family Archives – Lisa Scottoline

By Lisa Scottoline

Recently I mentioned that I received an award from International Thriller Writers called the ThrillerMaster, which makes me sound a lot more exciting than I am.

The award was a lifetime achievement award for writing, and I’m so grateful for it, especially to my readers.

But I’m not bringing it up to brag, but to tell you about the subject of my acceptance speech – my grandfather Giuseppe Scottoline.

Giuseppe came to the United States from the town of Ascoli Piceno in Italy’s Le Marche region, which is rural and beautiful. Unfortunately he passed away before I was born, so I never met him. He was only five feet tall, and by all accounts, he was very shy. My grandmother Mary, whom I knew and loved, was taller than her husband.

And she had no problem speaking her mind.

Giuseppe, Mary, and a daughter settled in West Philadelphia, where they had two more daughters and a young son who would become my father Frank Scottoline.

At first, Giuseppe wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in America, and neither did my grandmother. They were intimidated by this big, busy country, and they’d really believed the myth that the streets were paved with gold, which seems incredible.

The Scottolines are adorably gullible.

But they stayed, and Giuseppe decided to support his family by mowing lawns, with a push mower.

You can see the problem with his business plan.

There’s no grass in West Philadelphia.

So he pushed his mower to the houses that had lawns, and my father told me it was miles away. Giuseppe mowed lawns all day, then pushed the mower back home.

And the Scottolines survived.

What’s remarkable for present purposes is that Giuseppe was completely illiterate. He couldn’t read or write in his own language.

He even signed his name with an X.

I know, I’ve seen it. It wasn’t a big X, like an “X marks a spot” on a treasure map, promising untold riches. It was the little x of a shy and silent man, intended not to draw attention to itself or take up too much space.

And it strikes me as amazing that only two generations later, I received an award for writing books. Me, the granddaughter of an illiterate man.

And as you may know, my daughter Francesca is a novelist in her own right, with her debut novel nominated for Best First Novel by International Thriller Writers and a paperback title Full Bloom coming out this July.

What I’m trying to say is that Giuseppe may have been an unassuming man, but he got himself to this amazing country and thereby changed the story of his family.

His legacy wasn’t millions of dollars, but the hope for something better, which is far more precious.

It really makes me wonder how we measure lifetime achievement.

I’ve written fifty books and I’m delighted that I was recognized with an award.

But where’s the award for people like Giuseppe?

I imagine all the things people like him did during their lifetimes, the hardships they overcame and the obstacles they persevered through.

How many times did they think something wonderful was going to happen, only to learn that the streets were hard with asphalt?

How far did they push their mowers?

How did they stick it out when times became impossibly difficult, through World War II and the Great Depression? Or even now?

There are so many people who have achieved so much in their lifetime, survived, and even flourished through so much adversity, but none of them gets recognition.

I’d love to change the way we think about achievement.

Giuseppe was a little man.

But to my mind, he was a giant.

By Lisa Scottoline

My mother passed away on Palm Sunday about ten years ago, and I always think about her around now, not in a sad way, but in a way that makes me smile.

Maybe the following will make you smile, too.

Because Mother Mary’s last days were everything I would’ve wanted for her, complete with her salty brand of humor. She had congestive heart failure, which is surprising for someone with so much heart, and she entered hospice at my house, with my Brother Frank and Daughter Francesca with her.

I’m sure many of you have been through hospice with people you love, so you know what a uniquely terrifying and heartbreaking time it can be. But at the same time, what happened for my mother was glorious, and in many ways, a reflection of the way she lived her life.

None of us knew how long she would live, but she was in pretty great spirits and no pain. So we set up a bed in the living room, but she didn’t need to lie in it and generally walked around the house or plopped on the couch in front of the TV, which was her favorite position.

Mine, too.

We invited friends of hers to come over, and since she hadn’t lived in the Philadelphia area for many years, they showed up in force. Everyone brought food, flowers, and good cheer, and we felt as if we were hosting a very unique sort of party every day, one that was especially meaningful to her.

Then guess what.

She got a second wind.

And a second month.

Mother Mary always loved a good time, and she reconnected with everybody she loved, among them a son from a previous marriage for whom she had been estranged almost all of her life. He was kind enough to come over and spend time with her, too, and the reunion did all of our hearts good.

Hers, especially.

As time went on, her throat became more strained and she couldn’t talk, so she wrote on a greaseboard. The first question any friend asked her was, “How are you?”

To which she would always write: “Outside of all this crap, I’m doing fine.”

I took a picture of her sentence above, and I love seeing it, especially now.

My mother wasn’t the type to give a lot of advice in sit-down lectures. But she had a lot to say and fired off lines like that all the time.

Jokes that made me laugh, then think.

And those quips told everything about her.

Think of the courage it takes to write that sentence.

And at that point, she was dying.

She went from no pain to no picnic in no time.

We were swabbing her throat with sponge lollipops.

But the way she lived her life was to set aside all that crap, and do fine.

By an act of sheer will.

Wow!

I remember that line when I’m having a hard time, or when I’m seeing my country go through hard times.

Dying can teach us so much about living.

Outside of all this crap, we’re doing fine.

So I honor her this week, which is so much about rebirth in Spring, and on Easter, which signifies resurrection for the Christian world.

Mother Mary’s spirit lives on, undefeated.

Brave.

Proud.

Happy.

So does ours.

Sign Up for Lisa's Newsletters!