The Fruit of My Grandfather — A Columbus Day Tribute

My grandfather Sansone was an extraordinary man of courage, conviction, and conscience.  He was also one of the most hard-working people I have ever met.  Although he changed his name for business purposes and went by the last name Samson, and trust me, he truly was a man of great strength and this name suited him, in private he was still Dominick Sansone.

He came to this country from Italy, when he was just a boy.  He would work as a mason most of his life, and his cement work and brick work can still be seen throughout Nassau County, particularly in the town of Lynbrook.  His home was magnificent with acres of beautiful flowers and gardens and fountains and ponds with huge goldfish.  When I was a little girl, I loved walking with him and holding his hand.   One day he took me for a ride in his cement truck and I told him, “Grandpa, when I grow up I’m going to be a bricklayer like you.”  He looked over at me, clearly touched by my admiration of his work, and gently said in his thick Italian accent , “I thinka maybe … nota.”  That day, I watched fascinated as he mixed the cement and made a beautiful sidewalk for me and my brothers to safely ride our bikes on.  Fifty years later, it still stands crack free and strong.  He told me that day, “Cindi, you mixa cementa right, ita lasta forever.  You mixa it wronga, it don’ta lasta till nexta Tuesday.”  I have tried to remember that in everything I do.  Build it right.  Build it to last.  Build it with pride, integrity, and remember your reputation rests on it.

One day, I sat on his lap and looked at his gold ring.  I couldn’t have been more than six or seven at the time.  I asked him what kind of a ring it was, since my grandfather wore no other jewelry and it had some unusual markings on it — a Square, a compass, and the Letter G.  I asked him what these things meant.  He said that he couldn’t tell me.  That it was a secret, but that it was a good society that he belonged to, and that I should look up what a Freemason was when I grew up.  I did look it up.  I learned many impressive things about the teachings of the masons, and I knew that my grandfather practiced these teachings and became an Enlightened man. 

For those of you who don’t know — Freemasonry is an international fraternal movement believed to have evolved from medieval guilds of stonemasons.  It was originally started as an esoteric society and has a possible link to the Knights Templar.   Over the centuries, Freemasons have worked hard for the liberty, equality, and fraternity of all men (yes, those students of the French Revolution and the American revolution will recognize that the Freemasons had their hands in that!).  Many noted men throughout history have been members, including George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Winston Churchill, and Mozart to name but a few.

In an nutshell, the mission of masonry is to build the Ideal Temple.  A mason does this by building himself, thereby contributing to the building of humanity, as a dwelling place for the Divine Presence.  The masons believe in living life on the Square.  A building will not endure if it is not built on the Square.  A man’s life will fall to ruin if it is not lived on the Square.  A nation and a world can only be prosperous and happy in direct proportion as it is governed by the Square.

So, what does it mean to live on the Square?   Neither scientific knowledge or philosophic knowledge is needed to make a stone a square, nor is any great intellectual capacity or scholastic achievement necessary or required to live a true life.  For sure, knowledge is power, but the thing needed for the salvation of humankind is not power.  It is the right directing of our power.  It is our dedication to using our talents, wealth, abundance, knowledge, and skills to the true and noble end.  It is us honoring the higher plan and purpose to life — the co-working of our souls, individually and collectively, to live true and square, with the Great Architect of all.

When I was in my twenties, I lived in an apartment building in Hempstead, LI.  An older man was the handyman around the complex and he had seen my last name Sansone-Braff, and had asked me if I knew Dominick Sansone.  I told him that he was my grandfather.  My grandfather was still alive at the time, and this man was happy to hear that.  He told me how indebted he was to my grandfather.  He said that during the depression my grandfather had helped him keep food on his family’s table.  Tears of gratitude filled his eyes, as he told me how my grandfather paid him well and kept him working during those hard years, when people were literally starving in the streets.  He told me if I ever needed anything fixed in my apartment he would come right away.  Years later when my daughter, Shana, was born, he knocked on the door and asked if he might see Dominick’s great granddaugher (note that he did not ask to see my daughter).  She was six days old and sound asleep in her carriage.  For fifteen minutes he sat quietly beside her, staring in awe, proud as if it were his own great granddaugher he was gazing upon.

Last week, I talked to my Aunt Marie about my grandfather.  He had been her beloved father.  She told me that he always carried a hundred dollar bill in his pocket, even during the depression.  I asked her why.  She said, if anyone ever came to him in need of money, he handed that $100.00 bill over, no questions asked.

My Aunt Marie also touched my heart by telling me how proud my grandmother would be of me, because I was using my psychic abilities.  My grandmother sought the advice of psychics often and admired them for their skill and accuracy.

I was twenty-one years old the last time I saw my grandparents.  My grandfather treated me like a princess.  Preparing breakfast for me.  The toast he made for me seemed like the butter came from heaven.  Cantalope was his favorite fruit.  It was always ripe and sweet and plentiful.  I have come to call cantalope “the fruit of my grandfather.” Dinner was a feast prepared by my grandmother.  My grandfather always asked if everyone had had enough salad before he would pick up this huge bowl and finish how ever small a portion or great a portion was left.  

I always saw a light, a halo around him, that I only saw a few other people possessed.  He was a man of wisdom and humility, and I pray I can be more and more like him as the rest of my days unfold.

My dear, Grandfather Sansone, whose name I proudly keep and I hope you are proud that it graces the cover of my book.   Whenever anyone reads the words — Cindi Sansone–Braff, I want them to know that I was blessed to be your granddaughter, and I am now and always will be proud to be “the fruit of my grandfather.”

(After I wrote this my Aunt Jenny, who is 91, contacted me. She was my grandfather’s daughter and she told me something I didn’t know. She told me that my grandfather used to buy a gold watch every year at Christmas time and raffle it off. He would use the money to feed the poor.)

Happy Columbus Day.  Let us all rediscover America.