To have allowed my immigrant grandparents, now 94 and 93, to continue to live alone would have been negligence. They'd come all the way from Italy in 1930. It was 1993. Their days of full independence were over.  My father sat them both down. He showed them brochures of an assisted care faculty, with photos of an elegant dining room and outdoor garden. He swore to them on a stack of bibles that he had seen the place, and it was clean and well operated.

“No, I’m not going,” Desolina jumped in. “I’m too old.”

 “But Mama, hanno il ‘ros bif ’ tutte le Domeniche. They serve prime rib every Sunday!” 

The way to Desolina’s mind was through her stomach, but she shook her head.

“There are four meals a day! Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and un spuntino prima di dormire! A snack before bedtime!” my father pleaded.

Desolina grunted in the negative. 

My father now tried to work on his father, who also shook his head adamantly and refused to consider the idea. My father was desperate. He had to get them to say “yes”; he accomplished it with a very rare lie.


“Papa, you’re not going to believe it, but the place is free.”

“E free?” Tony asked.


“Si.”


“Ma, no!”

“Si,” said my father.


“Ma, chi paga? Who pays for this?”


“My company. It’s one of the benefits I get as an executive. I don’t need the place now. But my parents are allowed to stay there. For free.”

“E vero?” he asked. “Is this true ?”


My father nodded. “Tutto free. Everything is free.”

Tony couldn’t stop shaking his head. “Free?”

My father nodded.

 “Porco cane, free!” said Tony. “Che compagnia! What a company! God bless America!”

Desolina and Tony loved the place, with its kind aides and good food, but they remained skeptical about the cost.

On my first visit, Tony looked at me with wonder and said, “Jimmy, chi paga per questa roba? Who pays for all this stuff around here?”

“É free,” I said.