PATIENCE MEETS MY PARENTS

Love can slap your head and knock you silly when you least expect it, and it does so at a time of its own choosing, regardless of your personal circumstances.  It certainly did so with me when I met a young nursing student named Patience during one of my shifts in the ER.  My life at that time was dark, and her radiance gave it light and hope.  After a very short courtship – phone calls, one day-long date, and a walk in the park – I knew we would be spending the rest of our lives together.  So it was only a matter of time that we would be driving the 30 miles from Wilmington Delaware to Landisville New Jersey for her to meet my parents.

When my father’s health prevented him from working, my parents decided to sell the farm and build a small home on a nearby wooded property they owned.  It was perfect for them. It had a large basement where my mother could cook and can (Italian-Americans often had a second kitchen in the basement.), and my father could make his wine, and with enough cleared land for a garden.  My father had two passions, wine making and gardening, both of which he pursued until one year before his death at age 82.

On the day of the big meet we pulled into their drive in my wild and wooly ’65 Mustang hardtop, stopping just short of the garage, which was always open.

Family and friends usually entered through the garage because it opened into the kitchen-dining area, where all the entertaining took place.  This day would be no exception.

Patience, whose 8^th great grandfather was Miles Standish, was a stranger to Italian-American culture and understandably was slightly apprehensive.  The first thing she noticed as we entered the garage were large, dark, moldy pieces of something…resembling hams… hanging from the garage beams.  I’m not sure she was reassured when I told her that was prosciutto my father was making.  It looked like nothing she had seen before, and certainly not something meant to be eaten. We did not have prosciutto that day, but we were having manicotti, one of my mom’s specialties, She asked Patience if she ever had “mana gought”, which is the way we pronounced manicotti.  Of course Patience said no, she had never had mana gought; when the food arrived at the table she immediately said, “oh, you mean manicotti” which sounded strange to our ears and brought polite smiles to our faces.

It did not take very long for the unfamiliar to become familiar, and Patience immediately became family.  Years later, when my parents died, mom in 1992 and dad in 1995, Patience was with me at the bedside holding their hands.  I cannot imagine getting through their respective illnesses without her and I thank God for her presence in our lives.