My Dear Dad {A Week of Thanksgiving}

This post is dedicated to my dear Dad, whom I miss so much. My Daddy, who was the macho Italian, but knew that his daughters had him wrapped around his finger, is missed by so many especially on a day like Thanksgiving. His memory is one that keeps my family together because of what he believed and the way he led his life.

He’d sing a song, half real, half with his own lyrics and I’d laugh and dance. On Saturday mornings, my sister and I would jump into bed to wake him up expecting tickles and and stories.  When I was old enough, I’d walk to the corner to wait for him to come home from work and I’d see his smile get bigger as he walked towards me. Every test, every report card, he’d ask me, this is the best you could do, with a twinkle in his eye. He couldn’t hide his pride.

When I began to date, he’d dress up in his Sunday finest (think the Godfather) and talk to the poor young man who was taking me out, while twisting his pinky ring. Not too many of them showed up again. He’d ask my mother, “Why is she going out at 11 pm?”, but learned to accept it. He was the one who came with me to take my admissions test for college. I made him wait outside, like I didn’t know him. When he was getting ready to walk me down the aisle, he told me that I could walk out the front door with him. The limo was still waiting. After my daughter, Alicia, was born, he stayed awake with me during those late night feedings. He held her so much that she wanted him to put her down to sleep. He  spoiled her from the day she was born.

His Godfather Look

Of course we bumped heads, especially when it came to me wanting my independence and with men. According to him, I should live at home until I was married. And no man was good enough for me. Every job I had that was close enough to him, he’d visit. When I wasn’t there. To speak to the boss. To make sure they knew I had a father who watched out for me.

I get my love of family and food from him. His favorite place to be was in his own home surrounded by his family, his daughters, their husbands, their children, in-laws, cousins, nieces, nephews, significant others, all eating and yelling and laughing. He always wanted laughter. Do anything to get it. Put on a funny hat, say something outrageous, call people by their wrong names, but never tell a joke. He didn’t need to.

As he got older, he loved to cook. He’d bother my mother as she stood by the stove, telling her to add this ingredient. Until, soon, he’d do some of the cooking on his own. During the holidays, grocery shopping was more important than buying gifts. And the menu was planned days in advance. The cooking done with love. The food shared with anyone who entered the door. When I’d eat, he’d watch me. He’d tell my mother that I knew how to enjoy food because I ate (still do) slowly and savored (still do) each bite.

When the pain became too much to bear, he finally told my mother, who wondered why he would sit up at night in the other room. We were so angry with him. He didn’t stick to his diet, didn’t follow the doctor’s orders. If only, if only. I only understand now that his agenda was to live each moment of his life to the fullest. Eat the best food. Play with the grand kids, even if it meant he’d have to sit in a chair while they threw a ball to him Smoke a cigar.  Visit his family and friends.

He had to have a bypass done, or he’d continue to live with that horrible pain, or have a stroke or a serious heart attack. He’d already had a number of them. My Dad, the man who never had surgery, who feared it with every bone in his body, agreed. We were told his chances of survival were slim. We prayed. We spent hours with him. We cried with him. We laughed and talked about what is was like, but he talked about what it was going to be like. He laid down the law. His wishes. Our futures.

After hours of surgery, after all the other family members went home, we were still there. The doctors had a hard time finding a vein from his leg. His heart muscle was so weak. It didn’t look good. He lasted a few days, but there was no hope. His organs were failing. I felt as if my life was being sucked out of me. He didn’t want this, he told us. He didn’t want to be on a machine, with us waiting, afraid, sad.

When I said goodbye, I felt like that little girl who used to say, “My turn, Daddy!” because I wanted him for something. Except it was his turn. And he did it with dignity as any Italian man of his background would do. As any man who loved his family more than his own life did.

For this I’m grateful – for a father and grandfather who put himself last every day. I say to you Daddy, I love you even more now.

My Mom, daughter Alicia, My Dad and my Aunt 1994

Love with all of your heart, until you feel you might burst. Forgive your family and friends. Be thankful for those who give of themselves. Happy Thanksgiving.

Link up with Andrea and other bloggers for a Week of Thanksgiving.