Giovaninna Ginetta Massanova

That's one hell of a name, isn't it?

For 35 years I knew Giovaninna Ginetta Massanova as "Jean" or "Nanny." It wasn't until last Fall that I found out my grandmother's real name.

Although she'd been suffering declining health for several years, things took a serious turn last October. Since then, Nanny has been in and out of hospitals and rehab facilities on a constant basis. During this time my mom had to fill out an unbelievable amount of paperwork to get the proper health care coverage for Nanny. One of the required papers needed was Nanny's birth certificate.

As we knew she was born in Philadelphia I volunteered to go apply for a copy because the original was long gone. So I spend one of my lunch hours in a very bad neighborhood armed only with Nanny's date of birth and her parent's names. We knew her name wasn't Jean, but weren't quite certain as to her Italian name because she hasn't used it for most of her life.

About a month later I received her birth certificate in my mailbox and read her name for the first time.

This is Giovaninna Ginetta Massanova dressed for Catholic Confirmation around 1930. We believe the woman with her is her Aunt and sponsor. At this point in her life her mother, Vonda, and her sister, Flavia, had just died within a month of each other. I imagine she found that smile difficult to muster even at that point in her young life.






This is Giovaninna Ginetta Massanova on her wedding day. That lucky man next to her was my grandfather, Cornelious. Together they would have two children, six grandchildren and five great-grandchildren (so far!) Although they divorced around 1954, I feel certain she loved him until the day he died. I was with her when we heard the news and she broke down. She sobbed as though she regretted every day they had been apart.




This is Giovaninna Ginetta Massanova with her favorite granddaughter. I am guessing it's 1977 based on my groovy pants and slick wind-breaker combo. I remember this day. We were trimming the rosebushes in front of her house with clippers that she let me hold only if she put her hands on top of mine and helped me cut. She didn't let me pick up the clippings that she tossed in the paper bag either because I would hurt myself with the thorns. I was most likely more of a hindrance than a help, but she never made me feel that way. I was always made to feel important and helpful.




Nanny was rushed back to the ER from her rehab last night. I spent some time with her this evening and I am heartbroken, therefore I have to write. But even I find it difficult to express the importance of a life in mere words, so I find myself relying on these pictures. I think any life that is filled with family, friends and love above all is a life well lived and a testament one can be proud of. I just hope that Giovaninna Ginetta Massanova agrees.