Grandma Outlaw

Cut to 2014.

My grandmother asked me to write a memory about her. A few minutes later, poof. She had already forgotten asking for it. She was suffering from dementia, and this was a rare lucid thought — one where she wanted so badly to remember the good stuff. But it got me thinking. And thinking. And it opened the floodgates to so many things I never would’ve written down without her request.

But before we get to my personal memory of a crazy moment my grandmother and I shared in 1988, I’d like to talk a bit about her. So here’s a few quick-cut flashbacks from my grandmother’s life. It spanned 95 long years but what remains actually makes for a pretty short story. While digging through my mother’s brain for the backstory section of this chapter, I learned that most of her mom’s history is still a mystery. And what she did remember was a slew of sad circumstances that her mother had to overcome. But my experience with my grandmother wasn’t sad at all.

In fact, it was anything but.

***

Cut to February 9, 1921.

My grandmother was born in the cozy coal-mining borough of Old Forge, Pennsylvania with ten fingers, ten toes and a ten-syllabic, beautifully-melodic name: “Saveria L. Caracciolo” [Sa-ver-ee-uh L. Ka-rach-ee-o-lo]. Her father, Matteo, grew up on the east coast of Italy in a town called Manfredonia in the province of Foggia. It’s just above the heel of the boot. He became a shoemaker. Go figure.

Saveria went by her American name: Sarah. Technically, it’s “Sara.” She added the “h” unofficially. No one knows why. But since I was young, I’ve suspected it was a silent, yet wonderful, rebellion.

Sarah was the eldest of nine children. She had two little sisters and six little brothers. But figuratively speaking, Mama(h) Mia(h), she was the one with the spiciest-a(h) meatballs-a(h) of all-a(h). [The silent “h” is in her (h)onor.]

Later, she would teach me how to craft real spicy meatballs from Italian sausage as well as Chicken & Dumplings from scratch — something my own mother absolutely despised making. Cooking skipped a generation. Well, at least until after my big brother, Eric, and I were long out of the house. Our mom ended up getting really good once she had time to learn. We’d like to thank our Bonus Dad Roger for giving our mom that opportunity when she retired. Her cooking is one of the many things we now enjoy when we visit their place. Our mom says that one of her greatest parental achievements was raising kids who actually want to come home. This wasn’t always the case for her. After leaving Indiana at the age of 18 to marry our biological dad, it was a while before she went back. But towards the end of my grandmother’s life, my mom spent quite a bit of time at her mom’s Indiana nursing home fighting the system for better elder care. Another thing we can thank Roger for — giving our mom more time for the things that matter most.

Like my mother, my brother and myself, my grandmother started working when she was very young. Using her own money, she splurged on a bottle of nail polish. She was so proud of how pretty her hands looked that she thought it would make her hard-to-please father proud too. But he was horrified. So much so that he said God would punish her for being so vain. Two days later, at 18, she suffered a horrific, on-the-job injury at a laundromat which left her left hand with only a thumb, a pinky and three stubs in between. But she never let that hold her back. She cooked, sewed, knitted, worked and went about life with a handicap that she never seemed to be aware of. I just thought it looked like she was always waving “hang loose.” And though she harnessed the friendliness of the aloha spirit throughout her life, she didn’t make it to Hawaii until well into her golden years. Money for travel was a thing of the imagination given all the mouths she had to feed. Like any stray animal lucky enough to cross her path. And later, her own children. One of whom, my mother, would grow up to support her two young children on her own by polishing nails as a professional Manicurist. Go figure.

As sad as it is to say this out loud, my grandmother’s Hawaiian trip was her only real vacation to speak of — and she had to wait until it could be funded by one of her grandkids. I wish I could say that was me but I just recently heard this story. As legend has it, my cousin and his mom had trouble keeping up with my giddy grandmother YOLO-ing all over the archipelago. Something about the tropical weather did wonders for her arthritis and she climbed every hill with ease and danced in delight every night as the sun set. The Islands must have been even more beautiful while she was there.

In 1943, Sarah Louise Caraciollo married Chester Carl Webb. I know even less about my grandfather’s life than I do about my grandmother’s. From what I gather, it seems he was pretty similar to my grandmother’s dad. Chester also had a hard life, was hard to please, and was just as hard to get to know. I think that’s why my mom didn’t talk much about her dad. The same is true of my biological father, Lester, who I am named after. (Our mom may not have been a great cook when my big brother and I were little but she knew how to preserve our innocence.)

Continuing her legacy of resiliency, my grandmother gave back-to-back births to stillborn sons. But she didn’t let that hold her back either. She had four more children who bore her nine grandchildren. My brother and I were the only two who didn’t grow up close to her. Literally or figuratively. Our grandmother lived in Indiana (by way of Pennsylvania). We lived in Oklahoma (by way of Oklahoma). And none of us had extra cash for flights (or long-distance calling when that was a thing.)

After her grandchildren grew up, Grandma Sarah asked us to start calling her “Nonna” to hold on to our Italian heritage. Come si desidera, Nonna. [As you wish, Grandmother.]

On August 16, 2016, we lost Nonna Sarah Saveria Caracciolo Webb to complications from dementia. She fought long and hard like she did her whole life but the disease ultimately took her from us just like it took her mind from her. But as you’ll see, her name, her recipes and her memories are still very much alive.

***

Cut to July 31, 2014.

I sat down to write the memory Nonna Sarah requested. But I realized, sorrowfully, that I don’t have many. I thought maybe I could write about how weird it was that she and I both bounced back from potentially career-ending hand injuries that we got at work. But that’s not really what she was after. It’s just a bizarre true story. And we’ll get to plenty of those later that are much more fun to talk about.

Growing up so far apart, and only seeing her like four times ever, made this one of my hardest writing assignments ever. Then boom. It hit me. It had to be when she came to Norman, Oklahoma for my mom and Bonus Dad Scott’s wedding. But this story has nothing to do with marriage. Unless you count bravery.

Below was my first #PyleOfMemories social media post — the memory that kickstarted my memories — which developed into a series for dementia awareness and is now this book for funding dementia research. Thanks for the idea, Nonna Sarah. And thanks for making this, and every other memory our family has ever had, possible. Your resilience — and surprising rebellious spirit — are truly things to be remembered.

***

Cut to April 21, 1988.

I was smaller than all the other students in my fourth-grade class. As a scrappy tomboy to the core, I didn’t let my size hold me back. My school, Eisenhower Elementary, was about to host their annual ‘89-er Day Celebration. This highly-anticipated children’s event reenacted the notorious Oklahoma Land Run of 1889 (where the infamous terms “Boomer” and “Sooner” were “born and bred” and still exist today in the eponymous University of Oklahoma’s fight song.) You might remember the Land Run depicted in the 1992 film “Far and Away,” starring Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman? Well, in our version, 100s of kids, donning period-appropriate costumes, clawed their way across the schoolyard to stake their plots before anyone else. It was as competitive and vicious as the original. In short, it was awesome. My favorite part was picking a trade and dressing in character. I found most school subjects kind of boring but I was all in for any homework that encouraged creativity — especially if it meant I could pretend to be a bad guy. My fellow tomboy friend, Paula Peterson, and I chose to be outlaws. (God forbid we wear dresses like the other little girls. Like, who can run in those things?) Paula and I scrounged around her sprawling property on the remotest stretch of Rock Creek Road for the largest piece of cardboard we could find. Eureka! An old refrigerator box! This could easily transform into a cave fit for criminals! We spent hours spray painting it to look like the Devil’s Kitchen chamber at Alabaster Caverns — a landmark near the Oklahoma panhandle that Paula and I would later visit together. We may have gotten a little high from the paint fumes. In short, it was awesome. The next step was buying enough candy to barter for goods all day long which was required for ‘89-Day survival.

Enter Grandma.

We backed out of our humble home on Haverhill Circle in my mom’s blazing red 1978 Ford Granada. Grandma adjusted the bench seat a few inches forward so she could reach the pedals. We were off to shop for the most coveted of candies. Jolly Ranchers, Charms Blow Pops and Life Savers. Never chocolate. Even 10-year-olds know if you’re gonna have anything worth trading, your sugar selections have to stand up to the heat. (Summer starts in spring in the Heartland. So does winter sometimes.)

It was getting close to closing time as we headed down West Robinson towards Flood Street. I was nervous we wouldn’t make it to the store before the doors locked and my dreams of being “The Bad Guy with The Good Candy” would be killed. In retrospect, that should’ve been the least of my worries.

Enter an oncoming cargo train.

We simultaneously spotted the red flashing indicator light at an intersection that was known for backing up traffic. My intuitive grandmother, sensing my distress, tightened her grip on the steering wheel, white-knuckling all seven of her remaining fingers, jammed on the pedal, and outran the gate just before it slammed down. We got like five feet of air. (Which was taller than her!) Turns out, grandma was an undersized outlaw too.

Paula and I cleaned up at ‘89-er Day in ’88. We couldn’t have done it without Nonna Sarah. And this book couldn’t have happened without her either.

In short, she was awesome.

***

Cut to 2021.

I asked my mom, Susan, and my brother, Eric, to write a memory of their own to include in this chapter. My mom’s was the one she told at her mom’s funeral. It was the first time I saw my mom speak publicly. She had us laughing, crying and craving just a little more of her Mamma Mia, our Nonna Sarah.

“CULTURAL TRAINING”
A Memory by Susan Webb Otis

My Italian mother, who made the best meatballs and marinara sauce in all the land, married an Indiana man who loved her native cooking but also had a hankering for American comfort food. That’s how one of my mom’s signature dishes became southern-style Chicken & Dumplings.

I remember as a small child, barely tall enough to see over the top of the kitchen table, watching my mother turn flour and chicken broth into a perfectly smooth bed of dough. As she strategically worked the rolling pin, it would make rhythmic ripples, as if powered by wind. I marveled at how light and fluffy the dough always appeared. She made it look so easy.

Years later, mom came to visit us in Oklahoma for my oldest child, Eric‘s, high school graduation. Lesly, my youngest, who loved to cook, asked my mom to make Chicken & Dumplings so she could learn how. We didn’t have as large of a workspace in our house as she did back in Indiana, but she had no trouble adapting to our small, wooden island that doubled as a chopping block. Mom boiled a whole chicken with onions, carrots and only the inner part of the celery stalk to make her broth. This created the soup base of course, but her special blend also gave body and flavor to the dumplings themselves.

Mom punched a crater in the middle of the flour to make a volcano-like opening where she would pour the broth. She did this with surgeon-like precision, transforming the dry ingredients into a doughy masterpiece ready to be cut into 1-inch squares. She’d push her thumb into each square so they cooked evenly. But I came to realize this was also part of her magic touch.

A few months after mom went back home to Indiana, I got this wild idea to make her Chicken & Dumplings. I followed each step to a tee. This tradition was not going to skip a generation on my watch!

Step 1. Prepare broth.
Step 2. Place flour on center island chopping block.
Step 3. Punch well in flour to make volcano shape.
Step 4. Pour broth in flour volcano.

Just like mom did.

My mind started to drift imagining how my family, who always made fun of my cooking, was going to praise my secret inner chef. I poured the broth delicately into the flour volcano, just as I’d seen my mom do a million times. But within seconds, the flour walls gave way and the broth free-flowed down the side of the chopping block like Vesuvius had erupted in our kitchen. Our rescue tortie, Kit Kat, didn’t mind at all as she lapped it off the floor. I was too deflated to start over. My family will just have to fend for themselves. Again.

I was still processing it days later. So I called mom to see where I went wrong. I explained that I had made the flour volcano to hold the broth just like she always did.

Mom, confused, simply said “Why didn’t you just use a bowl?”

The phenomenon of how rituals accidentally become tradition instead of using common sense is known as “Cultural Training.”

My daughter, Lesly, has continued making Chicken & Dumplings every February 9th in honor of my mom’s birthday.

Lesly uses a bowl.

***

“Impressionist Recollections”
A Few of My Favorite Memories by Eric Pyle

I knew my grandma from a distance. As such, my memories of her are more like an impressionist painting than a photograph.

My earliest memory of my grandma was when she was visiting us when I was very little. Somehow a thought came to my (possibly 4-year-old) mind that I felt I must share with her. I don’t remember if I understood what I was about to say. Maybe I thought it just sounded funny? Maybe I thought it was an epiphany? I just remember telling her “Grandma, you’re a mistake! You’re a mistake, Grandma!” I no doubt said it with a smile. I don’t remember what happened after that, except that she got a chuckle from it. She had such a great chuckle.

I remember grandma enjoyed singing “I Love You, a Bushel and a Peck” by Doris Day.

I remember grandma couldn’t listen to old music without inviting us to dance with her.

I remember grandma would say “Arrivederci” instead of goodbye. I remember my mom never mastered the r-trilling no matter how many times she tried to say it just like her mom.

I remember receiving unicorns in some form every Christmas long after I had outgrown them.

I remember grandma cooked turtle stew when I visited her as a small child.
I don’t remember not liking it.

I remember asking her to send me some of her traditional homemade recipes only to get a recipe clipping from a recent magazine.

I remember grandma telling me she missed driving a car as fast as it could go.

I remember grandma eventually preferred to be called “Nonna.” My own children call my mother “Bibi” which is Swahili for “grandmother.” My eldest, Sarah, who is named after my grandma, was conceived in Tanzania while my wife, Allison, and I were on a mission trip.

I remember bringing my 3-year-old Sarah to Nonna’s funeral in Indiana. I remember family members I had never met who looked just like Nonna nudging each other and whispering, “Look, it’s her namesake.”

I remember how my tiny daughter looked when she saw my mother standing next to her mom’s open casket. Realizing how sad my mother must feel, Sarah said in the sweetest voice, “Sorry, Bibi.” I remember how surprised I was by her empathy at such a young age and I knew right then and there that we had given her the perfect name.

I remember how emotional Nonna would be any time she saw me or my children. I can’t think of another soul who seemed so happy, even moved to tears, whenever she would see us. I also can’t remember any negative encounter or thought about her. I do remember she was missing a few fingers from a job-related accident that happened earlier in her life. I remember that my mom painted her mom’s nails so pretty for the funeral and how at peace her hands looked at last.

I remember Nonna often talked about her prayers to God.

I remember that Nonna was definitely not a mistake.

***

Ricordiamo che ci manchi, Nonna.
[We remember that we miss you, Grandma.]

In Loving Memory,
Susan, Eric and Lesly

…

#PyleOfMemories is a series developed for #DementiaAwareness as a reminder to write the good stuff down before it’s lost forever. It will soon be a book to help fund Dementia Research. This is Chapter 1.