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!

Sunday Reflection: A pandemic's gifts

Today's reflection is brought to you by 

Job 7:1-4,6-7.

These days

it's easy to feel like Job,

that biblical character 

who lost everything.

We complain 

about how hard life is,

the long labours we face

until things are better.

We see the months of emptiness,

the blandness of our days

behind and ahead,

the nights of worry,

the misery all around us

(and especially,

in the news).

Honestly,

though we are body- and soul-weary,

more often than not

it's a relief 

when our nights

give way to morning.

It's like we are 

wishing our lives away

in feeling hopeless,

though we know life is short.

We forget

that

God surrounds us 

with good,

visible 

if only we lift our eyes.

Remind us,

You 

who made all that is,

that Creation

and our puny selves

are held 

in hands 

much gentler

than our own.

Help us 

to let go of our misery

and see you...

and to gentle our own hands

and hearts

to care

where care is needed most.

+Amen.

* * * * * * *

I don't know about you, but lately it feels like there's so much complaining going on that I want to stick my head under a pillow and stay there. 

Yes, all that we have lost because of this pandemic -- our connections, our freedom, our sense of security, our old ways of doing things, our very equilibrium -- is weighing us down, depressing us, shortening our tempers, and trying our patience, if we have any left.

So we might be able to relate to Job, who lost everything dear to him. Have we really lost everything dear to us? Really? I hope we can see that there is always something good that comes, even out of loss. I've been dealing with a rather serious loss for the past couple of years, and though it hurts, it holds gifts in its hands, too. In the end, Job came to understand just Who was in charge, and once he did, when he put his faith and trust in the right place, things dramatically improved for him. As they have for me. Life is about learning to let go.

We don't know when the pandemic will end, but we have to believe that we also will see things improve if we have the patience of Job, and put our faith and trust in the right place. Freaking out about the things we can't control (vaccine shortages, for example) only makes life more miserable. Focusing on "months of emptiness and nights of misery" (Job 7: 4) only dims the light of goodness around us.

Last night, I participated in an online gathering with a dozen girlfriends from High School who hadn't met since a party at my house in 2015. We shared about the things that have changed in our lives and how we are coping with this strange time we are in. With educators, moms, health care professionals, caregivers, an engineer, a librarian and a chef in our group, it was an interesting evening... one that filled me with hope. Though we all face different challenging circumstances, we celebrated our long term friendships and the recent marriage of one of our group, and we listened to and cared for each other even though we were scattered around five cities in two provinces. As one friend laughed through her tears, "Thanks for the therapy," I suspect we all felt the value of our connection. It was better than therapy in my books (and I know therapy)!

It reminded me that when we reach out to each other and find common ground, hope rises from our brokenness and brings us light to move us forward. Even though this pandemic causes a lot of pain, it has the power to remind us of the goodness in you and me.

In the week ahead, I invite you to connect with a friend you've lost touch with. Perhaps that reconnection can be one of the pandemic's gifts for you.

What would you take with you?

Last week I had a good chat with my friend Allie, who used to live in Paradise, California until four weeks ago today. She told me that everything but her fireplace and a trio of white cast iron table and chairs were gone, the patio furniture with not a mark on them! Everything else burned to the ground in such intense fire that when she and her husband finally were able to go back last week to see if there was anything to salvage, the few things they tried to pick up crumbled in their fingers. More than heartbreaking.

It seems Paradise had a close call with fire a while back, so Allie attended a fire preparedness workshop to learn how to be ready in case it should happen again. Then she came home and went around her house, seeing the small but treasured things that she didn't want to lose in a fire, something she strongly recommends that we all do. She also collected important documents and took pictures of her family's belongings, to keep them on a memory stick. Everything important went into a couple of bins that she stored in a handy place so that if she needed to evacuate in a hurry, she was ready.

Unfortunately, the fire came more quickly than anyone realized, and for Allie, the most immediate concern was collecting her four dogs and picking her elderly mom up from the local nursing home. The bins had to wait, and by the time Allie turned toward home for the bins, the roads out of Paradise were gridlocked, and there was no way to get back into her neighbourhood for them.

All of it is a huge loss, but Allie's the kind of person who puts a positive spin on life. She mentioned that she and her family have a fresh start, unencumbered by the collected things that they didn't really use or need. They are starting over with a mind to live more simply and sustainably. But every day she remembers something that she wishes she could see or touch just one more time. She misses her neighbours, who have scattered all over the area. And she's not sure if her family will be able to rebuild on their property until the soil is tested for toxicity. In spite of many challenges, Allie's still counting her blessings, the lives of her loved ones in the main, and the friends and family who have been supporting her through this crisis. Her heart is still intact because she treasures the really important things in life.

After my conversation with Allie, I looked around my own environs, wondering what I should put into a treasured objects bin. What's really important? I don't have a lot that I can't live without, and my head is full of memories that may or may not fade with time. I think I'd want a few photo albums, and maybe a journal or two. Personal ID and certain documents are important... and maybe favourite pieces of art by my kids? It's hard to know what I would really miss, but it's worth thinking about. In the end, of course, it's not so much the things as the relationships that are really valuable. And so my tangible treasures might be a few items from dear ones who are no longer here, baby pictures, and music that's gone out of print...

What would you not want to be parted from? And do you have an evacuation plan? You just never know when you might need one.