Martin Dagradi: Italian Family Man and Veteran

Memorial Day will be even more meaningful to me this year.

My grandfather, Martin Dagradi died in his sleep early Thursday morning at the age of 96.

It was not a surprise to us, but I suppose I had always thought of Nonno as Yoda and envisioned him outliving us all.

Nonno was a veteran and was very proud of his time in the U.S. Army from 1943 to 1946. He served as a mechanic on the 122nd Medical Battalion within the 42nd Rainbow Division. It was his job to keep the vehicles running, also driving the wrecker to pick up damaged trucks.

He toured Europe – including Italy, France, Germany and Austria – while in the service. That gave him the opportunity to visit family in Northern Italy – where he lived for three years as child. A gas can fell off his truck after one visit, which his cousin kept. In fact, when I traveled there, my cousin had me take a photo with him and that same can.

Family was the most important thing for Nonno. When I studied abroad in Spain in 2008, I reconnected with our distant Italian relatives after writing to some addresses Nonno had for them. I visited them that Easter and the first person they asked about was Martin. When I returned to the States, my mom frequently Skyped with them, enabling Nonno to talk to them via webcam – sometimes in Italian!

When some of our Italian relatives came to the U.S. for the first time in August, they celebrated Nonno’s belated 95th birthday with him. He turned 96 this past April. Nothing made him happier than spending time with family.

Nonno was always the life of the party. He had a way with humor that charmed people. He was never short of one-liners like, “Carrots are really good for you. You never see rabbits wearing glasses,” or “My get up and go got up and went.”

He made friends wherever he went, whether it was other seniors to play cards and eat meals with or nurses in the hospital. He even knew his mailman on a first name basis, relating to him as a former post office supervisor himself.

He invested in his grandchildren’s future, giving us a dollar every time we visited, which we called “Nonno dollars.” Little by little, we learned how to save.

When I wrote a poem in high school called “Boston at the Bat” – a parody of Casey at the Bat – about the Red Sox winning the World Series in 2004, he mailed a copy to the team and Jerry Remy. Nonno is the only person I know who was a Red Sox and Yankees fan.  It was unheard of as a man from West Springfield, MA. He just liked a good baseball game.

Nonno went to a trade school in Springfield, training to be a mechanic. He valued his daughters’ and grandchildren’s education. I’m not sure that he knew what a website was, but he always asked how my job at Patch was going.

He kept active and often went to Foxwoods or Mohegan Sun with other seniors, sometimes sharing his casino winnings with us before Cape Cod vacations. He was always very lucky and careful about his spending.

Working in a fruit store back in the day, making $12 a week, he kept  $2 for himself and gave the rest to his mother, Ermalinda. He worked his way up to $25 a week. Back then, gas cost a dime a gallon, so he’d buy one gallon at a time.

He didn’t have much, but he valued what he had.

When he asked my grandmother, Irma to marry him in 1947, she told him, “Save your money and ask me next year.” He took that to heart and asked her at midnight the next New Year's Eve on the dance floor at the Hofbrauhaus German restaurant in West Springfield. That time, she said, “Yes.”

Nonno maintained that quick wit until the end, still cracking jokes from his hospital bed.

My grandmother died a little over a year ago, but Nonno never let his spirits drop.

I was fortunate to see him one last time on Wednesday and although he was sleeping, we all spoke to him so he could hear us. For whatever reason, I spoke to him in the little Italian I know. I think it was because I knew his fondness for the Italian language and culture symbolized his connection to family.

I have a hard time picturing a world or family gathering without Nonno. It’s next to impossible.

And that’s probably because we’ll never really ever be without him. A presence like his doesn’t die in memory.

I like to think that when we have our next family barbecue – likely Monday – he’ll be watching over us, with a bottle of Sam Adams or a glass of Jack Daniels on the rocks in hand, waiting for his hamburger.

And when the food is ready, he’ll say, “Mangia!”