The Fragrance She Wore

It’s so strange to be standing here. The last time was back in 1968. That was another sad and rainy day. But given where I ended up spending most of my adult life—the Pacific Northwest, I guess I’ve gotten used to the rain.

On that long-ago day, my feet were tiny, and I was barely four feet tall. From my vantage point, everyone else looked so big. Little kids don’t realize they’re the ones who are different.

Today, as I look around at these faces, I sort of recognize them from my childhood, but they’re strangers to me now. Their hair is grey or non-existent. The thin had become thick, and the once tall shriveled. If I squinted just right, I could erase the lines and find aunts, uncles, and cousins.

If I passed them on the street, I wouldn't even know we were related. But I guess that’s the price you pay when you leave at eighteen and only come back when it’s necessary.

I always spent an entire day with my grandmother during those few visits back to Jersey. Grandma, my mother’s mom, loved to hear about my adventures, look at pictures of my children, and tell me how beautiful I’d turned out to be.

Whenever I walked into her house, the smell of Cashmere Bouquet filled my senses, and it was the most comforting thing I’ve ever known. The scent of that powder still gives me joy. And then I would see the basket next to her recliner where she kept my letters. And she had her third husband make her a bulletin board where she displayed all the postcards I sent over the years. I guess it was how she always had me with her.

Spending time with Grandma was the best part of going ‘home.’

Though I was happy to live anywhere else, New Jersey isn’t quite as bad as the movies, and bashers, make it out to be. Of course, shows like ‘Jersey Shore,’ don’t help the image of a girl from Jersey at all. Once, when someone compared me to Snooki from the show, I almost hit her. I mean, come on, I worked hard to get rid of the accent, and I’ve never dressed that trashy – okay, maybe that summer I worked as a cocktail waitress, but that was way before I grew up.

While I’ll admit I’m a short little girl with dark hair, dark eyes, and a spunky attitude, I’m nothing like what you see on TV. Worse, it seems that most people assume that if you come from Jersey and have an Italian last name, you’re obviously ‘connected. I can’t remember how many people asked me if I knew anyone who would take someone out—literally.

So, though I’m not embarrassed to say I’m from New Jersey, I always add that I left before I turned eighteen. Joining the Army and finding out there was a vast big world outside of the tri-state area was the best thing I could’ve done for myself.

I wouldn’t be the woman I am today if I stayed there, or if Grandma wasn't in my life. I’ve lived and seen things I could only imagine while I grew up. Though I always wanted to go to college, my mother never encouraged me, nor anyone else, especially my stepfather. They told me I would only accomplish two things in life—get married and have babies. It hurt my heart to think that was all there was in life for me. So, I left, rarely visited, called as little as possible, and made a wonderful life for myself.

Sure, I got married, and I had kids, but I also worked for the government, earned my BS and MBA, as well as living in Germany, France, England, and forty of the states of America. I made a great life—despite the put-downs of being a ‘professional student’ and told I’d never amount to much.

But I have to admit there was one person who always encouraged me and praised me for every accomplishment of my life. My grandmother was the only one who thought I could use my brains to accomplish anything I wanted. It was she who clipped articles when I sold massive amounts of Girl Scout cookies or chocolate bars for my school. Grandma always loved me best. It was her approval I craved, and she was the person I called most often.

Our phone calls always started the same.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Grandma, it’s me.”

“Patty! Oh, it’s so nice to hear your voice."

“Yours too. How are you?”

“Oh, like a little old lady.”

She said it every time I called, and it always made me laugh. My grandmother was quite the character, too. She told slightly off-color jokes, and she often mumbled curses in Italian under her breath.

Once when I heard her call a girl on the street a ‘puttana,’ I asked her what that meant. Embarrassed that I’d caught her cursing, she told me it meant ‘nice girl’ in Italian.

Yea, so a few times I got in trouble at school because of my grandmother. Once I repeated a joke, she didn’t even know I’d heard, and then I called a girl in my class a puttana. Too bad for me that the Principal was also an Italian American.

Mary Lista Mangione Ferrell Prandoni was born in 1905 in New York City to immigrants from Italy. She bore four children with her first husband and suffered his abuse for years. But she freed herself when she defied the Catholic Church and divorced him.

Grandma was the one who paid a price, though. I think it always hurt that the divorce caused her ex-communication. When the Second Vatican Council changed the rules, I tried to convince her she was eligible for reinstatement. She just shook her head, and my heart broke when I saw the shimmer of her tears.

After her second husband died when I was nine, I spent a lot of time with Grandma so she wouldn’t be alone on the weekends. She taught me to knit, crochet, needlepoint, and make Jell-O with fruit cocktail that floated.

My family at home was in chaos because my parents were going through a divorce. Mom felt she’d been a mother long enough. There are ten years between my siblings and me, so sending me to Grandma’s house was a win-win for everyone—especially me.

We laughed a lot when we did things together, and I think it broke her heart when my mother stopped using her as a babysitter and didn’t drive me to her house as often. It was hard for me, too. There was a void in my life after that.

One of the things the family could always count on was when you visited Grandma; she was going to serve egg salad sandwiches. She confided to me once; eggs were the only things she didn’t find outrageously overpriced compared to the 1930s when she’d started grocery shopping. So, out of the necessity of a social security check that didn’t go as far anymore, the simple food became Grandma’s signature dish.

If she were going to do something, out of necessity or not, she would give it her all. I was the guinea pig who helped her refine her ‘secret’ recipe. Lunch at her house was always special. During the winter, we would sit at her chrome and Formica table in the kitchen, and in the summer, we sat out in the screen porch, watching the birds in her garden.

I wasn’t the only grandchild to spend overnights at Grandma’s, and all of my cousins came to expect sun tea and the ever-present luncheon. As we grew older, it became our favorite ‘grandma-ism,’ along with the Italian curses.

Another ‘ism,’ and probably my favorite, was her sense of style. My grandmother wore her long string of pearls every day. I can remember when I would visit, how we would sit in her room, and she would let me look through her jewelry box. And when I saw that she had a lot of different necklaces, I asked about her pearls.

Running her fingers across the round gems, she could only say, “Grandpa gave them to me.” I thought of her second husband as my grandpa because I’d never met my mother’s father. So, at the mention of his name, we would both cry.

All these memories were floating, flooding my senses, as I stood in the cemetery with my extended family. I took the time to study each of their faces because I was sure this would be the last time I set foot in the Garden State.

Without Grandma there, New Jersey held nothing special for me.

When the pastor finished the service, we all walked past her casket and left roses. After I’d given her a final caress on the shiny finish, I went and stood alone.

All I could do was stare at her coffin. This was it. She was gone.

I hated that box. And I didn’t want her to go into the hole below. I didn’t think I could leave her all alone. My heart broke, and I left a little piece of it along with my rose.

Suddenly, my mother was standing beside me. She invited me to ride in the limo with her and my aunt and uncles. Sitting on the leather seats in uncomfortable silence, I was aware that my family considered me as much of a stranger as I did of them.

The family rented a venue to serve everyone lunch and allow us to visit and catch up. It was rare for these large get-togethers. We were those people who only see each other for weddings and funerals, and I’d even missed quite a few of those.

When the limo pulled up to the restaurant, I got out first. I stood waiting for everyone else and suddenly smelled the fragrance I’d been missing. I kept my feelings inside and told myself it was probably my aunt who’d used the powder. To the best of my knowledge, my mother never used it and always complained when I came home from Grandma’s smelling like it.

We all walked in together, and I was pleasantly surprised to see a lovely buffet, linen-covered tables with beautiful place settings, and an open bar. It was indeed a Mangione family event.

After I’d chosen my seat and set aside my purse, I walked over to the serving table, and I had to control my laughter.

Prominently placed in the middle of the long table was a massive tray of sliced sandwiches. It only took one look to see they were egg salad, and I wondered if they’d managed to find Grandma’s special recipe somehow.

My day, and the trip, were complete. Though I didn’t want to leave my special person in that cold graveyard, I knew there really wasn’t anything but a shell inside the coffin. While her earthly remains descended into that gaping hole, my real Grandma was in Heaven, wearing Cashmere Bouquet and watching all of us eat her favorite dish.

Grandma was home, and I had no doubts I’d get to see her again one day, and we’d share another glass of sun tea, and she’d ask me to tell her ‘everything.’ And then her hand would slide down to her pearls while she told me her latest joke.

I wonder if they allow that kind of thing in Heaven.