Green chandeliers

Soon after my father died, my mother started exhibiting this bizarre fixation with the color green as it pertained to my father, her husband of more than 60 years (60 years!). I’m sure, in the 1970s, my father probably wore some flamboyant outfits – it’s a virtual lock that he sported “leisure suits” back in the day, because most middle-aged men back then sported “leisure suits.” I don’t quite recall, but I envision him showing up to my Little League games back then, straight from the office, wearing some obnoxious colored suit with the wide collars and the shirt unbuttoned. Hey. It was the 1970s, you know. But now? Loud colors in old age and for eternity? Ma. Really. What are you THINKING? What’s with the GREEN already!

My father died, one year ago today, after a brief but also lengthy illness (I know that seems contradictory, but it’s more or less the truth). He had a good run. Nearly 88 years, more than 60 with my mom, a love affair for the ages. We should all be so blessed. During the past year, as my mother has unpacked the emotions of a lifetime together with the old man, she revealed to me that my father would write her little notes, all the time, even up until the summer before his passing, before his health and mindset started its rapid decline. Although my father was born in Italy, he lived a truly great American life. He was a loyal employee, working for one company, for more than 45 years. He was a proud Army veteran and received full military honors at his funeral. He and my mom raised four kids (the last one, the caboose of the family, being this old coach). Along the way, they shepherded various old Italians through the latter stages of their lives, all under one roof. Ours was a house filled with people and noise and food and this cacophony of Italian and English, jumbled together in a unique mix that only we could understand; and my father, he was the undisputed king of that castle. He’s gone now, a year already, which is difficult to fathom. My mom still thinks about him and talks about him and cries over his loss and even says she sees him watching over her at night. Love affair for the ages.

So yeah. Back to the color green. The day after my father died, my mother pulled out this bright, lime-green golf shirt. Said she wanted my father buried in that shirt. I had never even SEEN this shirt before. What! Are you KIDDING me? My father never golfed. I could hear him growl the old Mark Twain line about golf – “a good walk spoiled” – perhaps with a colorful adjective tossed in there for good measure. Golf shirt? No. Lime green, so obnoxious as to make Lindsey Nelson or Craig Sager blush? Uh-uh. No way. My mother relented. He would sail into eternity in a more mainstream suit, similar to the ones he wore to work at the company year after year. But my mom wasn’t done. “OK. If your father is not gonna wear that shirt? Then, he’s gonna be buried in a green casket.” Good God, what’s with the GREEN already? Sure enough, the funeral home had a green casket – hunter green, a dark, more respectable green. Are we really talking about this stuff? Now?

The death of a loved one, of course, is an emotional time. These decisions have to be made, while everyone’s dealing with grief and shock and loss – no matter the circumstance of the demise. It’s never easy. Of course, it’s never easy. Next on the agenda, my mother wanted to make sure we had a good “repast” meal – for family and close friends, after the funeral. It had to be at a fancy Italian restaurant. We had to have a CARVING STATION. My mother was insistent upon that. Your father, she said, he would want a carving station -- with good, fresh meat for the guests. For the various old surviving Italians from the Bronx and Westchester, this was a big deal. Carving station. We had a big meal. The wine flowed as the old Italians mumbled about the carving station and the nice restaurant and how big the kids and grandkids have gotten; again, in that odd mix of broken Italian and broken English that only our family seems to understand. My mother, in her grief, in her black outfit, was pleased at this good and proper sendoff for her man. My father would approve, I thought. I glanced up at the ceiling at this fancy restaurant in the suburbs of Jersey. The chandeliers. They were green.