The Day My Ancestors Took My Breath Away

On a chilly weekday in October, I set off to find my grandmother's grave.

Before his death nearly 14 years ago, Dad used to visit Calvary Cemetery quite often. Mom casually mentioned this the other day, but said she herself didn't know the exact location.

"Nonna" had died on the eve of her 100th birthday, in January 2001, when the ground was frozen. The gravesite services for Rachel Mairani Varettoni that Mom, Dad and I attended more than 18 years ago had been held in the cemetery chapel.

Setting off alone to find the grave in 2019, I drove to the modest cemetery office. It seemed deserted when I arrived, with no cars in the small parking lot.

I walked into an empty room, and a kind woman emerged from nowhere. Informing her of the date of Nonna's death, she drew a tall leather-bound book from a shelf, and carefully opened the pages where, chronologically by date of interment, the location of each gravesite had been recorded in flourished script.

She handed me a map, marking "Section 8 Lot 120B," noting that it was in the oldest part of the cemetery.

I was soon standing in front of the Mairani/Varettoni gravestone, marked: Angelo (1872-1944), Julian B. (1896-1976), Rachel (1901-2001), Rosa (1872-1969).

My ancestors took my breath away. "It's all of you," I exclaimed, bursting into tears. I lost my balance and had to steady myself on the stone. "It's all of you," I kept repeating. "It's all of you!"

Not only was Nonna in the ground at my feet, but also Nonno (my grandfather) and Bisnonna (my great-grandmother) and my great-grandfather who died years before I was born.

I loved... still love... my grandfather very much, and I had not expected to find him here. Nonno was my hero when I was a boy -- a grandfather who delighted in what would now be called dad jokes... and riddles and number puzzles.

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Bisnonna, Nonno, Nonna and me -- many years ago.

This is where my story takes a macabre turn.

With attention on the gravestone's inscriptions, my mind began to race.

It had never before occurred to me that Uncle Ange was named after his father. My great-grandfather had named his firstborn son after him, just has my grandfather had done, and just as my father had done.

I also never appreciated that my great-grandmother had died soon after a memorable family visit to see her the day after Neil Armstrong had walked on the moon.

My pulse quickened further as I noticed connections in the dates.

The roundness of the numbers: Nonno, 5 years older than Nonna, dying in his 80th year; Nonna dying in her 100th.

The coincidences: both Angelo and Rosa born in the same year.

The stories: both Rosa and Rachel had outlived their husbands by exactly 25 years.

With tears in my eyes, I talked to them all for a while. I was alone in a graveyard near Route 80 in Paterson, NJ, and no one noticed or cared.

My shadow, next my ancestors' grave.

When it was time to leave, I was unfamiliar with how to navigate the local streets to get back on 80. I opened the Waze app on my iPhone and hit "Home." I drove toward River Road, but Waze directed me past what I thought might be the way to the onramp.

Pulling over, I found myself in the middle of a residential neighborhood in Elmwood Park (which would have been called East Paterson when Nonno and Nonna lived nearby). I had to chuckle. Mom, my sister and I had recently visited this same neighborhood to see the house my parents rented when I was a baby.

But, oddly, Waze was not directing me to that rental house on Kipp Avenue. Instead, it was directing me to an address on Palsa Avenue, a few blocks away.

With trepidation, I drove to the address Waze had specified. It was just a suburban house. No drama. Seemingly nothing there for me to see.

Then I noticed that the house number didn't match the address Waze displayed. The house number on Palsa Avenue was a simple three-digit number. The Waze address was this: 16-54.

Just like a gravestone inscription.

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When I told this story to my wife, I mentioned that I could do a calculation on the Waze address that led to a chilling conclusion.

"I may have only 7 years to live," I said.

"Don't say that! Don't even think that!" she protested. "That's absurd."

"OK," I replied, "but there's another way to calculate those numbers, and it would mean that I've already been dead for 25 years."

"So I'm talking to a ghost?" she replied.

"Yes, and just think, what would that mean for you?"

My wife rolled her eyes (the way my grandmother often did in reaction to her husband), playfully hit me on the shoulder to see if I was for real, and turned away with an exacerbated breath.

Just like someone who had another 32 years to live.