Dad spends most of his time in a wheelchair. Parkinson's has frozen him. The few steps he takes are a slow shuffle that is painful to watch. He is very hard of hearing, and increasingly confused. I'm starting to wonder if this will be his last father's day. I mean, Dad is in some ways already gone.
Lately I've been thinking alot about the past.

Dad was born the son of Italian immigrants, in 1934. One of ten kids. Those were hard times. Hard times make hard men. He was a man of few words. Dad was also, like many men of his generation - Italian-american men perhaps most of all- not given to outward expressions affection for children, especially sons. I guess that it involved machismo. I don't think he ever told me that he loved me. No, I'm certain that I would remember that. He was more prone to criticize than praise. My brother and I weren't hugged and kissed, by Dad. When we did something bad, "Wait till your father gets home" instilled fear. Parenting was different in the 1960s.

My Dad didn't consider himself a nurturer. I think that he saw a father's role as more of a teacher. How to hit a baseball. How to work with tools. How to carry yourself in this world.

Speaking of tools; My father had a menial job. But, he was quite a craftsman. He was always doing something to improve the house. Painting, replacing gutters. He was quite skilled in carpentry and plumbing. He turned a three season room into our TV room. Built a porch. He turned a closet into a half bath. Dad framed and did the drywall, did the plumbing, the wiring, laid the slate floor, hung the wall paper. Everything DIY,  yet professional grade.

Sadly, the gene for home improvement was not passed to the son. My dad would call out to me every weekend to help him. Sometimes he would actually need the help, carrying stuff, holding a board. Other times I just think that he wanted to teach me. I would grudgingly help for a while until I found an opportunity to escape. Then I would have my nose in a book, or be off with my friends. Sometimes I wish that I could go back in time and help him more. Now, I know that life is not art, and that I was never destined to be a craftsman. It would not have amounted to much.

But, my father and I are very different men. Different dreams, different interests. And we walked very different paths in life.

And, Sometimes I worry that my father may have despaired that he never taught me anything at all.

That would be a shame, because it is not true. Dad, I watched, and I learned. I watched a man get up every morning, no matter how he felt, to go to a job he did not love to take care of his family. I watched a man be faithful to his wife and his marriage in every way that one could define the term faithful.

I watched a man take care of his children. My brother has been handicapped and dependent his whole life. My dad was always there. For my graduations and his doctors' appointments. The health problems went on and on. They grew worse, and Dad never questioned a bit of it. Some would have left. But he never turned his back on his family or his responsibilities. He just quietly went about his business. For decades.

So, I want to tell anyone reading this something very important:
My father taught me many things.
He taught me that there are no shortcuts, or easy path to success, and
that a Man takes care of his family.

I've been wondering how to end this in a way in keeping with my Dad's personality. As I mentioned earlier, my Dad was not fond of emotionalism, so I can't gush, or sob a bunch of I love yous. That would make him very unhappy.
He is also a man of few words, so, I can't keep blathering on.
I need something short, subdued, kinda cowboyish. Think Clint Eastwood.

Here goes:
Anthony Fasano is my Dad. He did the best he could, and I got no complaints.

Last edited by Goose (6/18/2017 11:41 am)