Yesterday marked the 3 year anniversary of my Grandfather Pasquale’s death.
The man that would “twist my arm” and steal my birthdays may be physically gone but I now see him more and more in my father. His movements, his phrases, all echoed in my own “Babbo”. When my grandfather passed away I started calling my dad, “Ba”, the very same way he addressed his father. It was not a conscious decision but in some way I felt that there still needed to be some representation of him.
My Nonno’s brother – Francesco is almost his twin brother. On my wedding day I cried hugging him feeling as though a connection could be made, and some magical portal would open allowing me to hug my Nonno on that special day. The past few years, at random family events I would catch a glimpse of his graying hair, and distinct facial features and for a moment I would think Nonno was there. It’s comforting and upsetting all at the same time. A discomfort I gladly endure.
My father and uncle are both wonderful writers in their own right and I feel the best tribute to my Nonno would be to share the very special words my uncle Frank composed for the funeral.
When paying your respects, many of you may have seen my father’s sledgehammer on display. You see, I borrowed that sledgehammer but never got around to giving it back.
Over the years, I had borrowed so many tools from my Dad that I had lost track—but he never did. Every time I saw him, he would be sure to ask me how my family was, just before reminding me to return his sledgehammer.
Turns out I owe him so much more.
When I was a kid, my Dad gave me some of my fondest memories. Trips to the lake, visits to my relatives—I loved those times. I remember playing with my cousins until I was literally dizzy with laughter while my father joked and played cards in the other room. After he retired, his passion became his garden. We can all remember his legendary tomato plants and his seven-foot-tall squashes—and his ceaseless war with squirrels and raccoons.
Christmas, Easter, birthdays, weddings—it didn’t matter. Ask anyone who knew him and they will tell you—as hard as he worked and as tough as he could be, my father had joy in his soul. If I have even a fraction of that, it’s because of him.
My Dad’s story is shared by so many—leaving everything behind and coming to a far-off country full of strangers, seeking a better life for his young family. When I ask myself if I could make the same sacrifice and muster the same courage as my father did over fifty-five years ago, like most of my generation I would have to answer “no.” This is another small testament to how much I owe my father.
He’s gone now, but I will remember him every time I smell sawdust; every time I finish a hard day’s work; every time I sit in a comfortable chair; every time I’m around a table with friends; every time I look at his grandsons; and every time I make someone laugh.
When I think of my Dad now, I try to imagine him reunited with his parents and his brothers, sitting at a table with his friends in the shade of an apricot tree. He’s playing cards and enjoying a glass of wine. But then he checks his watch, as he so often did. I imagine someone kindly touching his arm and saying, There’s no rush anymore, Pasquale. Have another glass.
My father knew we loved him. We told him as often as we could, especially near the end. But only after it was too late, I remembered something that I should have told him, but had forgotten. Now, if I could only take him away from his card game for a few precious moments, I would be sure to tell him,
Grazie per tutto, ba… thanks for everything.
A very young me with a very special Nonno.
