An end.

A sweet and gentle man died last week. We celebrated his life in fine Italian-American fashion: we ate. And ate, and ate. If you pack a reception hall with four generations of Di's and 'ellis and 'ettos (first, second and third cousins), open the bar, give them lots of food, let the little kids run around like crazy, then a funeral feels just like a wedding. I definitely like it better that way. There's no reason to cry when you're surrounded with that much love.

He would have loved his funeral mass, too. He violently eschewed his own linguistic roots and tried to cultivate an "educated" speech in his children. The "Lahd's Prayah" recited in 100 relentless New England accents would have made him smile. Ah Fathah, who aht in heaven...

Rest in peace, Angry Father-In-Law. I will miss you.