Father's Day Tribute

A summary of "Italian-American Summer", from my book, "Slices of Life."

As you read this, think about your own father, grandfather or uncle.

My father, or Papa, as I called him, always worked Monday-Sunday.  I remember how proud he was of riding his yellow lawn mower. No matter how hard he worked, my Papa came home for the important family gatherings on Saturdays or Sundays. He made sure he was on time.  My family and many of our Italian friends were skilled laborers, such as stone masons, carpenters, foremen, painters, brick layers, bakers, bakery or restaurant or pizzeria owners, chefs, plumbers and electricians. My father was a stone mason who needed to work all week, even on weekends.  I was never embarrassed of my parents and will always be proud of their work ethic. (Okay, maybe there were times I was a little embarrassed of the rusty dented pickup truck when my dad drove me to school.)
I loved my Papa and all the things he represented in my life.

I loved the summertime.  My father insisted that our family and friends sit at one long, continuous table during picnics. He used to connect tables of different lengths and heights, even if it meant putting rocks, concrete blocks or cardboard to raise the height of the tables so we could all be at one long table, no matter what.

I still remember the way he interrogated the men that my sisters dated. He used to sit down in the living room or the kitchen and he would ask the guy, "Do you work? Who are your people? ( this phrase was my father's way of saying, "Tell me about your family? Who are your parents, sisters, brother and grandparents?) He always wanted to know if the guy had a job, where he lived, and my father's favorite question, "What do you want to do in the future?" I remember how green some of the men's faces were as they sat through the interrogation.

In the summertime, my father used to let me ride in the back of his pick up truck while my feet rested on top of the bags of cement. I thought I was so cool when I rode in the back of his truck. During the summer, my father and my relatives played a card game called "scopa". I still can hear the sound of the cards hitting the picnic table as someone got mad and threw the cards down.

I remember my father telling me, "Whatever you do, never date a bom when  you grow up." ( pronounced with an Italian accent as "Bohm". This was his way of telling me not to date lazy or stupid men.)  I still can see that Lucky Strike cigarette dangling out of his mouth while he poured his chianti into a glass of sliced peaches. He always looked tired, but no matter how late he worked, he made time for our entire family. I remember that he came home from work at 11 p.m. with exhaustion on his face. No matter what, my mom and dad ate dinner together and they talked to each other, laughed, and spent time together.  Sometimes my dad would play his AM radio and would try to adjust the antennae with a clothes pin if there was static. That clothespin helped him get better reception. 

My father used to go "donton." This was his way of saying, "downtown." He uusally dropped the "w" with his Italian accent. It was always followed by the words, "I will straten it out." ( meaning straighten it out). Going "donton" meant that he had to pay his heap of parking tickets or go to talk to his friends about the stock market. He knew about investments although he was a stone mason.

When I was a young girl, my father looked at me and said, "Always tell people what you feel and never be ashamed as long as you tell the truth. If they don't like it, too bad!"

What warm things do you remember about your dad, uncle or grandfather? What memory do you cherish the most about your own dad, uncle or grandfather?