A Tribute to Lidia

When the text came this morning, I was surprised by how hard grief hit me. Alfonso, the son of my 85-year-old Italian neighbour, Lidia, texted to let me know that his mom had died.

Lidia was an extraordinary friend, arriving in my life just when I really needed someone like her to make me laugh and to commiserate with me over the difficulties of raising kids. She was balm for my soul at a time when I was finding motherhood particularly challenging. Over the last few years, I spent many mornings in her kitchen -- she didn't have to twist my arm very hard to convince me to come in for coff (coffee, in Lidia's inimitable English) which often turned into lunch before I even realized it. 

Lidia had this knack for pulling food out of thin air, often a homemade minestrone with bread and asiago cheese, or a simple pasta dish with her homemade tomato sauce. And if someone extra showed up, there was always room for one more! Good Italian espresso was ever present, leaving me buzzing a little for the rest of the day. When I told her how much I loved her "coff," she gave me one of her little espresso makers, which I used this morning so that my daughter and I could drink a fitting toast in Lidia's honour. It went well with the last few Bertozzi ciambelline cookies she gave me on one of my last visits with her. Shadow-dog enjoyed a cookie in Lidia's honour, too. Whenever we walked past her house, he would automatically turn up her sidewalk.

Through long chats since her husband of 67 years died almost 18 months ago, I learned a lot about her life. An farm girl whose father died when she was 17, Lidia was married "by proxy" in Italy (an uncle stood in for her husband-to-be, Ralph, who was 27, and already in Canada). Ralph promised to send money back to support her mother and siblings near Cosenza (close to Naples) in exchange for Lidia's hand in marriage, and sponsored many of them to come to Canada in the years following. In the meantime, Lidia arrived in Edmonton at the age of 18, an early Italian immigrant who, to hear her tell it, "lost my papa, and married another papa." I suspect the difference in their ages became less of a factor over time as they grew into love for each other, and that love became clearly visible in their care for each other.

Ralph, who had found a job with one of Canada's railways after the end of World War II, already spoke passable English and knew his way around, but Lidia didn't know the language and stayed alone in their apartment for a time -- with a chair to hold the door shut as there was no lock. Her husband did most of the errands around town, and I don't think Lidia ever learned to drive. But at some point she found work in a Chinese restaurant (which turned her off restaurant food for life when she found a mouse in the soup) then as a cleaner of a large office building, and eventually a seamstress. As the Italian community grew in the 1950s, so did Lidia's circle of friends. She was very happy when one of her sisters came to live nearby.

Lidia's three children, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were the loves of her life, but she "adopted" me because her own daughter lives "too far" in Hamilton, ON. Whenever I phoned, it made it easier if I began, "Hello, my Italian mama," because she knew exactly who she was talking to, and she would often reply, "My daughter, you been away too long. You sick?" Other Lidia-isms -- "No to Fi'e Guys with Fries! I cooka my own food!" "Dat'sa da life," and "Goooda luck!" used both to exclaim over any kind of news or to wish someone well. How I loved her accent, though it sometimes made it difficult for me to understand her over the phone. She made me wish I could speak Italian!

The last year of Lidia's life was probably her most challenging because she was a social butterfly who loved to share food and stories with everyone she met. It was nearly impossible to visit without Lidia serving some kind of food. After losing Ralph to cancer, she found it hard to be alone -- and then the pandemic hit. Because she was unsteady on her feet, I worried about her, and sure enough, she had a few falls that left her bruised and sore. But she kept on going, determined to live out her life in her family home. 

I tried to check in regularly, usually standing at the door of Lidia's porch, though it took a while and many COVID deaths in her beloved Italy for her to understand why I would no longer come into her kitchen. Through the summer, we managed many visits in her back yard because she and her sons let me plant corn, peppers, tomatoes and a friend's perennials in her garden and greenhouse. 

Whenever I stopped by to water plants, I tried to make sure that Lidia and I sat properly distanced on the patio to chat, though it was always hard to dissuade her from bringing out cookies and coffee. If Shadow was with me, she gave him bits of ciambellini, and if it was late in the day and I complained about not knowing what to make for supper, she often had a perfect idea about what I could do. She gave me my one and only lesson on making gnocchi, and everything I know about cooking with squash blossoms, I learned from her.

When the weather got colder and we couldn't sit outside, I phoned each week, just to check in and make sure she was okay, and whenever Lee and I took our evening neighbourhood dog-walk past her house, we would look to be sure the hood light over her oven was on, a sign that all was well. But one evening in early December, only the porch light was on. So I texted Alfonso, and learned that Lidia had a stroke and was in the Glenrose Rehab Hospital, going through tests. About ten days ago, he let me know that she had been diagnosed with a brain tumour, and this morning, he let me know that she had "passed."

I have many reminders of my friend... a few perennials in my yard, my Lidia rose bush, a couple of houseplants she gave me, a couple of embroidered linens she created for her hope chest as a young woman, and the aforementioned espresso pot that has become my "Lidia coff" Sunday morning ritual. 

How I will miss my friend who, in her own words, "spoke English like minestrone," mixing it with her native Italian. I will miss the way she and her boys teased each other in "Lidia's Restaurant -- Please leave a tip" as the sign over her kitchen door announced. Lidia's voice was always the loudest, and her laughter was contagious. 

I will miss Lidia's phone calls and how she sometimes got my phone number mixed up with that of her neighbour next door, who is also named Maria. I will miss the way she could cry one minute and roar with laughter the next, her emotions always close to the surface. I will miss her way of looking at the world with deep faith in God, and optimism in spite of life's sorrows and struggles. 

Lidia, how blessed I was to know you. Thank you for being my friend, and for all your kindness since we met in 2013. I hope you and Ralph have had a joyful reunion! You both have a room in my heart. I have been missing you a lot over the last three months, and I hope that when you see those pink flowers (Lavatera, they’re called) in God’s garden, you’ll remember me, too. I look forward to a cup of espresso together with you and Ralph in heaven. I love you, my friend!

My Lidia rose

This pandemic has been challenging for all of us, but especially my elderly Italian friend, Lidia. 

For the first few weeks back in March, she couldn't understand why I wouldn't come in for my weekly visit and cup of espresso, though she knew that thousands of people were dying in Italy. I would come to her doorway, but no further, much to her frustration, and it got to the point that I decided to stop going past her place. I phoned her instead. 

When the weather improved and spring warmed her back patio, I let Lidia know that we could sit outside and visit, socially-distanced, of course. But even that proved to be a challenge. Always concerned about offering hospitality, she would come out with cookies and a bottle of water or orangina. The day after my birthday, when I came to her door, she said, "Come in, come in, I make you caffe!" I could hear her putting together the espresso pot like she would not take no for an answer, so I said, "I'm sorry, Lidia, but I can't do that," and headed for home. The next thing I knew, she was standing on her back step, shouting, "Where you going? Come back!" and waving an envelope. "Your birthday card!"

It held a twenty dollar bill and a note saying that she was glad we are friends. I told her I would take the twenty dollars, buy a rose bush, and name it Lidia. And that is what I did. I also told her yet again that I couldn't eat or drink at her house, but that we could have a nice visit without food, and she finally agreed... though she still insisted on giving cookies to Shadow-dog if he was with me.

Perhaps foolishly, I made a deal with her son, Alfonso, to plant a few tomato and pepper plants in Lidia's greenhouse, with the promise to help with watering. I also put some petunias, clarkia and lavatera in her heavy cement planters beside the house and kept them deadheaded all summer for the most part. It was my reason to stop by each day and check how she was doing without getting too close.

Most times I've gone over to her place to weed or water, we've managed to keep our distance. But once Lidia decided to water the grape vines on the south side of the house, sat on a low step to do it, and couldn't get up. So I helped her. Another time, she dropped her cane and couldn't reach it to pick it up. So I did. And then there was the time that she was expecting an important call, but forgot the portable phone inside her back door and begged me to go get it. How could I refuse when she doesn't have an answering machine?

I worry about my friend with winter coming on. Her 85th birthday is on Tuesday, and though her family is very attentive, Lidia wants to be more of a social butterfly than she can be with two busy sons and a love for company of any stripe. I worry that she's not careful enough when it comes to the covid virus, and wish there was a way to connect her to some sort of video chat program so that she could see all the people she loves online, and chat anytime she feels lonely, as I'm probably not the only one who finds it challenging to understand her thick accent through the phone. But online chats would never satisfy her, I suspect. We all converse so much better in person. 

And in person, I could show her a picture of my Lidia rose now that she's finally blooming.

The pandemic vaccine can't come soon enough for our planet, or for friends like Lidia and me!