Remembering a special mother, neighbor and friend

Last week, an obituary appeared in the Pilot that saddened me on two counts in particular. First, it marked the death of a good friend, and, second, it reduced a long and caring life to a pair of brief newsprint paragraphs. This is not to criticize. The system was functioning properly. So this is, rather, to pay homage to all of the lives thus capsulized on obituary pages daily ? if noted at all ? by recognizing a little more fully the life of Pat Altobelli.

She died as she had lived, surrounded by her family in her own home. It had been ever thus for most of her 70 years.

The Altobellis have lived across the street from Sherry and me for all of our 23 years in Santa Ana Heights. Their home has been the centerpiece of a pro-active neighborhood ? Christmas luminarias, Easter egg hunts, poker nights, gatherings in their frontyard for a drink at the end of summer days ? often to eat Pat’s onion pizza, always to warm ourselves in her hospitality.

Most of the Altobellis’ seven children ? four daughters, three sons ? were raised and gone by the time we joined the neighborhood. Only Tony, the youngest, was still at home, and it is somehow symbolic that he had just accepted a new job at Orange Coast College and returned home from Texas in time to join his siblings at their mother’s bedside.

After sending off her last child ? blessed, as were all the others, with meatballs and spaghetti and love ? Pat staked out her own domain. She may have been the only person over 16 in Southern California who never learned to drive. She didn’t need to know during her years in Chicago, and she didn’t want to learn on the frenzied freeways of California. So she set up shop in her own home, to enjoy her expanding family, cook her magnificent meals ? an Irish girl who left her mark on Italian cuisine ? and offer a sounding board and sage advice to a growing army of in-laws and grandchildren who came calling. Over the years, we got to know all of them, even the oldest offspring, Bo, who took root in Texas long before Tony arrived there.

Pat delighted in company. I think she enjoyed our poker nights as much as the players did, sometimes cooking for us, checking in occasionally to see who was winning and ignoring us when the Chicago Cubs were on TV. She agonized every summer with the Cubs, a passion she had learned growing up in Chicago and carried over to the baseball team at Orange Coast College, coached by her son, John.

Even in her last few difficult years, Pat was on hand for most of OCC’s games. Her priorities never wavered, only her health. And she didn’t give in easily. She was a tough lady, and she fought a lot better than her beloved Cubs played, bouncing back repeatedly from a body blow and a grim prognosis. When she chose not to fight any longer, it was on her own terms.

She would have liked the tone of the service at Pacific View Cemetery Chapel, the men in her life setting it with stories that caught her admirably and lovingly. And she would have especially liked what took place afterward. The Five O’Clock Club ? our name for the early evening gatherings in the Altobelli’s yard ? was called into its first 2006 session to honor Pat with all the things dear to her: a husband who also loved baseball, her children, grandkids, friends and neighbors stretched across two front yards, eating, drinking, talking and remembering. Oh, yes, and one special newcomer: her first great-grandchild.

That’s what her obit should have said.