Grandpa

While my grandmother Vespo, my mother’s mother, was my favorite grandmother; my father’s father, Grandpa Manello, was my favorite grandfather. He was a good and kind man. And he would have had to have been  to have lived peacefully with my grandmother for 60 + years--- a woman, who was not so easy to find all that likeable at times.

And to give you a clue as to how good and kind my grandfather was, every Sunday he would drive from Yonkers to the Bronx without my grandmother (his wife) to check up on his mother-in-law and father-in-law.

But each Sunday before he left the Bronx to journey home, he would stop first at the A &M Bakery on White Plains Road to buy a loaf or two of some freshly baked Italian bread—round, sliced, and crusty. Then, he would stop by our house for a cup of coffee or to give my father and brother a haircut as my grandfather was a barber by trade.

And when he arrived I was always excited to see him. He would  tell me a terrible joke like What did the dog say when he sat on some sandpaper? (rough rough) and then he would open the bag and present me with the end of the bread—my favorite.

 It was better than candy.

My grandfather’s first name of record was Mauro. But to his friends and family he was known as Morris. To his barber shop workmates he was known as Jimmy. But to me he was just Grandpa. And I loved him as did everyone who knew him. And I think of him often—especially when someone asks why did the chicken cross the road? and every time I eat the end of some fresh crusty Italian bread.