Hamilton grieves

By Susan Clairmont
The Hamilton Spectator(Dec 29, 2005)

'That's enough now. We're all in heaven." That is what Vivian would say about the grief. About the tears. About the way life today seemed to stop even for the living who packed an east Hamilton Mountain church, filled a cemetery and surrounded a family in need.

"All of you have lives to live. Families to raise. Homework to finish. And hockey games to win," Vivian would have said.

But she couldn't say it. So her life-long friend Joe Mancinelli said it for her during her eulogy.

He spoke as four identical caskets lay between him and 1,500 mourners at St. Margaret Mary Church. Smooth white coffins. Silver crucifixes on top. Angels at the corners.

Vivian Porto, 43; Francesco Gaetano Porto, 13; Azzadine Anna Porto, 10; Emily Lisa Porto, 10. It has been six days since the mother, her son, daughter and niece died when their van crashed on a snowy stretch of Highway 6 after Francesco's hockey game. Before their deaths, the four were known and loved by many in this community.

The enormous church was bursting an hour before the funeral service began. The pews were full. Mourners stood shoulder to shoulder in every aisle. The vestibule was jammed, and a back room.

This city has seen few funerals larger than this.

There were the very young. The infants, asleep in their mothers' arms. Toddlers fidgeting as fathers stroked their hair.

There were the teens. Francesco's classmates from Hillfield Strathallan College in their forest green blazers. His teammates from the triple A Hamilton Junior Bulldogs in their red and white jerseys, their honoured defenceman's number 11 stitched to their sleeves.

There were the moms. Talking of bringing food to the family. Of explaining the deaths to their own children. The dads, whispering about hockey practices and game stats. Anything but the tragedy around them.

There were the volunteers. The members of the Knights of Columbus and the Catholic Women's League who came to help with parking, ushering.

Then there were the oldest women. Small and sturdy. Speaking Italian. Clutching tissues. "It's a sad, sad day," one tells a stranger.

The incongruities are striking as friends and family wait for the service to begin: the snow that was so treacherous that fateful night is now dissolving into puddles; the school bell that can be heard next door once ushered Vivian into class there when she was a child. Then there's the wail of an ambulance siren coming not to a fatal accident but to aid a mourner who has fainted in the church; the beautiful tree and wreaths celebrating a Christmas that Vivian, Francesco, Azzadine and Emily never had.

Then the procession begins.

People step out of the church to make way for the caskets. For the boys and men who carry them. For the clergy, including Bishop Gerard Bergie.

For the family left behind.

The Porto family is large and loving. They are a family to be admired.

The black sea of mourners parts to let through Emily's parents, Laurie and Rocco and her brother Gabriel. For Riccardo and Amadeo who have lost their mother, siblings and cousin. And for Sam, husband to Vivian, father to Francesco and Azzadine.

The mass is long. More than two hours. That is because communion is served to 1,000 people. A remarkable sight. An affirmation of faith. A blessing. A comfort. An acceptance. A connection.

"Today is the day that the promises made to them in baptism will be fulfilled," it is said.

There isn't usually a eulogy at a mass such as this. But the Catholic church made an exception today. Joe Mancinelli steps forward.

He is used to talking to crowds. He is the vice-president of the Labourers' International Union of North America (LIUNA). His voice is strong. His words simple. This is when tears begin to flow.

He grew up in the home beside Vivian. Little chubby, curly haired Vivian. She grew, he says, into a super mom. "Her every waking hour devoted to their homework, their soccer games, hockey games and family functions."

She was a successful business woman, who ran a gift store on Ottawa Street. She was a wonderful wife. An adoring daughter.

"Daddy's little girl," Mancinelli says, referring to Vivian's father and builder, Adriano Spallacci.

"Her large laugh, those sparkling eyes and her big full head of hair," is how he will picture her.

Then there was Cheski, the pet name for Francesco.

A talented athlete. An honour roll student who excelled in math. "Always ready to help anyone."

And Azzi, who looked just as her mother did at that age. She loved school and art and would rather play hockey than Barbies.

"Growing up with three older brothers made her strong. Made her determined."

Emily's aunt Lisa spoke of her. Talked of how, at the cottage, Emily would eat breakfast in her bathing suit so she could hit the water the moment she finished.

She recalled Emily's one-dimpled smile, her angelic disposition, her Scrabble skills, her way of dressing up like a princess for family gatherings then playing soccer in her gown.

These are the people they have lost. That we all have lost.

As the families filed out of the church to go to Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, it was Sam who first stepped into the winter air. He gulped a breath.

A big, deep, desperate breath as the wind blew against his wet cheeks and he clutched the hands and arms of those around him.

"That's enough now," Vivian would chide him. "We're all in heaven now."

Susan Clairmont's commentary appears regularly in The Spectator. sclairmont@thespec.com or 905-526-3539.