Behind Every Pair of Patched Trousers
He was 25 when they first met. She was 26, a full fourteen months older.
He was a tall lanky Irishman from Canton; his family had immigrated to America nearly a hundred years previously. He was a ball-player, a factory laborer, and an itinerant worker at the Mt. Washington Hotel.
She was a short Italian woman from Waltham, possessed of a dazzling smile. Her parents came to America from Italy by way of Marseilles, and spoke little English.
They met when he made a delivery to the factory where she was working.
He was smitten with her. She thought he was fresh. She pointed out the raggedy condition of his work clothes to bring him down a peg, but he would not be dissuaded and replied..
"Behind every pair of patched trousers beats a true heart."
He pursued her, courted her, by train, tram and borrowed car. He was determined to win her heart.
They married in 1938.
They honeymooned on Martha's Vineyard. She laughed and frolicked in the surf. She discovered she had married an avid reader, who could disappear for hours between the covers of a book.
They set up house in Canton, and she hated it. She was a city girl. Two hours by train to get to Boston? But she stayed and adapted and made a life there.
He dreamed of being a reporter for a big daily newspaper. But there was a depression and then a war, and then he had a family to provide for. The dream was set aside and he became a police officer.
Time passed, and the events of their lives grew into family myths and legends. Though he always remained modest, his were bold and striking. The Bucket of Blood tavern. The Brinks job. The lanky frame filled out and he became a daunting and formidable figure on the job.
Her story was quieter, but no less powerful. She filled an Irish home with Italian cooking: lasagna, canolis, pizzelles. She ran the household. She was the support that made him possible. They were devoted to one another, a love that would not fade.
They had four children.
Eight grandchildren.
Four great grandchildren.
He retired after serving as Chief and they began the long twilight of their years. They traveled, to Ireland and to Italy, where she discovered that her Italian still served. He collected postcards; she collected dolls. He wrote a newspaper column. They enjoyed the grand children, saw them married, and enjoyed their great grand children.
As age took it's harsh toll, the two truly became one. The newspaper column became a joint effort, his ears and her eyes combining to produce each one.
She renewed her license at 88 and drove until she was 90. She had specific and often pointed advice for her grandchildren.
My Nana died on Friday December 5th, 2003. And yesterday he sat close by the casket, in a faded coat and pants, waiting to bury his wife of 65 years, sitting by her to the very end.
Because behind every pair of patched trousers beats a true heart.
