My Italian Father is 90.5 years old. He lives decades past many of the seniors in his retired community or in our convoluted ancestral family. His parents, Guiseppe and Isabelle emerged from the seacoast of Bari, the second largest city in Southern Italy. In olden times, Bari was controlled by the Greeks and then the Romans. Guiseppe left this plane long before I was born and Isabelle who could only master some broken English, continued to live in her humble brownstone apartment in Utica, New York for some decades longer. To describe her as a sweet and tender woman would not be justified enough.
My Dad, Frank, was one of three sons and grew up on the fighting streets of New York selling newspapers to earn a small income "to help the family out". They were a poor family with immigrant roots and learned how to survive in the worst of times. It was commonplace to hear stories of the long walks in the snow and the inability to have some of the simple comforts but Dad endured all of it. It was no wonder that he joined the Army and came home with a Purple Heart. He served in North Africa, Sicily, Anzio, France and Germany. Before all that, he was stationed in Pearl Harbor for three years and here is a story for the record. Before the attack, as life would have it, his Father became ill and he went home to be with him for a while. If he had been in Pearl Harbor when the Japanese bombs hit, his famous line to me was, YOU, my daughter, would not have been born. So, it appears, the grandfather I never met, saved the day and allowed my Father to choose another window of survival.
My Dad met Mom in French class in New York, after he returned from the War and irritated the hell out of her because his version of French was street French. The light of heaven descended on their love, as no one will question, they are soul mates. They married in a glorious wedding and had six kids, batta bing.
However, the purpose of this tribute to Dad is multifaceted. He is probably the most mellow, loving, generous, forgiving, compassionate man I know. He worked all his life seriously long hours to provide parochial schooling for his six children, to tithe to his Church, to make sure enough food was on our groaning table, to take care of his Mom and brothers back home, to sustain us all in a small ranch home, to build a large swimming pool and then care for my grandmother in many ways, who lived on our property for 30 years. Dad always found a way to buy each of us kids a used car and then to take care of all the repairs. His devotion to sports be it coaching, critiquing or opinionating with his two boys was unsurpassed. Not a week or weekend would fly by that he didn't sit on some bleacher and if not, the game was on the television. "Frank!" My Mother would yell, "Shut the TV, food is on the table!" He had mastered watching a game without sound between slurps of pasta, his other major love.
His fascination with history, reading, John Wayne and Robert Mitchum movies, golf, growing his vegetable garden and his friends who shared the bleacher bench, was the highlight of his life. His religious devotion and love of God is extraordinary. You would find him picking up a book on any spiritual subject often to soothe his soul.
Dad traveled to Europe many times with Mom, I think we counted 13 trips to Europe, many to Italy alone and he would often say to me, I could die a happy man just sitting at the edge of Lake Como with a glass a wine in my hand and a plate of vongole.
His wisdom stays with us and his humor, witty and dry and most hilarious and joyous. No this is not a confused man about his priorities or a man without memories and appreciation for life and his family. His life is more fragile these days, tearful over the most emotional events, soaking up the essence of what is most important, what is most gratifying. Above all,he is my hero and my inspiration for living a life of stewardship and dedication to purpose. Ah! Salute' Daddy!
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