100 years

Often, when Italians raise a glass of wine, they say “Saluté,” and then sometimes add the words, “Cent’Anni,” a traditional toast. Loosely translated, it means “May you live 100 years.”

Pronounced in some regional dialects as “gen-DAHN,” the phrase is meant to imply a hundred years of health. We should all be so lucky.

My mother would have turned 100 today. Not sure what she’d make of becoming a centenarian, but you can bet she would be flabbergasted that her youngest child was 60.

Elia Marie Guella was born September 30, 1920, in Biella, a small city in the northern Italian region of Piedmont, about 50 miles northwest of Milan. Biella lies at the foothills of the Swiss Alps, and Rebecca and I planned to visit relatives there this summer. Then along came COVID-19.

Coincidentally, in 1920, the deadly flu pandemic of 1918 that tore across the globe infecting one-third of the world’s population ended. But not before it took the lives of tens of millions, including some 675,000 Americans.

As I write this, I wonder what Mom would think of the global pandemic. I know one thing: She would abhor social distancing, dismiss elbow bumps and laugh at online shopping – because that would take the joy out of in-person returns, wouldn’t it?

Mom was a worrier, even though she had a cute pot holder with bunches of red cherries on it that said, “Worrying never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy.” Wonder where that pot holder ended up.

She also adored humorist Erma Bombeck and her book, “If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What am I Doing in the Pits?” She kept it in the bathroom magazine rack next to “100 Really Bad Italian Jokes.”

So, here’s what I think my mother would be doing during the past seven months:

• She would not order groceries online, because she’d send me to Kroger for essentials, Meijer for produce and Nino’s for meat. “But I’m 60, and that’s high risk,” I’d say. Then I’d get The Look, and she’d tell me to go anyway. And I would … of course.
• She’d be making face masks in bulk on her avocado green Singer sewing machine in all sorts of wild prints from Joanne Fabrics – on sale, of course. “Someone will like these red cherries,” she’d muse.
• In line with her contribution to the World War II effort by serving her country as a “Rosie,” she’d think of sewing masks in a similar way: stepping up for her country. But not as dangerous as back in the 1940s, when she drove a crane, carefully moving ladles of hot steel across a factory floor. Of course, she did. (That’s her posing in the main photo above wearing a bad-ass pants suit in 1940. She was 20. Notice the cigarette!)
• She’d be cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner, and complaining about it the whole time. “Your father can’t eat the same thing every day,” she’d insist. Even though he could and would, gladly, if only she’d realized that after 64 years of marriage. He especially loved her spaghetti with meat sauce. But we’d have it only once a week well, because … of course we did.
• She would not order takeout. Ever. OK, maybe Buddy’s pizza. With a small antipasto salad. Just once. So, if you should die of the virus, you die happy. And with a full stomach and clean underwear because … you never know.
• She’d clean house and organize closets and donate stuff to charity and then clean some more. Her polished silver and crystal would sparkle, her windows would shine, inside and out. As would the garage.
• I can honestly say she would not like our current president. I know this because she never much liked him before he was elected. She thought he was a blowhard and a philandering cad. But she would adore Dr. Fauci and probably want to send him homemade polenta and chicken.
• We would talk every day on the phone. Maybe FaceTime, if I gave her advance warning so she could at least run a comb through her hair and put on some lipstick. But not Zoom. Never Zoom. “What is this, Hollywood Squares? Your father thinks it’s run by the CIA.”

At 96, my mother’s youngest sister, Nores, is the lone surviving Guella sister. There were three, including the oldest, Enea. Nores is slowing down but still lives alone near Pittsburgh, cooks occasionally, smokes cigarettes and has daily cocktails at 5.

“Not bad for 100 years old,” Nores says when you ask how she’s been doing. “You realize I’m almost 100 years old, don’t you?”

Yes, we do. All of us. You’re almost a hundred years old.

God bless her. She’s my (s)hero. This whole pandemic thing confuses her, as does Zoom, FaceTime and anything else up in a cloud. But she doesn’t let it bother her. And she’s actually warmed up to some of it by adding this phrase to her vocabulary: “Well, why don’t you just Google it then?”

Mirrors are another matter. “Who is that woman?” she asks no one in particular looking at her very own reflection. “I’m ugly. I hate myself. Now I understand why your mother always said that. But Elia was the pretty one. Beautiful even. Bella, Elia. That she was.”

Ah, those Guella girls and their vanity. Too thin, too fat, downright ugly. Never just right. It’s a wonder their children turned out so perfect.

Aunt Nores has been a widow for more than 20 years. She’s a mother of two, grandmother to five and great-grandmother to enough children to form a baseball team. Definitely a life well lived. Still is.

Except in late August, she fell at home and fractured her shoulder and pelvis. The pain was excruciating, as was being in a rehabilitation center for nearly three weeks to regain her strength to come home.

Her family couldn’t be with her due to COVID-19 restrictions. But as usual, she made the best of it. (Of course, I’m lying.) From being taken to the hospital by ambulance, then transferred to a rehab facility, she was sad, confused and alone. And pissed off.

“If I ever get out of this place, I’ll never leave my house again,” she declared about a week into her incarceration.

One day, I tried to get her to laugh on the phone by saying it only took 96 years for her to finally get into rehab. Bada-bing! I heard crickets chirping on the other end of the line, and then she called me what has become her favorite term of endearment: “Asshole.”

After a week of rehab quarantine, my aunt’s first visitor was met with an eye roll and cursory flip of the bird. “You come to the window to visit me – how stupid is that?” she told her devoted daughter, Chris, who is my cousin and godmother.

Aunt Nores was released last week and is back home. She’s not going anywhere, thank you. But she’s still adjusting to life on the outside, can’t relax and has trouble sleeping. Naturally, those who love her are concerned about her well-being and state of mind.

My sister, Corky, visited her this week to see how our family’s beloved matriarch was faring and to give some relief to our cousin Chris, whose new favorite beverage is Honey Jack.

Aunt Nores welcomed Corky with open arms, and, without missing a beat, said: “Your ass is bigger than it used to be.”

Oh, Nores will be just fine. Count on it.

Interesting that I ended up focusing on my aunt when this blog started out to be about my mother.

Maybe it’s because Aunt Nores, who reminds me so much of my mother, is still alive and kicking. And it’s comforting to know a part of Mom is, too.

Cent’Anni!