Irys Stanton-Korn

Irys Stanton-Korn (Bizzigotti)

Friday, May 14th, 1926 - Sunday, December 30th, 2018
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Stanton Korn- Irys, (Bizzigotti), of New York CIty; Kent, CT; and Palm Beach, Fl. Born on May 14, 1926 in Corona, NY to the late Marv Mazzei Bizzigotti and the late Ernesto Bizzigotti. Passed away peacefully at age 92 on December 30th in Riverhead, NY. Irys was married to the late Jack Stanton and later to the late Sheldon Korn. She is survived by her daughter Leslie Michele Matteo and her sons, Mark, Craig, and Keith, son in law, Tom Matteo, daughters in law, Sharolyn and Janet, grandchildren, Zachary, Lauren, Casey, Sarah, Dylan, Michael, and Robert and great grandchildren, Sophia and Christian. Viewing will be at the McCourt and Trudden Funeral Home at 385 Main St. Farmingdale, NY on January 3 from 2-4pm and 7-9:30pm Burial at Mount St. Mary's Cemetery in Flushing, NY.
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Service Details

  • Visitation

    Thursday, January 3rd, 2019 | 2:00pm - 4:00pm
    Thursday, January 3rd, 2019 2:00pm - 4:00pm
    McCourt & Trudden Funeral Home Inc.
    385 Main St.
    Get Directions: View Map | Text | Email
  • Second Visitation

    Thursday, January 3rd, 2019 | 7:00pm - 9:30pm
    Thursday, January 3rd, 2019 7:00pm - 9:30pm
    McCourt & Trudden Funeral Home Inc.
    385 Main St.
    Get Directions: View Map | Text | Email
  • Service

    Friday, January 4th, 2019 | 11:00am
    Friday, January 4th, 2019 11:00am
    St. Martin of Tours-Bethpage
    220 Central Avenue
    BETHPAGE, NY 11714
    Get Directions: View Map | Text | Email
  • Interment

    Mount St. Mary's Cemetery
    164-15 Booth Memorial Avenue
    Flushing Queens, NY 11365
    Get Directions: View Map | Text | Email


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Private Condolence
With love KEN and EILEEN BIZZIGOTTI, Your friends at Robopac USA, and other have sent flowers to the family of Irys Stanton-Korn (Bizzigotti).
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Paul Bizzigotti

Posted at 09:18pm

I am happy to be here to celebrate the life of Irys. To those who don’t know or recognize me, as Irys would introduce me, “this is my brother Remo’s son.”

That fact alone was like a free get out of jail card because according to her I could do no wrong. Or at least that’s what she told my wonderful wife Amy. On more than one occasion.

Irys was always my favorite aunt. Her stories were fantastic. Even if the story had no life of its own she could give it one just in the telling, as only she could do. They say the human face has 43 muscles and she knew how to pepper a conversation by using all of them. Happy, sad, annoyed, contemplative, I always felt that I knew exactly what was going on behind that face. Being in her presence was like seeing life in full color in an otherwise black and white world.

My daughter Emma, who only met Irys a handful of times summarized it well: Aunt Irys lit up the room...and you always knew when she entered it.

A few vignettes:

When I went to medical school, she called and asked what I was going to do for spending money. Before I could even reply she informed me that she had already arranged for a monthly stipend from the rental of the house my grandfather built in Corona. Money that was split among Olga, Remo and her.

Another time I complimented how good she looked. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, “I look like a fireplug.”

And more recently in Florida when her inner fire had been reduced to glowing embers...and Craig was mercilessly ribbing her, she turned to him and said, “you know, you were so busy being clever that you forgot to make a point.”

Followed by
“Your warped sense of humor is going to get you me.”

And of course the old standby,
“I didn't raise any intelligent children.”

No one would ever accuse her of being subtle.

More recently, I went to visit her this summer and informed her that “it’s Paul, your favorite nephew, Remo’s son.” She scrunched up her face at me and replied, a bit annoyed, “I know.” As if to say, “what do you think, I’m simple?”

When I said goodbye and kissed her, she drew me close, smiled a little and said, “you look like my brother.” And she drifted away. But I will always cherish those two brief moments of lucidity when I could see the inner flame again. Nothing short of death could fully extinguish it. And I’d like to think that some of her flame, her inner light, lives in me. You see, there’s plenty of Irys’s fire to go around. It’s in all of us.

It’s trite when people hypothesize what the departed would say or want. “Mom would want this or Irys would want that.”

Nonetheless I do think Irys would find this gathering a bit strange, maybe a bit over the top, something incongruous. She would somehow manage to find some humor in it all. And say something like, “what’s the big deal? After all, how did I ever get to be as old as my mother in the first place? Don’t forget I had a life lived to the fullest.”

Once when I visited and apologized for not keeping in better touch, she reassured me. With an earnest look radiating love, while holding my hand, she said “don’t be silly, you belong.” She added, “you are Remo’s son and are part of me, you are family.”

And reiterated, more slowly, “you belong.”

I am so fortunate to have belonged to Irys. I will forever hold your flame in my heart and will miss you dearly. I love you Aunt Irys.

Paul Bizzigotti


Posted at 07:32am
Wishing you peace to bring comfort, courage to face the days ahead and loving memories to forever hold in your hearts.
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Your friends at Robopac USA

Posted at 06:52pm
We are thinking about you and your family with heartfelt prayers of sympathy.
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Craig Stanton

Posted at 01:32pm
It’s very odd to be in the same room as mom and have it be this quiet.
Because when my mom is in a room it is filled with conversation – mostly coming from her.
Irys liked to talk.
About anything.
And she had a lot to say.
About everything.
She was a voracious reader, so she had a remarkable vocabulary that she used to great effect when telling a story… and she loved telling stories.
She would tell you a story with great exaggeration, flourishes and sometimes sound effects.
Most parents might tell a child to be careful crossing the street, but not Irys. She would tell a story: “The other day there was a tiny little kitten with black and white spots and big green eyes, a cute little tiny thing, and it tried to cross the street without his mommy and a big black truck came zooming down the street and squashed the tiny little kitten so flat that there was nothing left for the poor mommy to even bury, so don’t cross the street without holding mommy’s hand, ever.”
Mom loved telling us stories of our Italian heritage. She told these tales with such exquisite detail that you could imagine being there with grandpa when he lost his wife and child in Italy. You felt like you were sitting on the porch with our young grandma, hoping to catch young Ernesto’s eye. You experienced the courtship that followed. And the sorrow in the house when they lost two sons. She told these stories with such love and affection, it made you feel a part of something larger than yourself, and you understood your place in the family.
Friends and relatives sitting around the kitchen table late into the night with a coffee pot on the stove and overflowing ashtrays was a pretty regular occurrence in our house. My cousins were often part of the mix and she would share stories and debate with them about everything under the sun. We kids had little to contribute, but it was so very entertaining and we watched and listened until we couldn’t keep our eyes open and had to drag ourselves to bed. Sometimes we’d wake up the next morning and they would still be at it. Sometimes with different people than the night before. We wondered if they had shifts.
She always made time for a friend, neighbor or relative who needed advice and guidance. They made their way to our house, sat at that kitchen table and stayed until they felt like they had the tools to deal with whatever it was that was troubling them. If something was troubling me, she was my first phone call.
Irys was the life of the party. If you wanted an entertaining guest, she was your girl. Loquacious, funny, garrulous, voluble, expansive, eloquent, expressive. These words describe her at her best.
She was the same at home. Maybe a little long winded sometimes, but my brothers and I had a cure for that. We would just pick her up by the elbows, take her outside the door and lock her out of the house. She’d yell for a minute or two, we’d let her back in and we’d usually get a knuckle to the head for our impertinence. Then she’d finish what she wanted to say.
Irys had a magnetic personality. People were drawn to her not only because she told a good yarn, but because she had an honest curiosity about others and their stories. But mostly because she had a zest for living unlike most others I have met in my lifetime. Mom believed life was to be embraced and lived to the fullest. She wasn’t the sort to let life take her where it wanted to, she seized it with both hands and steered her own course.
When I told her that I had decided to move to California she was so supportive and excited for me. She sent me off with words that encouraged me to seize my own adventure, explore, and embrace all the wonder that life had in store for me.
If there is a heaven, I imagine that a few days ago a table was set and waiting there for mom was grandpa, grandma, Duke, Ugo, Remo, Olga, Bobby and Stevie, because it wasn’t really a party until Irys arrived. And I’m glad they are together again.
I already miss the sound of mom’s voice. And we are all poorer for that silence.


From all your colleagues at EVO

Posted at 10:04am
Please accept our most heartfelt sympathies for your loss... Our thoughts are with you and your family during this difficult time.
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