Paul Barbaro, my grandfather

I’m fascinated with old photographs, especially with people as subject matter. I gravitate toward them, especially in antique stores, and I find myself captivated by their faces. I wonder who these people were? What were they like?  That is, what was their story? May I tell you a story about a very important person that once shared the planet with me, but now occupys a place in my heart and soul- my grandfather Paul.

Paul and Carolina's Wedding Photograph

Paul Barbaro was a handsome man. Only standing a mere 5’3”, I never thought of him as being a tiny man. His stocky build suggested, that in his day, he could hold his own. He walked with a stiff leg- a WWI machine gun injury. His mangled left leg revealed a horrific scar that made me cringe the few times I saw it.

"He was in the Italian army in WWI...They were our allies against Germany then. He was facing the German lines, stooped over with his hands on his knees when a German grenade exploded behind him. A shrapnel fragment entered his leg from behind taking out his kneecap and also injuring the hand (I don' t know if you ever noticed the scars on his fingers). While he was waiting to be treated at a field hospital it was bombed and every one had to be moved to a different location. At this new location the attending Doctor reversed the decision of the previous Doctor who had recommended amputation. He was able to fuse the joint in a permanently bent position. That's why he had such a bad limp. Dad told me that the Doc asked him what he did before the war and when Dad said he was a farmer the Doc said it would be easier to dig dirt (tsappa ) with a bent leg than a straight one. Did you know that Italy paid him a partial disability pension for that?" Gaspere Barbaro

Through Argentina and passage through Mexico, he made a questionable entry to the United States. He soon married lovely woman and they bore three children. When the children were still young Paul suddenly became a widower. My aunt Anne (on my paternal side) cared for the boys, Gaspere and Mike, while Jenny, the youngest was placed in an orphanage until Paul could properly provide them a home. Paul worked as a janitor for Ford Motor Company- “Ford’s” as we called it.

My paternal grandma, who happened to be Paul’s neighbor, arranged for him to meet my eventual maternal grandmother, “Carolina Bonici. She was a widow. “Noni”, as I called her, lived in Manhattan and would need to join Paul in Detroit, leaving her family behind. Now, her children were living on their own by this time, however, my mother called on her sister and brother-in-law for living accommodations.

The arrangement was clear- the children would reunite and would live with Paul and Carolina.

Paul, Noni, me and Jenny

Paul was my step-grandfather. He wanted me to call him “Paul”. Perhaps this was out of respect to my deceased grandfathers. I like to think so, as he treated me lovingly as he would his other grandchild. To me he was my grandfather- my only grandfather and I knew I was someone special to him. I can see him in his white shirt, dark work pants belted over his large belly, white socks and black work shoes. He smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes- gulped the drag into his lungs and spit the bits of cigarette paper off his lips. His gait was painful to watch. He walked by swinging his stiffened left leg forward to keep his stride. I never heard him complain about his injury or explain how it happened, other than it was a machine gun that got him in the war. It happened, and he dealt with it. He was a hero to me.

I do have early memories of the family gathered around the radio listening to Jack Benny, but when television came on the scene the small black and white Zenith television had its prominent place in their living room. Paul enjoyed his T.V. programs. I got the biggest kick of him laughing at the antics of Barney Fife. We would also watch Big Time Wrestling together- Dick the Bruiser, The Sheik and Bobo Brazil were the guys to beat.

He loved making wine and attending to his garden. His garden took half of his backyard and was suitable for growing some corn, green beans, peppers, and of course, tomatoes. I assisted him annually by digging up the winter-hardened soil and turning it and then racking the chunks of what looked like clay to me into smaller particles. Oh, how good those tomatoes tasted! A salad of tomato wedges with salt, pepper and olive oil (maybe basil leaves) was memorable. If Noni chopped hardboiled eggs into the salad it made my day.

Paul in his garden

Everything tasted better in those days. The peaches, Italian plums from his tree, cherries were ripe and delicious. On a couple occasions, Paul brought home live chickens and snails for a special feast. I thought they were intended to be our pets. My Aunt Jenny, who was more like a sister to me, helped me lined the snails up for the big race. The thought of eating these things never crossed my mind, and it grossed me out to learn that I just ate Chickadee, our pet chicken.

Late September meant making homemade wine for the Barbaro family. Paul enjoyed his alcoholic drink he called wine. Well, let’s just say he used grapes to produce the pale and somewhat musty drink that had hint of vinegar with an alcoholic kick. He purchased grapes from Detroit’s Eastern Market or he may have gone over to Windsor, Canada, just a tunnel ride away. He chose mostly red grapes and Muscatel for the punch to make his Rosé. He had all the equipment to crush, ferment and bottle his wine for the year. He crushed both the grapes and their stems. The juice fermented in 50 gallon oak whiskey barrels. I recall one of the barrels filled with water and stored it outside in the summer months. By November, a month or so, he bottled the wine in whatever glass jar he could find, and began to drink his brew- so much for aging.

Watching Paul eat was an experience. I was a scrawny kid with not much of an appetite, and to watch Paul eat with such ferocity just captivated me. His dentures were not a good fit which meant chewing the pasta unnecessary. Typically he had two huge servings of pasta before the meatballs, pork and/or sausage from the sauce were served with a greens salad with oil and vinegar. Sometimes Noni would serve a cold tomato and green bean salad, but typically an iceberg lettuce salad was the standard entrée. When he was through with his meal he stiffly raised both his hands, gave the dish a gentile push to the center of the table and made an affirmation of satisfaction by filling a jelly jar with his homemade wine; one gulp would empty the jar; he whooshed the liquid around his dentures; swallowed and smacked his lips along with whispered “awe”. Jenny and I would look at each other and smile. It was time for a Lucky Strike cigarette to complete the meal.

Just after the feast

A Summer Road Trip to New York

One summer Paul, Noni and Jenny joined my mother, father and I on a road trip to New York. We all piled into dad’s Cadillac- three in the front and three in the back. This would be a twelve to fifteen hour drive on the New York Turnpike. My dad did all the driving. That made perfect sense, as he was a truck driver by trade. Give him some Wrigley’s Doublemint gum or let him chew on the end of an unlit cigar, and he could drive forever. Noni brought along food for the road including her Torta (potato, leek, onion, cheese and modified pie crusted dish). Eating it would of course make a mess of the interior. Paul was dressed in a suit and tie and Noni would be in a summer dress (probably one she made from a pattern- vintage Gipsy wear I called it). We didn’t make too many stops unless we needed gasoline or to eat. My dad preferred the restaurant chain called “EAT.” Truckers recognized those eateries where one would get bigger portions of food.

After we all completed our lunch, Noni and Paul decided to order a wedge of apple pie for dessert. Paul, dressed to the nines, gulped his food down with wild abandonment as if he was participating in a pie-eating contest, while Noni, in disheveled dress, daintily portioned her bites with grace and etiquette. She had a noticeable shaking of her head, when she was in deep thought. It seemed to be an incontrollable tic and gave her a certain vulnerability, which only endeared her to us all the more.

Mother noted the paradox, and we had a good laugh and even caused them to chuckle as well. Later in the car, what would begin as a giggle resulted in watery-eyed laughter.

Sunday was a day of church and family visiting until I got to the age when I felt that my whole day was wasted on family traditions. After dinner I would split. My parents were tolerant and never pressured me. And when Jenny got married, and my family moved to the suburbs, Noni and Paul kindly drive to our place for dinner. Paul made sure I accepted his folded five-buck donation to the Denny fund. This gesture was customary I suppose. The gift was not so much about the money- it was his way to express his love. Of course I declined, he insisted, I declined and he insisted and won me over.

It was just a matter of time

My mother received a call from Noni one October evening urgently summoning us to rush over to Paul’s and Noni’s house to see what was wrong with Paul. According to Noni. he seemed disoriented and his speech was slurred. I accompanied my mother. By the time we got there he was feeling better, and reassured us that he would be okay. Paul had a history of heart problems that included three previous heart attacks. Whatever had happen to him was gone. We were wrong to leave. By the time we got back to our home Noni called us again. This time mother insisted that Noni call an ambulance. Paul had a stroke- a bad one. Not that there is a good stoke, but this one left Paul in a bad way. He could no longer speak with any clarity nor move his left arm. He was now helpless and trapped in his own body.

Noni and Paul moved in with us on Linda Street in Warren, about five miles from where they lived in Detroit. They would not return to their home on Milton Street again. Noni and my mother took care of Paul. How dedicated they were, and attended to all of Paul’s needs. He had to be escorted everywhere. His meals were fed to him. I saw him frustrated to tears at times with his condition- he knew what had happened and that he would not recover. At times I could see Paul looking at me while we watched television together. I swear there was love in his eyes.

We did manage to have some fun together. I got a kick out of shaving Paul’s beard. It was extremely coarse, and I feared this was cruel and unjust punishment. He contorted his chin and mouth to assist me in the shave. When I completed the shave, wiped his face and put on some aftershave lotion, he expressed his satisfaction with the raising of his hands and securely resting his hands back on the table. It was his way of saying the job was done- just like he would do when he completed a meal.

His last Christmas

I was home on furlough for the holidays in 1971- just completed boot camp and was ready to head to Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indianapolis, Indiana for my additional training. Paul was suffering from bronchitis, but he told my mother it was more than that. Somehow he knew his days were limited. This condition would not improve and had to be taken to the hospital. My father got the car ready. Paul, as he was escorted out the door, waved to me in a way that seemed unusual. I sensed the distinction although I thought he would have just a brief stay in the hospital and would return home. No, he was waving a final goodbye. The next day he died.

I loved Paul deeply. He was a shinning example of a modest man who was content with his life. He was always delighted to see me, and treated me as his own. At times he had reason to scold me- I was a sassy kid- but he didn’t. He let the women attend to the discipline. We played Checkers together and Briscola (Italian card game) and it was our time together. Our conversations were short, saddened that I am unable to hear his voice in my mind. I guess it has been too many years. His spirit is in my heart. I love you Paul.