We all knew that the day might come when my grandparents wouldn't be able to make the three flights of stairs in their Boston apartment. They had lived in that particular flat for over 30 years and were lifetime "North Enders"; a neighborhood known for it's summer street festivals and old-world charm. It was the only place they had ever known. It was their home.

Growing up in immigrant families with many brothers and sisters brought a heavy load with many responsibilities. Grampa was a sturdy built, easy going man whose pleasures were conversation and good food. He was a fisherman; working the Italian boats (also called The Guinea Fleet) with his father and uncles. They worked hard and received very little except the enjoyment of  family and friends; and of course plenty of fish!

The years rushed by like an ocean current and most of the family moved to Gloucester where fishing was more profitable. My grandparents stayed behind, not wanting to risk change. Although most people they had known had moved to the suburbs with their children or had passed away, the memories of a lifetime were fresh. From one old narrow street to the next, there were familiar faces and street memories. From the fish vendor on Salem street and men clustered on street corners, to elderly ladies walking arm-in-arm chatting - this was the old neighborhood.

Grampa had been accustomed to taking his walks, whether to Quincy market, or just outside to smoke his cigar. He would pass the time with Carlo the meatman, who was never seen hatless and whose butcher shop was on the ground floor of the building where they lived.

My grandmother was a woman who loved everyone and loved living, always wearing a smile. She rarely went out during the week except to go to church across the street with her friend. Mrs. Nazzaro, a lovely lady who lived in the same building.

Gramma enjoyed her life and had a wonderful family which she cherished. But she often wondered what life would be like if she could have a place to sit down, with grass and a garden. In the summer we gathered as a family outside the city nearly every weekend for cookouts. You could see how she loved being in the country for these get-togethers. My grandfather on the other hand, although enjoying their company, thought the sounds of birds chirping almost deafening and was always on careful watch for any Indians that might charge out of the woods.

Almost like a predictable movie, the tenants in in the bottom flat of my two family house in the country were moving out. With an apartment vacant, and a decision to be made, God's plan was made clear and put into action. In September, the ground floor was ready to be theirs. There were many mixed emotions stirring during this time. I often felt as if I personally was taking a part of their lives away although everyone knew this was the right move. Would they be happy in this strange land of grass, trees and furry animals? This question could not be foretold, but whatever happened, Gramma was about to have her wish fulfilled. In addition, they would be closer to their daughter who lived nearby. It was autumn now and the leaves were changing just as my grandparents were undergoing a change. The bright red, orange, and yellow leaves amazed them. They were adjusting to their new home one day at a time. Grampa would sit at the street's edge to watch the traffic go by, reminding him of his Boston, and Gramma was able to step outside whenever she pleased.

The weather soon changed to cold and the holidays were here. We made Gramma's famous ravioli and cucciddati; a delicious fig and nut dessert, traditional holiday foods that made the feast days special.

After the new year Gramma experienced much discomfort and went in for an examination. Cancer was detected. The doctors said that it was contained, and they removed it. We thanked God that it had been caught in time. She was monitored closely over the next few months, much to her displeasure. My mind is a bit hazy now, but somehow spring had passed and summer had arrived. It looked as if she was slowly recuperating! The beautiful summer days were to put a new hope and strength in her outlook, helped along by the constant visits and phone calls from her son and daughters.

The garden was in full vigor in June as she eagerly awaited those juicy red tomatoes, biding her time trying to keep up with the flowing stream of

zucchini and lettuce. I had set a bean pole by the side stairway, where she usually sat and crocheted daily, so that she could easily harvest them. We always had a good laugh when she sent Grampa to pick some. Never being able to find any, she would go herself and return with a bowl full. Her daily routine was to stroll out to the garden with her scissors to find a bit of parsley, mint or basilico (basil), and snip just enough for the day. Throughout the year she became my garden mate. Together we would harvest the vegetables and talked about how to cook them.  She loved to cook stuffed peppers and after waiting for some nice ones to mature, politely requested to have them. She told me how inviting they looked and was anxious to stuff them.  Later on that afternoon, I received them all stuffed and cooked, telling us to enjoy them. It meant more to my grandmother to give than to receive. She gave a lot of vegetables away that summer. It was her way of receiving enjoyment.

She loved every bit of the summer - playing games and teaching songs to my children. Laughter of the children running and playing brought an innocent joy back into her life. And the loving and daughterly accompaniment of my wife over a cup of tea and small talk added to her pleasures.

Time did pass and fall approached again and "our" beautiful lively garden began to wither and the color of the leaves were fading. The tired bean vines had stopped producing and Gramma helped me harvest the last of them. Although faded and limp, the vines tried valiantly to flower and produce more fruit, not knowing the season had ended.

Gramma fought hard, but had succumbed to nature's way as our garden had, and was losing. Shortly after harvesting those beans she lost the battle and was taken from us.

In one short year God made Gramma's dream a reality, gave my grandfather a home with family, and my mother an opportunity to be close to her parents. The memories of Last Summer's Harvest are times that I will cherish forever!

Painting: Mary Aiello Favazza by Keith Favazza

1988