My Dad

Today is my father's 103rd birthday. Unfortunately he died in 1999 at the age of 79.

I've done a lot of posturing in here, talking about how I never really loved my parents all that much because they never loved me all that much. About how I cried very little, if at all, when each of them died.

Sounds tough, sounds, aloof - sounds vindictive. And it's pretty much true.

But I'm feeling forgiving today.

My father was born in Isernia, Italy in 1920. His father brought him over here when he was six, I believe. My father could not speak English. They threw him into school anyway. I know that the things being done for children today are for their own psychological well being, and it's a good thing in theory. However, I think it goes too far.

We are creating a soft society. A soft society is a vulnerable society. We are pampering their emotions. When they are adults nobody will give a shit about their emotions and it will hurt a lot.

I believe my father's early childhood in this country shaped him. That, and his father's strictness. It made him tough. And my father was definitely tough.

He grew up to eventually own his own business. He went from being a kid that could not speak English in a strange new country, to becoming a successful man, a successful business man. That's a long hard road, baby.

He drove Cadillacs and Mercedes Benz. Smoked cigars, played bocce with the boys on Friday night, loved to bowl. He drank Manhattans. He ate pickled pigs feet and quahogs. He worked in the basement a lot in his free time. He was good at building things and fixing things.

He was intimidating.

He gave me a good life. A pampered life. Bought me cars, paid for my college education, took the family on fancy vacations, and gave me a job when I graduated college working for him.

The emotional side of it was not what I wanted it to be, but I feel forgiving today.

I was vindicated as a father myself when he told me that I was a good father. Those words forever ring in my ears. They meant something to me.

He worshipped my sons. I'm glad he got to experience being a grandfather. It revealed a side of him that I feel he kept under close wraps. I'm glad my sons got to know him.

My father lived his life his way. His approach was shaped by his experiences and he never had it easy. My life is a cream puff by way of comparison.

He was a man. He made mistakes. That does not give me the right to minimize his presence in my life as my father. A sacred title. Dad.

I did love him. My relationship with my sons is consciously patterned to be a rebellion against the way my father was with me. I think I made the right choice.

But I know that my Dad did love me too.

And that is a lot.