If you follow me, you know that I’ve been off in the wilds of Maine, wrasslin’ bears and scrambling over the mountain peaks . . . or something like that. But my husband and I received some news about a week ago and so we rushed home via Greyhound (that’s a different story altogether) to be with our family.
His grandfather, Henry Cataldo, passed away.
My husband’s family is a huge Italian Catholic family – loud and passionate, full of laughter and mostaccioli. Very different from my quiet, couldn’t-name-my-cousins-if-I-tried family. I’ve always been the oddball in my immediate family; I’m the one who would live in a treehouse or a van, who wants to travel and sleep on trains or in a tent, who wants to run around with a pack of dogs and doesn’t have real ‘adult’ things like health insurance or a mortgage or heck, even a car at this point. So I love my husband’s family, and Grandpa Cataldo being called to Heaven so suddenly has hit me really, really hard.
I won’t delve into this because as sad as a death is, it really means nothing to the polite outsiders who commiserate with you. A funeral is terrible but you don’t feel it if it’s not your family. So I’ll just say that when I knew him – these past 12 years – he was a kind, sharp gentleman who loved his family, loved his Standardbred horses, and reminded me of Bobby DeNiro. He was only 74.
Here he is this past Christmas with my little niece Leah.
We love and miss you, Grandpa, and we can’t wait to see you again.