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Stephen Paul DeNorio of Shrub Oak, NY, passed away on June 10th, 2020. Stephen was born December 26th, 1925, in Peekskill, NY, to Paul and Philomena DeNorio. He went on to serve honorably in the United States Navy during World War II after growing up and attending high school in Peekskill. On June 20th, 1964, he married Anna Maria Scielzo of Salerno, Italy, in her hometown, and together they raised three children in Shrub Oak, NY, where he lived for the rest of his life. He was the proud owner of the Vagabond House in Mohegan Lake for many years and also worked for General Motors in Tarrytown for over 40 years until his retirement in 1986. Retirement never slowed him down, and he continued to do construction and landscaping as well as working at Lakeland Lumber for many years thereafter. Throughout his life, you could always find a car that needed a repair in his garage, where he taught his children and their friends how to fix cars. Stephen also loved refinishing furniture to their original glory. He was a good friend and always the first to lend a helping hand no matter the task. Lastly, his greatest joy was spending time with and helping to raise his two granddaughters. He is survived by his wife Anna Maria, two sons Albert DeNorio (Tracy), Lawrence DeNorio (Lori), daughter Stephanie Cunningham (Leo) and two granddaughters, Rachel & Monica. Hello everyone, I’m Rachel Cunningham, Stephen’s eldest granddaughter. I just want to start by thanking you all for being here for my grandfather and his family. It’s very comforting to see people here to celebrate and remember the life of someone who is so special and close to us. Stephen lived a long life of 94 years, met many people and established lifelong friendships. We all know him in a different way. Steve the mechanic, he fixed cars and taught others as well. Steve in the Navy, Steve the sailor, stationed in Pensacola, Florida. Steve the friend, you call him up with a problem and he was the first one there. Steve the husband to the love of his life, the wonderful Anna Maria, who he told and showed his love for her every day. Steve the father, to Al, Larry, and Stephanie. Finally as I know him, Steve the grandfather, Pop Pop, who showed my sister Monica and I such unconditional love like we were his own children. When I was little I didn’t know who my Nonna and Pop were to me. I knew they weren’t my parents, maybe we were somehow related, and I spent a lot of time at their home. Because I never called them grandpa and grandma, it took me until I was about 7 to realize that they were actually my grandparents, and in complete honesty, I didn’t really care. The title “grandfather” meant absolutely nothing to me. I already knew I was loved so much, he told me every single time I saw him, even when his dementia would cause him to forget who I was. And of course, whether you’re one of his life-long friends, or you have only shared one conversation with him in the Lakeland Lumber parking lot, it’s impossible to not love him. My sister and I spent most of our time at his home, and it was the perfect place for us and to be raised in. That’s why we come here with such sorrow today, because we aren’t just losing our mother’s father, but we are losing someone so much more to us, someone who helped raise us, like another father figure. With or without dementia, we shared very wonderful experiences together. When I was a young child, every once in a while he’d put me in the car and we’d take a ride across the street to Lakeland Lumber. Of course, he would know every single person who worked there. When he would pick me up from school, he was so patient, always letting little kindergarten me play with my friends in the grass or let me run circles around the flagpole as many times as I wanted, no matter how ridiculous I looked. When his dementia started and he was confused, we’d sit on the couch and have long conversations about school or The Navy. No matter how many times I heard the same story, I treasured every conversation we had knowing that it was the best way to use the time he had left with us. You can’t possibly know my grandfather and not have learned anything from him. Every conversation you would have with him you can take something from, whether that’s how to change the transmission on your old car or how they cut the road wrong on the new exit on the Taconic. My first memory with Pop I learned something that is very valuable when I was around 5 years old. I remember us right past the grape vine, standing by the shed, and in all honesty, I don’t remember what we were talking about. But all I remember is him saying something along the lines of this “You’ll be 16 by then, I won’t be here. I don’t want you to be sad or worried because I’ll be up in Heaven with God.” What I learned from this conversation is not something you can take from this one quote, but something I’ve continuously built on from being around him and listening to him talk. What I’ve learned is that his life goal wasn’t to be a 40 year employee at General Motors, or be the best father and husband to his family at home, even though those are all very good things. His life goal was Heaven. And don’t you notice that whenever he talked about going to Heaven, it wasn’t to see someone that he knew that had passed or for any other purpose but to be in unity with our Heavenly Father, His Son, and the Holy Spirit. That is something we can all take away from and carry with us as we live our lives. Like the first memory I had with Pop, I learned something from the last memory I had with him, this time it was about myself. About a week and a half ago, my family and I went to visit my Nonna and Pop to help tidy things up and make his bed. He was in the worst condition I had ever seen him. My sister and I walked into his room and he gave us his attention, we introduced ourselves, told him what grade we are in. He says to my mom one of this many sayings “Those are some tall glasses of water.” I’m only 5 feet tall, but you know, I appreciate the compliment! Then, he says one of the last things he’ll ever say to my sister and I, “I still love you.” I left the room a few minutes later anxious and heartbroken, knowing that this will likely be the last time I ever see him, but also at peace, that soon his suffering will be over and that he’ll be in the place he longed to be once his life was done. And what I learned here wasn’t that I am short or that someone I love is in critical condition. I already knew that I loved my grandfather beyond measure. What I learned about myself here, was that sometimes, you don’t realize how deeply you love, until you realize how deep your wound is when you’re losing that love. We all come here today to mourn the loss of Steven, to celebrate his life and recognize what we have learned from him, but we come here out of love, for one another, for our love for Steven, for the love he taught us, and for the love that he showed us. Pop, the last thing you told me was “I still love you.” Well, I love you, too, Pop.

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Stephen Paul DeNorio

December 26, 1925 - June 10, 2020

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Tributes

Stephen Paul DeNorio

December 26, 1925 - June 10, 2020

Obituary & Service

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