The Godparents

by Thomas Greco, Publisher

It doesn’t seem like much nowadays, but when I was growing up, Godparents (for reasons I never understood) were a big deal. 

I mean, back then, if you were asked, you had to state your Godparents’ names just as quickly as you would your phone number or address. Was that just an Italian thing? After all, there’s a pretty popular movie named The Godfather, and we all know who that’s about. 

These days, when people ask me who I am Godfather to, I honestly have to think about it. I may be wrong, but I‘m pretty sure I’m Godfather to two nieces and one nephew. I think that’s it? That’s how much things have changed…in my family, at least.

Anyway, I think the Godparents were pretty easy to pick, in small families. They were usually siblings, cousins, aunts or uncles of the parents. The parents would then give them the “honor” of watching their precious infant almost get drowned by a stranger in a giant robe in a huge stained glass window-filled palace while handing over an envelope filled with cash every birthday for the next 10-12 years. 

Big families were different, though. There are only so many times you can go to the well. For example, my brother Ralph has six kids. By the time he got to his youngest, he asked my 23-year-old girlfriend at the time (who he knew for a little over a year) to be the Godmother (I think he liked her big eyes). We broke up shortly after the baptism. The kid hasn’t heard from her since 1983. 

My Godparents were a pretty strange pick as well. Their names were Ronnie and Buzz. No relation to us. Not really friends. As far as I knew, they were just neighbors. I have no memory of where they came from. Being the last of five kidsmyself, I must have ended up with the leftovers.

Buzz was exactly what you think of when you hear his name. He literally had a salt and pepper buzz cut, was kind of rough looking and ALWAYS had a cigarette dangling from his lips. I don’t remember him ever saying anything to me other than, “Tommy, heh heh,” in his deep, tobacco-ravaged voice. Ronnie was a character, though. The only reason I was more aware of her was because she came to clean our house once a week. I would ask my mom if she was our maid, and my mom would slap me gently on the cheek and put her finger to her lips and shush me. Ronnie was a proud Irish lady and a big woman – not fat, but tall, with orange/red hair, a big mouth and a big personality. 

For some reason, Ronnie always rubbed me the wrong way. She was a know-it-all and a gossiper. Even as a little kid, I didn’t like her cockiness and how she talked to my mom. But my mom, like my dad, loved everybody. They would never let it bother them. 

Not me, though. I was the spoiled “Mommy’s little Tommy.” No one would dare come into my castle and disrespect me! But Ronnie did. She acted as if she was my second mother. Even at that age, I remember thinking, “Who the f@&k does this witch think she is?” GTFOH. It was like she took the meaning of the words “God” and “Mother” and applied it to her relationship with me. Even after all these years, can you tell I never liked Ronnie or Buzz?

Plus, they gave shitty birthday presents.

Unsurprisingly, Buzz died young from cancer, and Ronnie stopped cleaning our house. When I asked what happened to her, my mom would say she wasn’t feeling well or she was visiting relatives in Ireland. I thought that was strange, but I shrugged it off. I certainly didn’t miss her waking me up early every Friday! 

But then Ronnie started calling the house like 10 times a day asking for my mom. Turns out Ronnie was suffering from what must have been some form of dementia. My mom started dreading the calls. Ronnie would bend her ear talking nonsense for hours at a time. But my mom would never not answer. She didn’t have the heart to ignore her. After a while, it started to take a toll, and she would get upset every time the phone rang. I started to get angry. Forgive me, but I was a young teenager who had no clue of what empathy meant, and when I saw someone who I already disliked making my mom cry, well…

One day, the phone rang, and I answered. I heard some weird crazy voice saying something that sounded like, “Where’s Rosie? Let me talk to Rosie!” I immediately knew it was Ronnie. I said, “There’s no one by that name here, you have the wrong number.” She started screaming something that sounded like, “I know she’s there! I know who you are…” It was like a foreign language. 

I hung up.

Magically, the phone calls stopped. 

Ronnie had a stroke and died that day. 

I never told my mom about that phone call. In fact, I don’t think I have ever told ANYONE about that phone call. 

Does it bother me? No. It doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel guilty because I was protecting my mom. But obviously I haven’t forgotten about it. That must mean something.

Guess I just better be prepared to clean Ronnie and Buzz’s house once a week in the afterlife. 

On that joyous note…Happy New Year!!!

Want more? Check out the January 2026 issue of New Jersey Automotive!