I was thinking about my Aunt Pupi on my drive home from work today. I have a healthy commute to and from the school where I work. 108 miles round-trip to be exact. I do have time to think.
Today I thought about Aunt Pupi and how I figured this would be a good thing to share.
Originally published in another publication in the fall of 2006, this is a tribute to my Aunt Pupi. She lived in Alabama.
A Gift from Italy
Somewhere in a newly moved into nursing home room in Selma, Alabama, there is a gift from Italy waiting to die. My aunt, Antonio Hines, age 91, has a swollen brain and is unresponsive to any earthly stimulus. She had a feeding tube removed. No argument here. Her lungs are still working. Her heart is still beating. And while I have heard over and over again that it could be “any time now”, if it’s up to her heart, who knows how long it will be before that gem gives out. Well, God knows.
Aunt Pupi. Pupi is what she has always been called. That’s pronounced pooh-pee. It’s a strange name, but one you get over when you spend a great deal of time with her. In the last twenty years the only times I have noticed her name as peculiar is when I have spoken of it to someone for the first time. I’m usually asked for a replay when I mention Aunt Pupi.
In the northwest corner of a boot of a country called Italy, there is a city called Trieste. That is where Aunt Pupi is originally from. She had planned to visit her sister next year, the last living sibling she has. When I was a child Aunt Pupi would tell me stories about Trieste. From what I gather it must be one very windy place. She told me there are ropes on the city streets that are there for folks to hold on to when the wind starts to blow exceedingly stiff. I never imagined such a thing, but she told her stories with such authority behind that thick Italian accent it made me feel like I was there.
One of my mother’s seven brothers, Uncle Paul Hines, was in Italy during World War II. Uncle Paul met Antonio and thus began one of the greatest love stories you never heard of. I just say that because even at a young age I knew these two were madly in love with each other. Uncle Paul died in 1989. He had suffered from emphysema for a long time. His lungs just gave out. A couple years later Aunt Pupi and I were speaking of him and I got a little wistful I suppose. She shook her head and said, “I miss him so much.” There was a thickness about her accent again, it gave more credibility to what she said than anyone else in the room. I can still hear her talk of how she missed him so much.
Now I’m missing her. But, heck, I’m also thankful I just got to know her as well as I did. Uncle Paul was about twenty years older than my mother. That’s a whole other column in itself given that she had sixteen brothers and sisters. To this day I don’t know why my mother and Uncle Paul turned out to be as close as they were. In the 1970s and early 80s, Aunt Pupi and Uncle Paul, without fail, would drive from Selma, Alabama up to Indiana in October to visit for a week or two. They loved the fall colors and Aunt Pupi always stocked up on apples from a place in Bedford. Have mercy did she ever like to cook. And was quite good at it, I might add.
The stories I get the most mileage out of include the one when she was eating olives…the green ones…out of the bottle. We never had olives sitting around the house when I was a kid, but Aunt Pupi always brought some. I was quizzing her one-day on what the olive tasted like. She said, “You must try.” I took one in my hand and smelled of it. Then I placed it in my mouth. Yuck. I thought it was hideous. Aunt Pupi looked at me and said, “You must think it is peach…” as she chomped away at yet another olive.
After Uncle Paul died, Aunt Pupi would come up to stay with Mom and Dad two or three times a year, sometimes for three weeks at a time.
I guess I’m at a place in my writing where I’m supposed to leave you with a memorable line or an attempt at something clever. The truth is I don’t feel like I even got warmed up. Aside from that, I ain’t quite ready to say goodbye yet. I’ll just raise a glass to Italy.