“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” – Sue Monk Kidd, Author
At 50 years old, I admit I’ve lived long enough to witness technology’s progression in society firsthand.
I remember a time when personal computers didn’t exist, the only phones available to us were permanently mounted on kitchen walls, and the sole way to conduct research on any given topic was to visit a brick-and-mortar library in your town.
While I’m often critical of technological advancements over the past few decades and question how they’ve improved our humanity toward one another, I must give credit to the advent of the internet.
Stories have to be told, and the internet has provided me with a glimpse into the life of someone I never had the chance to know.
One random Sunday afternoon, while doing a light dusting around the house, I stumbled upon an old framed photograph I pass by at least a dozen times a day, usually without much notice.
However, on this particular afternoon, as I wiped away the faint traces of dust from the wooden frame surrounding it, I suddenly wondered, “Can I find his obituary online?”
The “him” I am referring to is my maternal grandfather, Louis Melillo. The photograph captures him in his army uniform, posing against a white background with a bright smile on his face, a smile that I see reflected on my own face when I look in the mirror.
I’m unsure what the black-and-white photo was taken for, but I consider myself fortunate to have it.
To my surprise, I quickly found his obituary online with just a few keystrokes. It was published in The Herald-News from Passaic, New Jersey, on Wednesday, April 21, 1976.
While I wasn’t looking at the original newspaper, I accessed the Extracted Article Text, which refers to text that has been converted from an image or scan into machine-readable, editable, and searchable digital content.
Below is the extracted text:
LYNDHURST Louis R. Melillo, 56, died Tuesday at home. He was a lifelong resident of Lyndhurst. Mr. Melillo was a switchboard wireman with Western Electric in Kearny for 35 years. He was chairman of the Board of Trustees of Lyndhurst Lodge No. 1505, B.P.O.E., and was a member of Civility Labor Society and Dwight Morrow Republican Club. He was a parishioner of Sacred Heart R.C. Church and was a World War II Army veteran.
Stories Have to Be Told
Perhaps what is most important here is that I never knew my grandfather. He died on April 20, 1976, exactly two days after my first birthday.
I know little to nothing about my grandfather, but I do remember my dad telling me on more than one occasion that my grandfather didn’t want to die on my birthday.
While my age when he died certainly explains why I have no memories of my grandfather, there is another reason why, almost five decades later, there are still so many voids in the information I have about him.
My grandfather was very young when he died of lung cancer, just six years older than I am now. Given the tragic end to a life still so young, it hit my grandmother and my mother quite hard.
At the time, my grandmother was completely dependent on my grandfather. She didn’t have a driver’s license, didn’t know how to drive, and had never paid any household bills or knew who to call when issues arose around the house.
While this dependency between husband and wife was not uncommon for that generation, the consequences often left wives feeling helpless and scared if their husbands passed away.
My mother and I both face some of the same mental health challenges. In her case, just like mine, her father was the only person in her life who accepted her for who she was and provided unwavering support.
While such a relationship is important for parents and children, it’s easy to become reliant on their care and attention as an emotional crutch, which can prevent us from combating self-doubt, ignoring societal judgments, and practicing resilience.
Although each of them dealt with loss and grief in their own way for very different reasons, the outcome was the same: they never spoke about my grandfather again.
As I grew older and became more inquisitive about who my grandfather was (I was fortunate to have two grandmothers and a grandfather well into my thirties), conversations never materialized and were often ignored.
I suppose they each thought that by not mentioning my grandfather’s name or recounting stories of his life, they could avoid the pain of losing him over and over again.
However, from my perspective, stories have to be told to keep the memory of our loved ones alive in our hearts and minds. Pretending they never existed and not sharing their stories does not make grief go away.
Google Answers Some Questions
I wish I knew more about my grandfather’s life, but I did learn a few things from his obituary.
For instance, his middle name started with an “R.” Though now I have no way of knowing what it stood for, it’s still nice to know.
I was surprised to learn that he worked as a switchboard wireman for Western Electric, which means installing, maintaining, and repairing electrical distribution systems. I guess it’s safe to say that my grandfather was an Electrician.
While I knew he was a member of the local Elks Lodge, I had no idea he served on the Board of Trustees, which probably sounds more important than it actually was for this nonprofit.
He was also a member of the Civility Labor Society. This was not what I expected. I thought it would be an organization focused on helping workers. However, my research revealed that it was simply the Italian American Club in town. Established in 1910, before Lyndhurst, New Jersey, even existed, it was one of the oldest Italian American Clubs in the area and disbanded around 1988 after nearly 80 years of operation.
He also belonged to the Dwight Morrow Republican Club, which appears to have been a historical entity, according to the internet. It was associated with Englewood, New Jersey, and aimed to promote Republican candidates and principles, specifically backing the campaigns and legacy of U.S. Senator Dwight W. Morrow in New Jersey.
The only details I previously knew from his obituary were his World War II status and that he was a parishioner of Sacred Heart R.C. Church. My grandmother was a lifelong member, and the pair were married at that church, as evidenced by a copy of their wedding photo, which I possess.
Keeping Stories Alive
Discovering a few insights into my grandfather’s story through his obituary from nearly 50 years ago sparked a profound realization in me: we must share the narratives of those who came before us.
Even though I lack photographs and intimate details about the kind of person he was, I can still piece together fragments of his life, which is better than having nothing at all.
The heart-wrenching experience of losing a loved one is an inherent part of our journey, but the silence that surrounds their stories threatens to erase their existence.
It is through these stories that we keep their memories alive, linking us to those who played vital roles in our past. We owe it to the next generation to ensure they understand their heritage and the ancestors whose blood runs in their veins.
The notion that remaining silent about our loss will alleviate our pain is a profound misunderstanding; in fact, embracing our memories brings us comfort.
We must honor our loved ones, for their stories have to be told as a testament to the depth and meaning of their lives.