She grew up in Philadelphia, the daughter of an Italian father and Irish mother. A capable, independent, and talented young woman.
His United States Navy ship came into port in Philadelphia, and a friend introduced them. It wasn’t long before he asked her to write letters to him after his ship left port. They were later married and enjoyed decades together before the symptoms of dementia began to impact her abilities.
Their story was a common story back then, to be sure. But what was not common was the way he spoke about her and the way he looked at her when they shared their story.
He always had tears in his eyes and admiration in his voice when he spoke about how well she knew how to get around the big city of Philadelphia. How she used the buses, the trains, and her own two feet to make her way all over that city. How she showed him around and how she showed such confidence, such poise.
They would laugh together as they spoke about those early days. And his eyes were always wet.
She was a pretty woman, with an easy smile and a ready laugh. She became an accomplished artist as an adult. Her devotion to her family was obvious, and it was obvious that her family loved her well.
It was our honor to know her, to spend time with her, and to listen to her stories. It didn’t matter that we heard the same stories, and it didn’t matter if some of the stories’ facts changed as she told them. What mattered was that she had reasons to recall and share her life, that she felt admired, and that she had a friend. We were glad to be her friend.
