In his young days, Daddy Joe was a rabblerouser. He liked his trouble, yes he did. He and his friends would race backwards from Buffalo on route 5. In those days, state cops couldn't follow you into another jurisdiction. Dad and crew would sit at the state line, get warned to stay out of New York State and chat with the troopers. He loved to gamble, especially cards and craps. He had been a champion Golden Gloves boxer. His sense of humor allowed him to torment any fella I brought home. It's no wonder a couple of them never came back. I sometimes am curious if that's why Bob moved to California never to be heard from again.
Dad was handsome beyond description. He had a winning smile and dark, dark brown eyes. He had his father's olive Mediterranean skin and arms so strong that he would perch me on one held straight out. He was smart, too, graduating at barely sixteen. When he joined the Army Air Corps in World War II, he had every intention of becoming a commercial pilot on his departure. Alas, he lost his hearing and was grounded. He made mischief his own way, grounding stateside planes till he could finish a Kansas City steak or a Louisiana feast. Then he met Mom.
Mom hung with a group of friends at the Star Club in southeast Erie. She and Aunt Marje, a bundle of trouble herself, joined a bowling league but didn't bowl much. They preferred flirting (I come by it honestly), drinking gin (an inherited trait) and listening to the juke box. One of those friends was Maggie. Maggie's brother happened to be Joe. Mom and Maggie started hanging out more as soon as Mom got a good look at Dad. She would stay at Maggie's until Dad came home, and Maggie--always willing to help--would suggest that Joe walk Dorothy home. One thing led to another and Mom, Dad, a District Justice and eventually me and my sister...you know how it works.
Never have I see a pair so well-suited as Dot and Joe. They didn't argue--Dad would say that when two people are right, there isn't much point in arguing about anything. Dad, the son of an Italian immigrant, was lord of his household. What Dad said was law. Of course, since Mom was the undeniable Queen, she could overrule a mere lord if she so chose.
Dad would bring home flea market treasures, often something ugly and overpriced (see? I inherited pack-rat, too). If Mom couldn't sell it, use it or fix it, out it would go. Dad did his share trying to repair things from clocks to furniture. Not saying he wasn't good at it, but when Mom wanted a new TV or something, she would ask Dad to fix the old one. Stick to cars, Pop!
Mom and I learned collectible glassware and costume jewelry together. Every week we went to the big old library downtown and took home a mountain of books. We got pretty good at spotting the good stuff. I still have some of it. Mom kept a lot and sold a lot. She and Dad spent many happy hours at flea markets.
On their twenty-fifth anniversary we debated on how to get them to the party. We finally settled on an invitation to a private estate sale. They were so thrilled! Guests arrived bearing gifts, a cake arrived, a big buffet was served. And Mom took me aside and said---"you mean there's no garage sale?" Ahhh, my Mom....Dad kept on grinning and guzzling beer.
On anniversary number fifty, we had a big dinner at their favorite restaurant. Mom and Dad were as much in love that day as they had been fifty-five years before.
Mom wasn't the same after Dad died a couple of years later. We didn't know that in addition to grief, Mom was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's. She joined Dad in one of Heaven's mansions eight years later.
My parents were simple people with high morals and a trunk full of mischief. What we didn't have in cash we had in love. There are some regrets--that they didn't push me harder to succeed, for one. They themselves were content and figured everybody else should be, too. We were lucky to have them as long as we did.
To you, Mom and Dad. May everyone know the happiness that you had at some time in their lives!
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