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I’ve already written about some of my fond memories of my grandmother — the saint of the family — and those stories will probably make even more sense after this post about my grandfather and my mother. I’ve also shared memories of my dad and my Irish grandparents, so this feels like the natural next chapter.

I know it might seem a little unusual to group my grandfather and my mother together, especially after reflecting on my dad and grandparents separately. But I did it intentionally: they’re a father‑and‑daughter pair, and they were also the husband and daughter of my Italian grandmother (the saint, as previously established).

My grandfather and my mother are… well, let’s just say “very similar” and leave plenty of room for understatement. A few years ago, I started looking at my mom more analytically and psychologically, and I began comparing what I saw in her to what I knew about my grandfather and his siblings.

My grandfather was always considered the black sheep of the family — a bit off on his own, more at ease with friends than with his own relatives. His brothers and sister, from what I remember, were more easygoing and engaging, while my grandfather… yelled. A lot. Volume was kind of his love language.

When I think about my mom, I imagine growing up in that environment couldn’t have been easy. I started to get the sense that she didn’t receive the attention from her father that she might have wanted. And later in life, she seemed to gravitate toward him more than toward my grandmother (the saint). We always wondered why, and I think maybe she was still searching for that connection, that acceptance. I’m no expert, but that’s what it looked like from the outside.

And just like my grandfather, my mom always seemed more comfortable around her friends — and yes, she also screamed a lot. Maybe it runs in the family. Some people pass down recipes; others pass down volume.

Looking back, with my grandfather being old‑school Italian — where the men were the priority — I can see how my mother might have taken a back seat. I saw it in the way he spoke to my grandmother. It drove my dad nuts, but in context, that was the culture and the time he came from. It became even more obvious when I had my own son and daughter. My grandfather was noticeably more engaged with my son than with my daughter. When you look at the actions, the background, the culture — it’s not a stretch to see how I arrived at my conclusions.

That doesn’t mean I don’t have good or fond memories — I do. They were just different. Everyone’s family has its quirks, but mine had a few true outliers, the kind you look back on and think, “Yep… that tracks.”

When it comes to my grandfather, he would have done — or given — me literally anything. When I was little, he’d pick me up in his cab, take me out for ice cream, and I can still picture those beach vacations like they were yesterday. I even remember him bringing me to his “all-boys” club where they played cards. By today’s standards, I’m fairly certain that would violate at least three rules and a city ordinance, but at the time, it felt like an adventure.

As I got older, he never stopped taking care of me. Food, coffee, whatever he could afford — and sometimes things he probably couldn’t afford — he gave without hesitation. That included the time he tried to “clean” my car with a shovel and scratched the paint. You learn to take the good with the bad.

Between the yelling, the old‑school toughness, and his very… let’s call it “direct” personality, he was a classic old‑style grandfather. Rough edges, crazy habits, questionable car‑cleaning techniques — but underneath all of it, he loved me. And I always knew it.

My mom wasn’t much different from my grandfather, and I suspect that the attention — or lack of attention — she received from him shaped a lot of who she became. She always struck me as incredibly strong‑willed and fiercely dedicated to hard work. Honestly, I’ve never seen anyone more determined, and I know without a doubt that my own work ethic comes straight from her.

Yes, she was a screamer — that’s probably the thing I remember most — but for her, that was just… talking. Some families pass down heirlooms; mine passed down volume control issues. She and her dad were very similar in that way, and like him, she always seemed more at ease with friends than with family.

But just like my grandfather, she would leave no stone unturned when it came to getting me what I needed. When I was a kid, she’d take me shopping and out to breakfast — we were regulars at IHOP — and then I’d be dragged around the mall while she shopped. That might explain why I don’t “shop” today; I just buy. However, looking back, it was actually quite enjoyable.

I can still picture the times she came home from work with a package of Toll House chocolate chip cookies just for me. I can still taste them. Those little gestures meant more than she probably realized.

And honestly, the only reason I was able to buy my house when I did was that she went after the deal like a relentless hound. Most people would’ve given up, but she simply wore them down — one of her signature traits. She is nothing if not tenacious.

My mom was always the first and only person I called when I got home from school, and she was the driving force behind me getting my college degree. She never really had that opportunity as a kid. She didn’t know what I should study, but she knew I had to go. She screamed that at me many times. So I went — and I’m grateful for it. Although I never did take that typing class, which is why I’m still here finger‑poking the keyboard… and yes, I still hear about that to this day.

Like my grandfather, if I needed something, my mom would leave no stone unturned to make it happen. She simply couldn’t sit still — work and constant motion were almost part of her identity. And there was always a part of me that wished she could slow down, just for a moment, so we could sit and talk without her mind racing ahead to the next task.

Even now, when I visit, she’ll sit with me for a few minutes, but you can practically see the gears turning. She’s usually thinking about some project she wants me to do, perched on the edge of her chair like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun. And inevitably, I’d hear, “Go talk to your father, I have to watch the end of Barnaby Jones,” a show that’s older than both of us combined and one she’s seen at least a hundred times. I can’t judge too harshly — I’ve watched every episode of Seinfeld a hundred times and still laugh like it’s new.

We’re very different, but also very much the same, which might explain our little disagreements. I give the stink eye, she screams, and then it’s over. That’s family. You learn to weather the storms and appreciate the calm that follows.

And here’s the real kicker: no matter how much yelling there was, no matter how chaotic things got, I always heard “I love you.” When you look at families where a child goes off the rails, and people say, “We never noticed anything was wrong,” sometimes what was wrong is simply that the child never heard those words. I heard them — loud and clear — and believe it or not, that makes all the difference in the world.