28 June 2020, Montreal, Quebec, Canada
New York City based Santo Manna was unable to travel to his home town of Montreal to read this eulogy because of Covid-19. so it was read in his absence by his sister Nancy Manna.
There is a photo that I love.
It is July 1968.
I am all of 10 days old and about to be baptized.
It is the living room of the Sciotto family home, on Hurteau Street in Ville Emard.
I am cradled by my godmother, Biagina, who looks down at me with love. The same love that she showed me all those years until she was taken from us, far too soon, in 1986.
On her left is Peter, her middle child and eldest son – he is 17 years old, young and strong, and with piercing eyes gazing into the camera. His hand gently rests on my little shoulder.
They are impeccably dressed, and their look is solemn – they know they have been honored. Because in our Sicilian tradition, to be a godparent is an honor and a sign of utmost respect.
My parents bestowed that honor because these people, this Sciotto family, showed our family love and kindness when we needed it most. They took our family in when my father was about to take us back to Europe, as we had no home and the situation was dire.
And so the Sciotto and Manna families, counting 10 with my arrival, crammed into that apartment on Hurteau St. for the better part of that year. Think about that – perhaps 1,000 square feet of space, housing 5 adults, two teen boys, and 3 little children. What a sacrifice.
My dad never forgot it, and when he named Biagina and Peter my godparents, he gave me the greatest gift and honor too – because they gave me so much love in my early years, shaped me in so many ways, and I was blessed to be forever bonded with these fine people.
Biagina was a 2nd mother to me – she was wise beyond her years, so eloquent and modern in so many ways. She was always there, always caring and loving, always helping my parents. And the way she helped my parents raise me is the same way she raised Peter, and it showed.
He was aptly named, Pietro, because to me he was like a rock. My father was a rock too, but Peter bridged the gap between the old country and the modern world of Montreal and North America in ways my dad could not. He was a first-generation Sicilian Canadian too, but he had a 17-year head-start on me in terms of how to navigate that, and he gifted me that experience.
I looked up to him my whole life, and I loved him. He was larger than life to me, so strong, but so kind and good, and also playful and funny.
He used to do this thing where he put on a big gorilla mask and, when we least expected it, he’d burst out of a room screaming and yelling. Scared the daylights out of us!
Then there was that one time when I was misbehaving badly, and he made a big show of the police arresting me until I cried for forgiveness – he liked teaching me lessons like that, and I was a spoiled first-born Sicilian son so you can bet I needed it.
So many memories.
I remember his wedding, where I had the honor to be his little ring-bearer.
I remember riding with him in that vintage 1951 green Ford.
I remember spending time with him at the beautiful country house that he and Tony built in St. Sauveur – and that one time when we watched the Northern Lights from the deck, so beautiful.
I remember him impressing us with his feats of strength, like those one-handed pushups.
I also remember him bitterly complaining about how his dad forbade him to go to Woodstock!
He was only 17 in that photo. I was 17 when his mom Biagina fell ill. Both so young and with the world ahead of us. And life marched on for both of us.
I always felt connected with him, even as we spent many years apart. He moved out west, then I moved to New York City. We didn’t speak often. But he was always my godfather, I was always his godson, we were always 17 years apart, and that bond never broke.
I saw him last December – so frail now, with that terrible disease having ravaged him for years. But still with that playful look in his eye. Still Peter.
I love the place where the Sciotto family rests in Cote des Neiges cemetery – it is far back in the cemetery and up a tree-lined incline, and the family gravesite sits alongside the road.
I have vivid memories of going there as a child, on those sad occasions when we laid to rest members of the Sciotto and Amico family.
I have one more reason to go back there now, to that peaceful and beautiful place, because my godfather Peter Sciotto will be there.
He was a rock, and that’s how I’ll always remember him.
Rest in peace, my godfather.