Sorry.....right number.

"The flight of Magorium"
I was going through the answering machine and found a message for my father from an older woman.

"This is Sylvia. Im not sure if this is the right number but im looking for Peters mother. I tried calling his sister, but a man started yelling at me that it wasn't the right number. I'm looking for Madeline (my grandmother), I haven't heard from her and I'm worried sick. If this is the right number, please call me back."

I kinda froze. This was one of my grandmothers good friends, and somehow she wasn't told about my Grandmothers passing in October. How awful can it be to know someone you cared about died, and never be told about it?

There are those moments in your life that never leave you. Images, sounds, smells.

They replay in your mind and all I can remember of my grandmother was her cooking the awful liver, and trying to get me to eat some. I proceeded to turn up my nose at the smell and tell her I was full or later on be truth and tell her that liver isnt really something I liked.

Or how she wouldn't take no for anything. If she wanted something, she did it! (wonder where I get it from? lol)

Her soft hands and passionate, yet shaky kisses on the cheek and her laugh that would of put Santa to shame. I loved my grandmother, not saying that she didn't do things I hated like selling the summer home I and my father knew for so very long.

I remember being a little child and that camp was enormous to me. In her room, a picture of Elvis on the blue walls. The lounger that was in the back went with her to PA.

The most vivd memory I will ever have of her is the lone casket in the cemetary while everyone else was leaving. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to move. One of the only people who connected me to my fathers side was gone. From the vauge memories of the house in Schenetady to all the memories at the camp and even her 10 years in Exton. I wanted to be closer to her. TO know more about her, but my pride and cowardiace got the better of me. She didn't like change about as much as I don't. We bought her a cordless phone, but she stilled used her own. And everytime I went past it, I noticed the photograph behind it. It was one my father must of taken when I was six and still in elementary school. It speaks alot about my nature and who I am. While everyone else was acting foolish for the camera, I had my head on my lunchbox, a thoughful but shy smile as looked ahead.

I don't rmember that picture being taken, just as I don't hardly remember half of the people in it.

I know she worked for G.E and married my grandfather, who died 3 months after I was born. He was in the military I think. They divorced. I don't know why. I always knew Charlie, my grandmothers companion. He was a nice man, but drank. When he died, that was one of the reasons she left South Ave. I wished she didn't leave. If she could of stayed closer to us, I could of still been closer to her, and maybe discover more about my past.

But I realize not everything can live forever. Even a tough Itiallian woman from Utica has to move on to bigger and better things.

I offer two songs. One for the mood I am feeling at this point in time, which was placed at the beginning of the post. It is the mourning I have in my heart which I know will some day be lifted by other events. and another that I always will remember my grandmother by. Wether working in her garden or playing with her canary. I can see her or my father playing this on the record player or the radio in the 60s. It's so beautiful. Possibly dancing with my grandfather.... I'll never know until I can ask her myself it seems. I have the most adorable Irish grandmother and I had a wonderful Itiallian mother.