When we talk to my grandson Theo on Skype (he lives in Portugal with his Mom, Dad and brother) he just loves to press the button at the end of the call when it’s time to say goodbye. Theo knows when the conversation is ending and that is his cue to run up to the screen and, even if there’s a lingering conversation with his Mom or Dad, he blows kisses and says “OK bye” and presses END.

Theo is nothing like his Nonna, my wife. Or anyone else in his Italian family, except for his Grandpa Jon — me.

My family has this horrible habit of what I call “Italian Goodbyes” that drag on and on. You can’t have dinner with family and then just say, “OK, I’m going now because I’m tired and have to work tomorrow. Had a nice time. Goodbye.” Ohhhhhh noo. My family does goodbye in stages.

Stage I: Kiss and hug everyone goodbye. Some people twice.

Stage II: Someone (usually my wife) suddenly remembers something that they wanted to ask or mention, and a whole new conversation starts with, of course, side conversations and spin-offs and then jokes and people laughing and talking loudly over and across everybody.

Stage III: Being Italian, there is invariably still food out, which leads to snacking and probably the host or hostess will brew another pot of espresso.

Stage IV: I stand in the foyer or door making eye contact with my wife (or my mother, or father/son/daughter or whoever I was supposed to leave with), then I throw my eyes and head in the direction of the car and home. They invariably understand and say, “OK, OK, it’s time to go.”

Stage V: But before they get up and leave, they pick up another sfogliatella pastry and keep talking, restarting the whole thing from Stage II through V until utter exhaustion sets in and somehow we wind up in our car and leave.

That, my friends, is an Italian Goodbye. And everyone I know who is Italian does it, except for me and my grandson Theo.

Lately, I have been researching the different immigrant groups who lived in Fort Trumbull and on Shaw Street in New London 40 to 100 years ago. One thing similar between the neighborhoods is how neighbors helped each other. Marchegiani, Siciliians, Caribbean Islanders, African American: neighbors who looked after one another, shared clams and fish hauls and spaghetti and got jobs for each other, mourned deaths and celebrated birthdays.

One of my patients recently told me, “New London was color blind.” And while I don’t doubt there were petty feuds and stupid discrimination and jealousies, I’m guessing that neighbors came together as people do, and cared for each other.

But now the Fort Trumbull community is a bulldozed wasteland. And my impression is that neighbors in other communities are less close than they were even 40 years ago. Careers, internet, success seems to get in the way of a lot of connection. The “Italian Goodbye” seems a subconscious longing for the old ways of connecting.

In his must-read book, "Younger Next Year," the late Dr. Henry Lodge gave advice for staying healthy: daily exercise and healthy diet were as important as staying connected, committed and caring.

I, for one, would rather see communities band together to help our elderly, encourage healthy eating, exercise in groups, and look after each other. And maybe in that way, since we would all be connected, there would be no need for long endings. Which brings me to the end of my column. As Theo would say: OK, goodbye.