I woke up this morning missing Aunt Jo. I expect it is because a cousin is getting married this Saturday and I really really wish I could go.  Having two big, aging, high maintenance dogs inhibits travel. Add that one is still recovering from two hip removal surgeries in a 3-month period and – aside from not having two nickels to rub together – I simply could not ask someone to watch her, and walk her – on a leash – for 15 minutes three times a day.  

I think she is the last of the cousins, the bride, not the dog, that I know (sorta) to be marrying.  I say “sorta” only because I don’t think I have seen her in person since she was like…  5? Technically she is a ‘second cousin’ but adding an adjective just makes the distance seem unnecessarily .. greater? Her brother is married with a whole posse of children and I haven’t seen him since..  well..  whatever age he was when his sister was 5. They both seem so terribly normal! and I mean that in the best possible way.  Seems like everyone in my circle has drama and chaos, self-included.  Not saying they don’t have their own trials – they just seem well adjusted?  Probably because they have really cool parents. It’d be nice to see them both now that they’re properly house broken.

I wanted to write about Aunt Jo but I really don’t know what to say.  She was like a hug, a comfy pair of sweats and an afterhours dance club all rolled into a convenient panini.  I could be myself and I could be honest, even if it meant I didn’t say nice things about the church. Maybe I tried to push that boundary, but she never bristled.  She was just so easy to like!   We’d get to gabbing and my face and my sides would hurt we’d be laughing so hard.  She’d tell me stories about her husband, Uncle Buddy, she’d try to make me talk to the dog. If I happened to see her in person, she’d try to feed me – and if I rejected food – she’d make me drink. She gave me some really good photos of generations long gone when I was doing my genealogy research and told me stories of her grandfather that made him sound not very likeable, it’s fading now, I’m sure I have it written down somewhere but as I age, I find stress gets stressier while days just get shorter.  I may never have time to unpack that box. 

While rifling through my computer this morning, I found the little bit I wrote about Uncle Buddy when he passed in 2011, Aunt Jo passed in 2022 and she missed him every second of every day. I don’t know if there is that heaven thing but – however it works after life – I hope they are back together. I hope to someday visit them again.

From Nov 2011:

Having been transplanted from New Jersey to California at a young age, I was not fortunate enough to have the extended family in my day-to-day life and, on the occasional visit made home, I found the Italians rather scary. I’d like to say “with maturity” but in truth, it was just age – I started to understand that it was customary for two or more women to talk at the same time, and it wasn’t rude to only listen to one of them. Or if you were male, none of them. It also wasn’t out of the ordinary for the women to roll up their sleeves, ball up their fists and square off to box. I’m relieved to know that, even into my seventies, I won’t have to outgrow my urge to resolve things with violence, though someone should probably warn my sister.  

With such limited interaction, I didn’t know any of my great aunts or uncles, not by sight anyway. I’d heard the same stories so often, I know that I peed on Aunt Yolanda in 1975 and that Uncle Mike took me out to feed some ducks, I think in 1976. I always love hearing the stories, and I was relieved to know that they knew me, because sadly, I don’t know that I could’ve picked them out of a line up. With every visit I got more comfortable and more familiar but they will never stop amusing and surprising me. 

At Anne Marie and Ed’s wedding, after being chased around the dance floor by both Aunt Jo and Michael, I decided it would be safer outside in the heat and humidity – so I stole my dad’s cigarettes and snuck out. I’d only been out a minute before I caught sight of a “grown up” headed my direction. I wasn’t sure if he’d followed, if I was in trouble, or if I should ditch my cigarette in the bushes – and then I saw a cloud of smoke around his head. Ah, it was a fellow smoker, I was safe! Uncle Buddy joined me outside the reception hall, but was only there a moment before his catlike ears heard the door open. He didn’t bother to look, he quickly handed me his burning cigarette ordering me to hold it! When I turned, I saw his wife, Aunt Jo, coming out the door. After she accused him of smoking, he adamantly denied it and insisted he was only keeping me company, she turned and went back inside. It struck me as humorous – and I find myself smiling now – that Uncle Buddy would rather give his cigarette to a teenager, not even old enough to smoke, than face the wrath of Aunt Jo. Equally amusing, Aunt Jo never questioned a two-fisted 16-year-old smoker. Or more importantly, told my parents.   

 I can’t be certain that every visit included an Uncle Ron hosted open house, but the gatherings were frequent enough that I love baked ziti, fear string bean gravy, and I know if you don’t pierce a clam with your tooth, it will crawl back up while you sleep. Or at least that’s what Uncle Bill said, just before he warned me of the Jersey Devil. Included with the Capobianco induced fears, I’m forced to add the Catholic church. I was not brought up Catholic and can probably count on one hand the masses I’ve had to sit through. Uncle Buddy used to “tease” that he was going to convert me but the only time he ever came close was when he missed his exit taking us to the airport. He didn’t want us to be late and miss our flight so he did the only logical thing he could do. He reversed on the freeway. It was that day I learned to pray!  

Every vacation in New Jersey has had its memories. Dad and Uncle Bill tearing the flesh off their bulbous bellies body surfing, watching the sunrise down the shore with Uncle Ronnie, staying up all night eating Christmas cookies with Aunt Sandy, but if I had to pick a most memorable trip, it would be my grandmother’s funeral in December 2008. Of course it wasn’t exactly a “vacation,” but it was during this visit that I was able to really see my family. While I’m always hugged, kissed, and loved – sometimes even tackled – I felt blessed as I watched people come to pay their respects. I was proud to know that these people were my family. It was also probably the only time Aunt Jo has ever laughed during a Catholic church service – a funeral service no less!  I was sitting with Aunt Jo and Cousin Jim, and at some point during the stand-kneel-hokey pokey, the small package of kleenex fell out of my purse. I tried to casually bend to retrieve it but Aunt Jo quickly kicked it out of reach. Surely it must’ve been an accident, she must not have seen it. I bent again to pick up the small white package but she quickly stepped on it. I straightened up and stood pondering the phrase “Crazy Aunt Jo” until we were permitted to sit. Finally, being in a position to block her, I reached and snatched up the kleenex and just as fast she grabbed my arm and whispered “I thought you quit!” Still puzzled by her behavior I turned and asked “Blowing my nose?” She looked down and saw the kleenex in my hand and started laughing. She thought a box of cigarettes fell out of my purse and was trying to keep them away from me.  The two of us sat there shoulder to shoulder rocking with laughter while cousin Jim stared curiously.  I mean, this was AUNT JO! Her husband was a deacon!  and here she is cracking up in church.     

My father was distracted being a son during that visit, but as a grown up, and surrounded by family, I really wasn’t clutching his apron strings but was overjoyed when Aunt Jo and Uncle Buddy “adopted” me for the day. Not wanting to miss a moment as a Fuoco, as soon as the reception was over, I was back knocking on their front door. For the rest of that night, and into the wee hours of morning, I was at their house visiting with them, Uncle Danny, and Aunt Yolanda. It was the first time in my life, as an “adult” (or otherwise) I was lucky enough to hear the men speak. Uncle Danny told me of his life, the record store he once owned and the house he and Aunt Yolanda lived in. After they left, I prodded Uncle Buddy to tell me his stories. It was that night he told me of joining the navy, how his father wouldn’t allow it, but he insisted. He told me of his time with the church and his evolution from usher to Deacon. And, against Aunt Jo’s protests, I even got to see “his” room with his photos and awards. When it was finally time for me to go back to Uncle Ron’s to pack and get ready to leave, Uncle Buddy insisted that we get in the car and he drive me across the street. Not only was it freezing that December Jersey night, but we had one last cigarette to smoke, and one more secret to share, before bed. So there again, in Uncle Ron’s driveway, parked like teenagers, we sat smoking and talking.  

From that first day at Anne and Ed’s wedding, up ’til my last visit in September 2010, I always looked forward to sneaking off to smoke with Uncle Buddy. We would tease Aunt Jo that we were taking the dog for a walk “yes, again” and we would loiter in their driveway like hooligans, jumping anytime we heard something that sounded like a door. I think once we actually forgot to take the dog with us. But during all those sneaked smoke breaks I got to know Uncle Buddy, to hear his stories, laugh at his jokes, share his secrets, and hold his hand. For that I am eternally grateful, it was worth however many years the tobacco took off my life.