Margherita Maria Staley

Margherita Tizzano was born in Foggia, Italy. She met her husband, McConnell J. Staley, during World War II. After the war, they reunited and were married in Pompeii on July 4, 1946. Speaking no English and immigrating to the United States was an adventure. She balanced two careers and raised two daughters. She worked for Iron Fireman/Electronic Specialties/Boeing for 35 years, retiring in 1987. Bored with retirement, she worked for Van Duyns Chocolates for 17 years, retiring at age 82. Her three great joys in life were food, family, and friends. She was an exceptional cook and caregiver. She is survived by her daughters Shirley (John) Fiske and Yolanda (Roger) Jepsen; grandchildren Jennifer (Andy) Eddins, Andrew (Christa) Fiske and Holly (Eric) Green; and great-grandchildren Dominic and Isabella Eddins, Conner Green, James Fiske, Eloise Franks, and Tate and Quinn Young.

~ Eulogy ~

I recognize that eulogies should be relatively brief, focusing on key points in order to keep your attention. But the woman we honor today deserves more than brevity because of the gigantic way she touched and connected with us.

Somewhere, in each of our lives, is a lighthouse…a beacon of light that shines to us when we need to feel comfort. This lighthouse draws you near and beckons to you when you feel down, or happy, or excited, or anxious. It can change your sadness to fulfillment, and a chill to one of warmth.

For my family and many of you, the lighthouse was my Nonna.

Now, I use the word Nonna for a couple of reasons. One, because that is the term for grandmother in Italian, and two, because I literally thought that was her name until I was 9 or 10 years old. But whether you called her Margherita, Margherite, Mrs. Staley, or Nonna, she always provided a sense of “family” to anyone she met.

Despite her insistence that she lost her accent, to everyone who knew her, she was 100% from Italy. When she was born, she was premature and so small that she slept in a shoe-box in a dresser drawer. As you can imagine, her family didn’t come from wealth. Growing up, their apartment was simple and small. Thankfully, her 3 sisters and 5 brothers were all short.

Now, Nonna wasn’t the most open person in the world. She wasn’t gregarious or emotional, but she was extremely generous and kind. For those to be lucky enough to really get Nonna to open up or tell stories about her past, you were able to get her in a comfortable space… usually, the kitchen.

Once, when I was in college, I wanted to interview her for a class I was taking on WWII history. The small bits of Nonna’s history I knew about I got from my mom; but I wanted to hear it straight from her. So we attempted a standard interview…tape recorder, interview questions, sitting across from each other. It was like pulling teeth to get much out of her. When things started to really slow down, or maybe just to change the subject, she asked me if I was hungry. I figured the interview was over, and I’d have to think of someone else to interview. Anyway, we went into the kitchen. I don’t know why I did it, but I turned the tape recorder back on and started to ask her the same questions that were so hard for her to previously answer. And as she cut, chopped, and stirred, she started to finally open up about her past.

Now, the reason I’m telling this story is because many of you don’t know how Nonna got to Portland. Personally, I think it has a touch of divine intervention.

It was WWII, and Nonna’s family lived in Foggia, Italy (near the heel of the boot). At this time, Italy and Germany were working together, and there was an air base close by that the Germans used. In the latter half of the war, the Americans began bombing the area. Worried for his family, Nonna’s father sent all but the two oldest daughters and two oldest sons (who where fighting in the Italian Army at the time) into the surrounding hills for safety. Eventually, the bombing got very close to their apartment. Nonna and her sister, Anna, went to a bomb shelter when they couldn’t find their father. When the bombing stopped, they searched and searched the rubble for their father. For two days they searched until they finally heard his voice in the debris. Neighbors ended up digging him out. It was at this time that the daughters were sent to the hills as well.

Soon after this incident, the American forces arrived and took over the area. The family returned home. Nonna said most everyone was happy the Americans came in because the Germans were mean and would take young girls for servant work. Nonna told a story about some Germans coming to their building looking for young workers, but her parents made all the kids hide until they left. And thankfully, they didn’t search their home.

It’s stories like this that gave me a greater appreciation for the woman that Nonna became as a mother and grandmother.

But the best story of all was how she met my grandfather and ended up moving to the Portland.

The back-story is that Nonna worked in the electronics department at a Sears-style store called Standa. One day an American G.I. came in looking for some batteries. He asked her name. Then he left. The next day, Nonna and her friend Audriana skipped work to go to the beach. Thinking they were sneaky, they would just catch the train that would get them back to town around the same time they got off work. But they missed that train and had to take a later train, which meant they were busted. As punishment, Nonna’s father made her quit her job.

Well, that American G.I. had gone back to Standa looking for Nonna. Since she’d quit, he couldn’t find her. But the store manager knew she lived nearby, so the G.I. would drive the streets scouting for her…he was literally cruising for chics.

Now, Nonna’s apartment building still had bomb debris on the upper floors. One day there were some kids (including Nonna’s younger siblings) tossing bricks and rubble onto passing American jeeps. She says the kids were jokingly showing the Americans what being bombed felt like, you know, “You bombed us, now we’re gonna bomb you.” Anyway, Nonna runs up to stop them, but not before a brick hits a passing jeep. The jeep stops. The G.I.’s dash out and run up to scold the kids. And it was at this moment that the American G.I. looking for batteries meets Nonna for the second time. His name was McConnell, but his family called him Connie.

Thankfully, the war ended, but the courtship continued; one that included being chaperoned by an older brother, and sometimes a younger one. But being in the military, Connie couldn’t stay in Italy, so he went back to Portland, vowing to return for Nonna’s hand in marriage. And on July 4th, 1946 they were married in Pompeii. She was 22.

Within the following year, she moved to Portland, learned English from going to the movies, had a daughter, (Shirley) then another daughter a year after that (Yogi), and began the process of becoming the Nonna we all knew:

• She was a hard worker, working for the same electronics company for 35 years. Then after she “retired”, she worked in the mall for Van Duyn Chocolates for another 17. She was so short behind the counter; the only way you knew she was there was to see a white cloud of hair drifting back and forth.

• She didn’t learn to drive until Connie passed away in the Spring of 1972, and when she did drive…look out. Her arms were short, so turning the wheel took some effort. Couple that with her lead foot and a penchant to brake hard, and it’s any wonder how the Portland Police Bureau didn’t snag her a few times.

• She was the family cook. Nearly every one of our family meals took place in her tiny kitchen. Even as the family grew larger, we’d all sift and squeeze our bodies around her table to feast on her cooking, of which I don’t think she ever enjoyed straight out of the oven. She’d always make sure we were comfortable and fed before she sat down herself. And if you stopped by, no matter what the time, even if you’d only planned to be over for a few moments, one of the first phrases out of her mouth was, “Are you hungry?” And she’d stop what she was doing to prepare you a welcoming bite to eat. And of course, you’d be taking home the leftovers. That woman must have had a hundred different pieces of Tupperware.

• She was a caretaker; Jennifer was the first grandchild who she helped raise. When her two other grandchildren were born, Holly and myself, she would travel to wherever we were to be a part of our lives, since we didn’t live here at the time. When her great grandchildren started to come into the picture, Dominic in August 2006, she took care of him. Then Isabella was born in 2008 and she took care of her. She wanted to be able to take care of Conner and James too, however her abilities had become limited. That was her biggest regret, not being able to provide for everyone like she used to. She had three other great grandchildren as well that she loved just as much, Tate, Quinn and Eloise. She loved all seven of these great grandchildren and took great joy being around each and every one of them. They became the most important people in her life. Her whole family was her life.

• Finally, she was a listener. People always called to talk to her or stopped by for a visit…at all times of the day. She must have spent hours a day talking on the phone with family and friends…and most often they’d be the ones to call her, seeking her out as the welcome ear for their lives. See?…a lighthouse. Of course, when she was done listening…even if you weren’t done talking…you’d hear her friendly, accented voice say, “Ok, thanks for calling” and that meant the conversation was over.

To everyone who knew her she was a mother, a grandmother, a bisnonna (which is great grandmother), and friend. We know of no one who was not amazed by her tenacity, her cooking skills, her love for her family and friends, and her courage in facing her pain and her dying. She lived a beautiful life and was grateful for everyone who was a part of it. She is now with her family on the other side, especially with her beloved Connie, probably cooking, probably chatting on the Holy Heaven Hotline with all those friends and family that have gone before her, and probably saying those three simple words we all loved to hear: “Are you hungry?”

May God bless Nonna as much as she has blessed all of us.