An old country man

If my father were here, he’d tell you his father was an old country man. He would say with a certain pride his father came here at a very young age, unable to read or write English. He would tell you that armed with a dollar pick and shovel he built a business that continues to shape lives three generations later. He would tell you his father eloped with the girl of his dreams, rebelling against every convention of his day.

He would also tell you my grandfather lost that girl during the depression, leaving him with nine children to rear. He would tell you his father managed to keep his family together and kept his business going during trying times. That he raised four sons who served their country honorably. He would tell you his father did his best under the most difficult circumstances. “Not bad for an old country man.” He would say.

It was through these stories my father taught me about family, loyalty, work ethic and honesty. I learned about honor and humility. I learned about giving back when he shared what his father had told him, “Do good and forget.” He taught me without my word I had nothing.

My father's stories were constant in my life.

There was one story my father told frequently, saying it as he heard his father, right down to the Italian accent. It sounded like, “Nonj you know? You no go looking for me. I go looking for you.” “Do you know what that means?” my father would ask. “It means no matter what you do, I will always be your father. Nothing you do can ever change that. It means you didn’t ask to be born, I invited you here.”   

When Sam first showed signs of differences, my father told me to believe in Sam. “Things have a way of working out,” he said. “He is a beautiful boy. You wait, he will surprise you.” As he watched Sam he would add, “Don’t forget what your grandfather said: 'Nonj you know? You no go looking for me, I go looking for you.’ Sam didn't ask to be born. We invited him here.” I heard those words many times over the years. They were among his final words to me regarding Sam.

Today on what would have been my father's 90^th birthday, I remember the words of my father and grandfather. Tonight I will say them to Sam, to honor my father’s memory, to keep his stories alive.  I think my father would like that. I hope Sam will find in them the security my father found and the security I was lucky enough to know all my life. 

Nonj you know?
Yes, Dad, I know. I finally know.

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Don't give up

Life long pals. On vacation November 2000.

“Don’t worry,” I hear my father say. “He will get there.” He watches Sam, now asleep on his bed and shakes his head in amusement. “He looks comfortable. One thing about Sam, he is always smiling.” My father is Sam’s number one fan.

“Yes he is.” I confirm. “He gets that from you.” My father agrees saying, “When I was in the army I was always in trouble for smiling. They told me, Smiling Jack! Wipe that smile off your face.“ “Yes,” I say.“ And I have heard many other stories when you were in trouble for smiling.” True.” He acknowledges with another of his famous grins.

“How is school?” he asks. “Sam likes math,” I answer, “He likes to read, he likes to draw.” My father responds, “I think he will surprise everyone one of these days.” For a moment or two I feel safe within the cocoon of my father’s optimism.

“Sam is always happy,” my father marvels again. “Yes,” I say. “Well most of the time. He wasn’t too happy at school last week. And they weren’t too happy with Sam.” “Ah,” says my father, “no one ever said life would be easy. Never quit.” “Never quit.” I echo. In my mind I hear my Uncle Anthony tell me, “One thing about your father. He’s no quitter.” We are not quitters. This is our legacy.

My father drifts off for a moment and then returns to me asking, “How tall is Sam now?” “Tall like you. Six foot one.” I answer. My father likes that answer. He likes being responsible for Sam's height. “Sam is a good-looking boy.” He says. “He has a beautiful nose.”  My father also treasures beautiful noses.

He watches Sam thoughtfully. Then he reminds me, “My father used to say to us: Don’t you know, you didn’t come looking for me. I went looking for you.” “Yes, I remember.” I say, acknowledging my responsibility. “I had a wise grandfather.”

Sam is now awake and boisterous once more.  My father marvels one last time, “Look how happy he is. He will get there. Never give up.”

“I won't,” I promise my father for what will be the last time, “I won't.” “Good,” he answers as he smiles once more. 

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