For Giovanna Manna: 'The plain evidence, in those hands, of a long life', by son Santo Manna - 2024

2 February 2024, Montreal, Canada

Giovanna’s son Santo delivered the following eulogy in Italian and English. We will post an all-English version first, and then the bilingual speech below that.

12 years ago I stood before you in this church, on the occasion of my father Pasquale’s funeral.

Today I do the same, on the occasion of my mother Giovanna’s. Their life together was a love story, an immigrant love story, at that.

 You cannot tell his story without telling hers, and vice versa. 

 Their lives were intertwined.

***

They met in Sicily in the mid 1950s – in Santa Lucia del Mela, near where they were born, she in 1931 and he a year later.

She had already rejected several suitors – one of them, as she relayed to my sister, because he wasn’t nice to his mother.

Pasquale was smitten – he proposed to her, and she accepted, but there was one problem – his family was so large, and so poor, that there was no way his parents could afford a proper wedding. 

So, as was his character, he did what he thought was best for his family – he asked her to elope, and leave together for Switzerland to start a new life together.

She was devastated – she had looked forward to a traditional Sicilian wedding, and her bridal dress was ready. 

Yet, she accepted. 

All it took was his beaming smile, his gentle and kind demeanor, and his beautiful blue eyes, for her to take the leap. 

That, and how nicely he treated his mother.

They were married in December 1959, and from then on, they were inseparable.

They lived in Vevey for 7 years, where my sisters were born.  And in 1967 they crossed the ocean to settle here in Montreal, and welcomed me into the world.

And here is where they built their lives and family.

It was not without hardship. 

Soon after arriving in Montreal, they found themselves in dire straits and my dad, disillusioned, starting planning to return to Europe. 

They were saved by the kindness of the Sciotto family, and of my late godmother Biagina, who took all of us in until my parents could get back on their feet, and in whose home on Hurteau I was born in 1968. 

I mentioned it in 2012, and I’ll say it here again, that was an act of selfless love if there ever was one – 10 of us, including 6 kids ranging from newborn to 19-year old, all crammed into that duplex apartment for close to a year.

Tony is here with us today, the last surviving family member, and his presence is a comfort to us.

***

With the rest of my parents’ immediate families still back in Sicily, the Sciottos would  become our family in Montreal. 

And so did the rest of our paesani from Santa Lucia – the Amicos, with whom we spent so many Christmases together,  the Liparis and Salvadores, the Andaloros, Giannones and Boggias, the Rapazzos and Siracusas.

This Messinese community, our comare and compare, were a source of support for my parents and helped them get through the hard times – while creating a loving extended family for me and my sisters.

And my parents reciprocated, always striving to maintain and strengthen the bonds formed within that community, and offering its members support whenever needed.

***

My parents lives were defined by an intense LOVE for their family, and a stubborn resolve to make our lives better no matter what it took. 

And that was obvious, in the way that my mother lived her life.

There was her WORK ETHIC.  To put food on the table, she worked HARD – as a cleaning lady at Place Ville Marie in the 70s, at the button factory in Ville Emard, or later on at El Pro in Cote St Paul making leather purses. 

She worked tirelessly, and they saved every penny, for us.

She was ASSERTIVE.  My dad was a softie, but Giovanna was a tough cookie, fiercely protective of her family and children, and didn’t suffer fools. 

On one occasion, some mean kid down the block hit my sister Nancy – my mom found out and confronted him, and he never dared bother any of us again. 

She was STRONG.  That came from her mother Anna, who would walk miles with heavy sticks on her back in the old country. 

Then there was her sharp intellect and wit, and SENSE OF HUMOR, which she inherited from her father Domenico, who was jovial as can be.  He didn’t just ask my grandmother for dinner, he would say “Piripi Piripo, pesce stoccu vodiu io”.  She had that same gift, and often left us in stitches.

And last but not least, she expressed her love through her CUISINE. 

There were the Sicilian arancini – rice balls, with the mozzarella, Bolognese sauce, carrot and pea filling.

But especially, her famous and delicious meatballs – somehow, she managed it so that the very center of each meatball was juicy and moist.

As a first-born Sicilian son, I was shall we say just a tad spoiled, and my mother doted on me.

At the age of 15, I attended a sweet 16 birthday party, and succumbed to peer pressure and drank beer.  A bit too much unfortunately.  I was brought home and stumbled into the house, with my parents and my sister Anna, now awake, watching.  As I somehow made my way to my room and collapsed on the bed, my mom was next to me the whole way, and she sat down next to me on the bed, with grave concern.  A bucket was nearby for obvious reasons, some retching took place. 

Now my mom was very religious.  And at that moment, I said probably the worst words I should have said to her… “Pregge per me, mamma” – “Pray for me, mom”.

***

 She always had the support of our compare and compare in the close-knit Santa Lucia expat community.

But her rock, the constant in her life, was Pasquale.  They were a team.

Until 2012, when he was no longer there.

My father passed away on April 5th that year, and by September my mother had withered away. 

Not eating, suffering from depression, doubting her ability to go on without him, she had lost her will to live.

Until later that fall, when a little kitten, white with black spots, came into her life thanks to my sister Anna – she named him Bianco, and he gave her a reason to go on.

And she did.  She never went a day without missing my dad, but she managed, kept in touch with family and friends, and enjoyed family gatherings.

For more than a decade she lived alone in the house on Giguere, until the age of 92.

But she was never truly alone.

It was the constant devotion and attention of my sisters, Anna and Nancy, that sustained her, especially as old age started to take its toll. 

I want to recognize them here, along with our eldest niece Sabrina – for all that they did to ensure our mother felt cherished and loved – they acted selflessly, and so often at the expense of their own lives and families.

Now you can start to reclaim your lives, comforted in knowing that you made hers so much better.  You can let go now.

***

Santo with his mother Giovanna

 My mother’s decline slowly set in – starting with Covid, which was so difficult for everyone. 

Then her Alzheimer’s began to take root, and her memory, always sharp and precise, began to suffer. 

Her physical strength, always a point of pride for her, began to desert her.

She suffered from anxiety, and fear set in, including of being alone at night.

When your strengths become weaknesses, when the independence you have known your whole life is gone, you cease being you. 

And that’s what happened to Giovanna – and it led to her no longer being able to stay in her home – she spent the last 10 months of her life in a nursing home. 

It was a nice suburban home in Beaconsfield, and she had all the comforts she needed, but it signaled the beginning of the end.

Her health deteriorated over the last month or so, to the point where she wasn’t even able to walk without great difficulty. 

We brought her to the hospital on Sunday and were given the sobering news that she didn’t have long to live.

We caressed and comforted her, but looking into her eyes, it felt like she was already somewhere else.

I held her hands, and examined them closely – I had done the same with my father shortly before his death, in the palliative care ward at the Montreal General.

There were the creases and wrinkles, the callouses and moles, the scars, all accumulated over the years. 

The plain evidence, in those hands, of a long life – a life of hard work, and sacrifice. 

And the ring they each wore, a reminder of their bond of love. 

A love that endured long after my father’s passing, long after she could no longer clasp his hand, though she prayed for that moment when it would happen again.

Now, her prayers are answered. 

As my niece Sabrina envisioned, they are walking together, hand in hand, on their new journey.

They are in God’s hands now. 

 You can read Santo’s 2012 eulogy for his father, Pasquale Manna here

Here is the bilingual version of the eulogy for Giovanna Manna, 27 January 1931 - 29 January 2024

For Peter Sciotto: 'I looked up to him my whole life, and I loved him', by Santo Manna - 2020

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.

For Pasquale Manna: ‘A fig tree needs love too’, by Santo Manna - 2012

10 April 2012, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

This eulogy was delivered in Italian, English and French. We will post full English translation version first, and then the original trilingual version underneath.

spoken in Italian

When my father greeted people, whether by telephone or in person, he would happily cry out: “HELLLOOOO!”

Even in the final months of his life, when the pain and suffering from his cancer was at its peak, his approach to greeting people remained as joyous as always.

Why?

Because he did not want people to suffer on his account, despite the dire circumstances – on the contrary, he wanted them to be happy. He thought of the happiness of others first and foremost. This was the essence of his character.

This is a very sad day for all of us friends and family gathered here today, and for those who knew my dad and appreciated the man he was.

It’s difficult for me to control my emotions. At the same time, there is no difficulty in describing my dad’s character and the way he lived his life day-by-day; it is a simple task.

It’s an honor and a privilege for me to be here before you, on behalf of my family, and to have the opportunity to share with you the story of an exemplary husband and father, who lived such a beautiful and extraordinary life – just as it was an honor, and a privilege, to be his only son.

My father lived his life according to a personal code of conduct. Pasquale’s code was unwritten, and he never directly revealed it, but one could readily discern it by observing his humble and straight-forward way of life.

This was his code:
• Satisfy the needs of others before mine.
• Life is about giving, not receiving.
• Help others without expecting rewards.
• Always behave justly.
• Honor and respect those weaker than us.
• Make peace, not war.
And, finally:
* A fig tree needs love too.

My father planted a fig tree in his garden, out behind our childhood home in Montreal.

Every year, with winter approaching, he would carefully bury it to preserve it, and when springtime came, he would dig it back up and give it new life.

He cared for that tree in the same manner, tireless and dedicated, that he cared for his family and friends.

He was born on March 27, 1932 in Santa Lucia del Mela, Sicily, third son of Santo Manna and Nunziata Giunta.

His parents, his sisters Franca and Venera, and his brothers Santo, Vincenzo, Salvatore, Mario, Antonino and Antonio Franco, all played an important role in forming my dad’s character, each contributing in their own way to the man he would become. By their side, he forged his sense of duty and devotion to family that he never relinquished, and which became a hallmark of his life.

To my father, his parents and siblings were the ideal family. And, in turn, they considered him the ideal son and brother.

During a family vacation in Sicly in 2001, I had the privilege and pleasure of accompanying Pasquale as we visited the remote and primitive, and oh so lovely, mountain setting where he was born and raised. I observed him closely and noted the tender emotion he exhibited in revisiting, for the first time in so long, the place where he lived the first and formative years of his life.

It was in those mountains that he worked as a shepherd from when he was a young boy.

It was there that he learned from a tender age how to tend the soil and keep a garden.

Those moments, seared in our memories, we relived together during his final week in the palliative care ward. I observed the same emotion in him as I recounted the experience – his reaction: “We were poor, but happy.”

It was in Sicily that he met his love Giovanna, who fell for his beautiful blue eyes and gentle bearing. We celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary together in 2009.

My mother, my sisters Nancy and Anna, and I were constantly by his side at the Montreal General in those final days – and though it was a painful period, one of suffering for all of us, we took the opportunity to talk about Dad and what he meant to us. My Mom, speaking of his peaceful and calm character, and beginning to feel how much she would miss having him beside her.

She told me a story – of how she was strolling with him one morning, and they came across a friend who he greeted in his usual friendly way. Later, they came across another person, and he did the same. She asked, “Do you know him?” Dad replied: “No, but I’ll greet him anyway. As Jesus would have greeted even his enemies.”

To add to his other attributes, my father had a great sense of humor, which he displayed even when disciplining us. One expression in particular was front and center: “I’ll make you go to bed hot!”

in English

There is one person in particular in this audience who I knew would appreciate this immensely, you know who you are!

Over the last weeks, our family has received an outpouring of love and support from so many people, for which we are most grateful. It has been a wonderful source of strength and comfort in this most difficult time. We’ve had so many tell us what my dad meant to them, and it is a consistent theme – these are some of the words used to describe him:

- “He was there for us, when no one else was.”
- “He is the nicest man I know in this world.”
- “There will never be another man like him.” “There are no more men like him.”

- “He taught many men what it means to be a real man.”
- “He would give you the shirt off his back.”
- “Even the rocks respected him.” This one I must repeat in the Sicilian dialect: “Se fascia rispettare puru di petri.”

There are so many adjectives to describe his qualities. He was intelligent, wise, thoughtful, perceptive, sensitive, peaceful, calm, funny, devoted, caring and above all else kind.

Back in December, when he was hospitalized at the Montreal General Hospital for the first time, I had a brief and intense moment with him when he, in the most matter of fact tone, told me he wasn't afraid to die. This was startling, at first, but once I realized what it signified, it was a proud and happy moment.

What my dad was trying to tell me was that he had lived his life in such a manner as to have few, if any, regrets. When it came to how he lived his life, there was no unfinished business. That was a moment of great relief for me because I hated the thought that such a wonderful man would have regrets, would have feelings of not having achieved something during his life, feelings of having fallen short in some way. But it was quite the opposite.

In that moment, I sensed in him such a feeling of power, the awesome power of a man facing death and having absolutely no fear. Because in that moment I knew that my dad, for all those years of selflessness, was finally about to realize the true reward, not reward financially, not reward in material things or in professional accomplishments, but rather the reward of a man who leaves this earth knowing that he did his best, consistently and persistently, to make this world a better place for those around him. That is just reward for my dad, and provides great solace to those who loved him.

And what was the greatest reward he gave to us? His example. His words backed up by his actions. An example of how to live your life with integrity and dignity. It was, and remains, a powerful example.

As my niece Sabrina mentioned, were my dad sitting here with us today, he would be most uncomfortable hearing us talk about him like this, it was not what he was about. He would prefer that I would talk about you, the people who so enriched his life and gave him the opportunity to spread his love and friendship, and the love and friendship you returned to him so many times. Those of you who gave so much to the Manna family, from the time we first set foot here in Montreal in 1967. He would have preferred that I use this opportunity to thank you and to tell you how much he appreciated the love you showed him, and that’s what I’ll do.

Looking out, I see so many that had such a positive impact on our family.

Thank you to the Salvadore, Lipari, Giannone, Andaloro and Borgia families, for the opportunities you gave to my dad to love and be loved. Thank you to Antonia and Anna D’Amico, who he cared for deeply, and to Madelena DiPietro, who has been an important presence in the lives of my parents.

Thank you to the family of Fortunato and Amelia Amico, who provided us with the opportunity to feel like we were part of a big and happy family, on so many holidays and special occasions and in general. This was so special to us as an ocean separated us from my father’s family in Sicily. Comare Amelia, thank you for continuing to be a great and loyal friend to my mom and dad. Compare Nato, you are sadly missed.

And finally, a most special thanks to the family of Biaggina and Giuseppe Sciotto. You took our family in when we were most in need, out of the immense goodness of your hearts. It was a huge sacrifice, which my father never forgot, and we will never forget. To my godmother Biaggina, her husband Giuseppe and daughter Franca, we miss you terribly.

Now my father is reunited with Biaggina, Giuseppe, Nato and other family and friends who he loved so much, and whose loss he felt so deeply. They are all no doubt smiling down at us right now, over a nice plate of pasta, some bread, and some home-made red wine.

My dad leaves behind eight beautiful grandchildren, who he loved and adored. Sabby, Maddy, Joey, Mike, Connor, Katie, Ross and Alayna, I know you will remember your grandfather, and the values he stood for, always. Your grandfather lived the credo that it’s not what happens to you that matters most, but rather how you react to what happens to you. You often don’t have a choice regarding the events that shape your life, but you always have the choice of how to react to those events, and it is your reaction that defines you.

And in such reactions, and in the decisions, large and small, that you’ll make throughout your lives, it will never hurt to ask yourself, what would nonno do? The world has become complicated in so many ways, but the lessons of his life, born in a much simpler time, endure.

in French

The French language and culture occupied a central role in my parents’ lives.

They lived in Vevey, in Switzerland, during the early years of their marriage, and my sisters Anna and Nancy were born there. In 1967, they migrated to Montreal and settled in the working-class enclave of Ville Emard, where my father quickly began to forge relationships with his French-Canadian neighbors and co-workers.

The communities of South West Montreal, of Ville Emard, St-Henri, Point St Charles and Ville Lasalle, had large French-Canadian / Quebecois communities. Many among its populace were also poor but happy, just like my Dad’s family, and he noticed those attributes in them.

I’d like to mention my Dad’s closest neighbors, who I know appreciated my father and the friendship he provided – Carole and Mario, Luvana and Joe, and Karim and Ibrahim and their families. I know that you admired the way my Dad lived his life, his gentle and sweet character, and we appreciate the friendship that you bestowed upon him.

We thank the doctors and nurses who attended to and supported my father – notably at the Montreal General Hospital. Thank you Doctors Tanguay, Betay and Kovacs.

Finally, we are so very grateful to the men and women of the Palliative Care Unit at the Montreal General. There are no words to express the depth of our appreciation for the kindness and compassion that you showed towards my father in his time of need. We were deeply touched and will never forget it. I call out in particular Drs. Lawlor and Chaput, and nurses Johanne, Andree, Josette, Mary Jane, Gladys, Thulane, Annie, Marie-Lin, Rosemary, Pasqua and Diane.

My father also greatly appreciated your efforts, even though in the end he was unable to express it. He nonetheless was able to do so, in one unforgettable moment, when he extended his hand to a nurse and whispered a thank you to her, despite his state of immense suffering and exhaustion.

Finally, our thoughts and prayers are with the families of my father’s fellow patients in the palliative ward, with whom we built a friendship upon the most difficult experience that we were sharing. We passed many nights together, and their friendship gave us courage in facing such hardship.

My dad always thought of others, and it’s now our turn to do the same. Our thoughts are with the families of Marisol Argueillo, age 39; Carolina Falcone, age 49; Michel Loiselle, age 51; Viviane Naud, age 61; and Mira Skrlj, age 66.

delivered in English

I am grateful for the Manna name that my father gave to me and my family, because it was his, and his father’s before him, and they carried it well. Because of them and others, the name symbolizes integrity, strength of character, and selflessness. These are the characteristics of my father, and by expressing them every day of his 80 years, he gave us all the privilege and honor of being associated with that name.

It’s time to say our last goodbye to my father, knowing that his memory will always be with us as we go about our lives.

We remember always the goodwill he expressed to all he encountered during the course of his life, whether he was meeting them for the first time or had known them for many years, and how they benefited from his presence. And we, his family, who have had the privilege of basking in his presence and benefitting from his lessons for all that time that we stood by his side.

Italian

Your name was Pasquale Manna. You were my father and father to my sisters. You were husband to our mother, and grandfather to our children. Thank you for all that you have done for us. Men like you, there are no more. We love you very much, and we will never forget you.