Raymond Joseph Gioiosa was born on June 27, 1934 and passed away on September 10, 2020 surrounded by his children, grandchildren, and loved ones. Raymond will be remembered as a beloved husband of 64 years to Charlene Gioiosa, dedicated father, grandfather, veteran, and friend to all who met him. Born in San Jose, he was so proud of his hometown, his Sicilian heritage, and his tenure as the longest serving PW Supermarket employee in history. His family is stunned by this loss but will continue to celebrate his life and to honor his legacy by working hard, putting family above all else, and by remembering to leave room for dessert at all costs.
Raymond is survived by his daughter, Debbie, his son, Raymond, and his grandchildren Jaclyn, Nicholas, Nina, and Sean.
Raymond's essence is captured below in the following essay written by his granddaughter, Jaclyn:
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On a good day, Raymond stands at about 5’11,” though he prefers I round up. His eyes are a kind, blue-rimmed brown and his eyebrows are squirrelly brown-gray, messy and sticking out in tufts along his brow bone. His hands are the most capable I’ve seen, rugged without being calloused, strong enough to lift a backpack and gentle enough to support a child, to hold hands. I tell him what nice hands he has often. “The hands of a surgeon,” he says as he holds them up and smiles at me; we both know he is a produce man, not a doctor. His forehead is creased with a combination of concern and the raisin effect he says the sun can only have on Sicilian skin. He teaches me to drive, he lifts down the life size nativity scene from our rafters at Christmas time, and he drives me to and from school and to my dances lessons for as long as I take them, which is nine years. He is my mother’s father and in a way, mine as well.
Born in June of 1934, he’s 86 now and prefers flannel shirts he’s had for thirty years to anything new we could think to buy him—his belongings are seasoned, like him, because “Quality lasts if you take good care of it.” He teaches me to drive in his prized possession, a 1992 Ford Bronco—limited edition, with navy panels and an engine that still runs just fine. “Did you know it’s as old as you?” he asks every time I sit in its passenger seat. “Just pretend there’s an egg under the gas pedal—you don’t want to break it, do you?” becomes his mantra and mine.
It was 1951 when he got his first real job as a bag-boy at age 17. The story is familiar in our family because it’s one my papa likes to tell. “I never even filled out a job application. Mr. Franco of Joey Franco’s PW Supermarkets hired me on a handshake and told me to go upstairs, put on an apron, and report to the front.”
“I used to be the one who’d get on the intercom,” he tells me. “Good morning shoppers, I’d like to draw your attention to our bakery department on the right side of the store. Take a look at our selection of pies, cakes, and cookies. Freshly baked every day.” He worked for fifty-seven years before he retired and the store even had a professional photo of him holding a bag of produce hanging over the center checkout station, up until the time they went out of business.
This anniversary is second only to his marriage of 64 years, to my grandmother, Charlene Piazza.
Their marriage is a survivor unlike so many of the men in the Korean War, which my grandfather was drafted for and fought in directly after he was married. My grandmother remembers sending him the telegram to tell him the news of her pregnancy, and a subsequent telegram reading, “Mother and baby doing fine.” He comes home to her and to his new daughter, Debbie. They later have a son, whom they name Raymond. And so, it begins.
Their house is rimmed in hand-laid brick; the front and backyard are framed with magenta and royal blue pansies, the only flowers known to thrive in the surprisingly cold California winters. My papa works from morning until night, putting their two children, Deborah Ann and Raymond Charles through St. Victor’s Elementary school. For him, life is straightforward and rules are clear. A man finishes what he starts and uses his head. “Pretend you have a little policeman on your shoulder at all times,” he instructs.
My mother’s father was born in a time when complaining was akin to slapping God in the face. With food on the table, toys for the children, a job to go to each morning, and a St. Joseph prayer card in hand, what was there to be unhappy about?
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