And we rehashed what little we remember of our lives intertwining when we were young. But because a dear friend of the family recently passed away, and my cousin Joan was telling me about her mother and how she died.

These are Joanie's words she said I could use them: My Dad had just come from upstairs, after getting ready to pick up my sister and her girlfriend from their part time jobs at Gimbel Bros. It was at the bottom of the stairs (corner in the living room) that this happened. My father NEVER forgot how Mary Ricci's mother (Mary Ricci is the friend) went to be with Our Lord. He brought it up numerous times, as it impressed him immensely!!! He said she loved God so much...a second before she passed; she smiled, looked up and followed something around the ceiling, she then fell on her knees into a praying position still looking up..and took her last breath. Do you know that's exactly how my father died? I couldn't believe this when my mother and the funeral director told me. In a split second, that's all it took!

I loved all my Uncles and I miss them. On of my biggest regrets is that I wasn't the kind of Aunt to my neices and nephews I had when I was growing up. Physical distance puts a damper on that kind of relationship. Be thankful if you have family living nearby. Enjoy each member of that family and get together as often as you can. The remembrances are wonderful.

Uncle Harry

Uncle Harry was quite a character, not unlike my father. Uncle Harry was my father's uncle by marriage, not by birth. Uncle Harry married my father's father's (Charles) sister (Kathryn). Is that clear? No? Oh well. Maybe you'll get the picture as I move along with this rambling.

My father's mother (Bertha) died when my father was 9 years old, in the flu epidemic of 1918. His dad did not remarry for a long time, so my father lived with Aunt Kathryn and Uncle Harry, and I supposed his father lived with them as well. Uncle Harry had two children, Alberta and Herb. Alberta was several years younger than my father, but through the years she was really a sister to him.

Back to Uncle Harry.

Uncle Harry could come to visit us. Uncle Harry was nearly blind, even with glasses. Sort of like Mr. Magoo. Anyway, Uncle Harry lived in North Philly, and he took the trolley down to center city, and then hopped on a bus and would just show up, unannounced from time to time. We never minded because he was so funny. But, I can't remember why we thought he was so funny. Maybe it was because he paid attention to us and told us stories.

Anyway, he would just show up, and the first thing he would do is sit down and read the paper. Now, for Uncle Harry to read the paper, he would raise his glasses onto his forehead, and put the paper to his nose, and read it without his glasses. He said his arms weren't long enough, and if he used his glasses he would have to put the paper across the room, and getting up to turn the pages would be too much of a nuisance.

Uncle Harry was an inventor. He had several patents. One he loved to show us was a button hooker. It was a gadget, perhaps you've seen it, that looped over a button. It had a handle, and you put the button in the loop part, and pulled the loop (and button ) through the button hole. They came in various sizes for different size buttons and they were available at Wanamakers in the "Notions" department (that's buttons and bows to you young people who have never experienced a trek to the "Notions" department of a department store.

Anyway, whenever he came unannounced, mom would quickly make up a batch of spaghetti, because that was Uncle Harry's favorite meal.

He lived to be 105, and ate what he wanted until he died. He never worried about eating hot stuff, or fatty stuff, or lots of veggies, or no salt. He just ate what he enjoyed and one day he just didn't wake up.