Column: A grandfather’s love, cherished over the span of a lifetime

April 29 will always be a special day on my calendar. On this date in 1909, my maternal grandfather was born. It’s special not just because I owe him my existence. It’s special because of who he was and what he means to me, even after all these years.

The eldest son of Italian immigrants who came from Genoa, Italy in the late 19th century, Francis Aloysius Toscanini grew up in East New York, Brooklyn — the borough where he lived his entire life.

After completing the 8th grade, Frank went to work delivering ice — a commodity used to refrigerate food in the kitchen “ice box.” As an adult, he worked in a furniture factory, which during WWII was retooled to manufacture military rifles. When the factory shut down in the decade following the war, he went to work as a heating oil delivery man for Queensboro Fuel Oil, where he worked until he retired at age 65.

He was a union man, a Roosevelt Democrat, a sweet, gentle soul with a heart of gold and beautiful tenor singing voice. He was a lifelong Dodger fan who would forever grouse at even the mention of the name of Walter J. O’Malley, the anti-christ. He transferred his allegiance, if not his heart, to the Mets. Pop Pop taught me how to throw a ball, use a mitt and swing a bat. We played “hit the penny” on the sidewalk outside the two-family brick house in Brooklyn where we lived. We played checkers and gin rummy. He loved spending time with kids and had the patience of a saint. He’d sit me on his lap behind the big wheel of the oil truck and let me pretend I was driving. We watched the hapless Mets on TV or listened together on the radio as he tinkered with something in his garage on a Saturday afternoon.

Later on, he taught me how to drive a car — traveling from Brooklyn to Coram, where my parents moved in 1967, just to give me driving lessons after I got my learner’s permit at age 16. We’d spend hours driving and talking about everything and anything. I think I love driving today because of my time behind the wheel of my grandfather’s 1972 Chevrolet Caprice.

He loved technology. His was the first living room on the block to sport a television set and the room was often crowed with neighbors who came to enjoy the spectacle — a little before my time, of course. I do remember when the majestic color console TV arrived. “In living color,” the NBC peacock boasted. It was magnificent and exciting. I also remember when the hi-fi stereo console took its place in the living room. It came with an LP record of tracks that demonstrated the magic of stereo. We sat on the couch opposite the hi-fi console — a combination record player and AM/FM radio, it came in an oak laminate cabinet that was more than three feet long — and listened as a the sound of a train whistle came from the right speaker and moved to the left, creating the sensation of a train traveling across the living room. It was, indeed, like magic.

Pop Pop loved to fool around with his Sony reel-to-reel tape recorder — he loved to sing. When cassette tape recorders hit the market, he snapped one up and put it to all kinds of uses. He’d spend hours interviewing family members — especially the little kids. One of those cassette tapes survives, even after all those years, allowing me to listen to my grandfather teasing my little sister, age 3 or so, and getting her to sing with him. He was a ham, so of course he loved home movies, and later, videos, produced with the big, clunky first-generation video cameras that came in two pieces — they had a separate battery pack that was almost as big as the camera itself, which, by the way, was huge. He would have LOVED the Walkman, CDs, and digital recorders. Personal computers? Fuggeddaboudit.

Pop Pop loved to laugh and fool around, the kind of guy who was always the life of the party. He had an inner sadness, though, stemming from a lot of personal loss. He buried his three younger brothers. One drowned as a child. The other two died suddenly and young — one was 39, the other 42 — from massive heart attacks. They were very close and he never really completely recovered from their deaths. His twinkling blue-green eyes would dim when he spoke about them — more often than not, shedding tears. He lived another 10 years after his youngest brother died. And then his own heart betrayed him in the same way.

Until Jan. 18, 1975, I really didn’t understand the pain of sudden loss. His death rocked my world. And all these years later, the pain of that loss still brings me to tears.

It’s been more than 40 years since I celebrated Pop Pop’s birthday with him. I wonder what he’d have been like had he lived to a ripe old age. He was only 65 when he died, recently retired after working his whole life. He didn’t get to enjoy his “golden years” with the love of his life, our Nana, who spent the last 23 years of her life missing him.

I miss him, too. Very much. I was barely 17 when I saw him for the last time, the week before he passed away. And all these years later, as I approach the 60-year milestone in life, I can honestly say there are not many places on earth that rival my Pop-Pop’s lap, where I’d curl up as a little girl and listen to his story-telling and singing, enveloped by his love — there was no place safer or sweeter.

This is the kind of legacy we can only hope to leave our children and grandchildren — one recorded on hearts, not balance sheets. The memories you create today will stay with them for the rest of their lives, long after you’re gone. Make them good ones.