Ciao Mate

I went to Amadio's funeral a couple of days ago.  He was my 91-year old neighbor.  He lived alone and worked in his yard almost every day.  At 7pm every night he was picked up and taken to his son's house in town for dinner and a safe night's sleep.  At 7am every morning he was brought  back to his own house in the country ready to enjoy another day in the garden with his flowers and zucchini and American lettuce.

Amadio was born in a house that had a dirt floor about a quarter of a mile from here.  He grew up in a house that has since been demolished and a new one was built on the old foundation.  That's the house I live in now.  The last time things weren't going so well in Italy, he moved to Australia.  Then he came back and built a house next door to his childhood house.  That's the house he lived in next to me.  Other than his stint in Australia, he lived his whole life within a quarter-mile radius.

Since I've been living here there hasn't been much action at Amadio's house.  The movement consists of  Amadio in the garden, his son's quotidian arrivals and departures and the biweekly visit from the beverage delivery truck.  It honked in front of his house and I watched the kid unload a couple of yellow plastic crates of San Pelligrino and reload a couple of green crates of empty bottles.  He occasionally talked over his gate at the end of his driveway with my other neighbor, 71-year old Virgilio.  And sometimes, through the chain link fence that separated our yards, he spoke a little broken Englsih with me.  He didn't remember much, but I was always patient.  I never gave him the word that I knew he was looking for.  He'd tell me what he wanted to say in Italian, but I'd pretend I couldn't understand his dialect (which I often didn't have to pretend) and I'd keep waiting for the English.  I know crossword puzzles are good for old people because it forces them to dig.  I considered myself Amadio's human word game.    

Other than the aforementioned list, no one came to visit Amadio.  That's why I have to ask myself who the other 77 people at his funeral were.   I'd never seen most of them before.  There were the immediate neighbors that I recognized, of course.  But I didn't see the beverage guy.  I'd like to think he was really there and that I just didn't recognize him without his striped uniform.

I feel sad that I'm not going to hear his shy Australian-Italian-accented hello anymore.  I'm going to miss our broken chats. I wonder what everyone else is going to miss.  I think Virgilio will miss talking over the gate at the end of the driveway.  Virgilio was born in the house he lives in now.  They'd been neighbors for 71 years.  I have a feeling I'll be getting a few more visits from Virgilio.  And I don't have a gate.  He can come right in my yard and continue telling me everything he knows about Al Capone (pronounced ca-po-nay in Italian)  And I'll continue listening.

Amadio's funeral was far from personal.  In fact, I've been to other Italian funerals that don't seem to say much, if anything, about the missing person.  They seem more like a religious send-off and ceremony.  They do everything they're supposed to do and say everything they're supposed to say, but as far as I can tell one size fits all.

I don't know where I'll die but if it's in Italy I'm not sure anyone will grant me my wishes because they seem to be far from Italian protocol.   Several years ago I wrote something about how I'd like the event to go and I've decided to reprint it here in case you missed it.  If Amadio could come I'm sure he'd wear his tattered Australian baseball cap and bring wildflowers from his garden.

THE PERFECT ENDING FOR A NUT LIKE ME

If you come to my funeral

please bring one flower 

and put it in the giant vase at the front of the room.

It will be the best arrangement ever.

Wear bright colors. 

Stripes. Plaid. Polka dots.  Mix them altogether, if you want.

If I've interrupted your day at the beach, wear your flipflops.

Bow ties, optional.

Ride your bike, if you can.

Maybe even decorate it like the 4th of July.

You'll get a special parking place.

Imagine a funeral home with lots of bikes out front.

Run, if you want.

It's okay if you stink. 

The giant bouquet of flowers will help.

If you have a convertible, come with the top down.

Even if I die in January. 

Wear your winter coat and hat and put the heat in the red.

Just this once.

If you have kids, they're welcome.

If they cry, let them.

If they laugh, don't shush them.

There will be a big bowl of cool paper scraps to make a paper chain.

Write down one thing that you liked about me,

and one thing that you didn't (or two or three or four).

Come hungry.

They'll have cheese, ice cream, pasta, bread, french fries

and chocolate chip cookies, of course.

If you come to my funeral

learn to say goodbye in a different language

and say it out loud as you leave

my last party.