Dad

I wrote this for my dad when he was sick. I meant to give it to him, but didn’t get it to him in time for him to read it. By the time I was ready…he was mentally unable to read it. The first line tells you everything.

Dad, this may be for you, or this may be for me. I don’t even know yet. Writing has always been cathartic for me, so I’m writing. It started as a letter to tell you how great a dad you were. After reading it, I don’t really know what it is. So, I’m writing to you…or for you…or for me…or to me. I’m not sure it really matters.

Pop…what can I say? What do you say to your father? What do you say to someone who has ALWAYS had your back? What do you say to someone who put in endless years of 15-hour days without a single grumble so you can fly like a bird? What do you say to someone who has been the best father (and grandfather) this little boy (now man) could’ve hoped fo? Thank you doesn’t seem to cut it. I love you doesn’t seem to cover it. I would take that cancer for you for a while. (I would take it permanently, but I need to be here for my girls.) I would go through radiation for you, though. I would take the chemo pills and the de-humanizing affects just to give you some rest. It’s the least I can do. You deserve it. I would do anything. I feel like I just got you back. I’ve been away for so long. Did I miss something? If so, I want it back…every experience…every basketball season…every moment. I’d even learn to golf ;-).

A couple of stories I thought you’d enjoy:

I remember snow days. You would drive me to school so I could shoot baskets all day in the gym. You’d sit in your office and do crossword puzzles or read or nap or whatever you did in there, and you’d let me play. Or you’d drive us to the ski slopes 45 minutes away in that stupid little VW Rabbit and bring lunches for us and a book for yourself. You’d read in the lodge and wait for us to ski all day. You went to school at 6am almost every day and most times weren’t home until 7 or 8 at night just so you could afford the things you wanted for us. When we didn’t have a coach for a sport at Chatham you picked up the slack, and you coached our teams. You coached boys 7th and 8th grade soccer, boys JV soccer, and boys Varsity soccer simultaneously. I have no idea how you had close to 60 kids on one field and actually got anything done. I have no idea how you promoted your own 13 year old son to the Varsity soccer team. You coached boys JV & Varsity basketball, girls JV & Varsity basketball, JV & Varsity baseball, Varsity football, and even track. During snow storms, you’d give basketball players a ride home after games because their parents didn’t want to go out in the snow. You didn’t ask any favors. You just did it. You became the AD when THEY asked you to do it. You were the town assessor when THEY asked you to do it. You did whatever you had to do with the patience of a saint (most times!). You refereed soccer games and worked at Berkshire Farms. We did strawberries in June, hay and straw all summer, and wood in the winter. You did it to live. You did for me…and Pete…and mom. There aren’t enough words to say Thank You.

I remember the only time I ever saw you cry was when your dad died. Mom came into my room that morning before I went downstairs for breakfast and told me that grandpa had died and that “daddy might be a little sad”. She asked us not to stare. I was sitting at the breakfast table in the dining room and I only saw one single tear.

I remember you played with us. I know you feel (felt?) like you weren’t there a lot, but I remember we used to play ‘hop on pop’ and do the ‘hubba hubbas’, or play catch, or shoot baskets. (Fourth wall break – When my brother and I were young we used to sit on my dad’s stomach and he would bounce us up and down using just his stomach muscles. He would make this sound that sounded like hubba, hubba, hubba…so we called them the hubba hubbas. Obviously.) You would take me to sports fields to train, and (attempt to) get me fit. You did all that while I was incessantly complaining…and you did it with patience.

I remember you and mom were in the church choir in Chatham. I know you loved to sing. One time Peter and I were sitting in the front of the church fucking around during the sermon. We thought we were being quiet. Mr. Albrecht had to stop his sermon to ask us to quiet down. You weren’t happy. The grip you had on my arm once you got hold of me was not something to forget.

I remember seeing you at all the games. I remember seeing you in the stands or sideline at Chatham, and in the stands at Guilderland and Columbia. I remember you on the sidelines of all those tournaments we went to all over the east coast. I remember you smoking those cigars on the access road next to the field at Maple Hill. You were always there doing whatever you had to do to support me.

I remember you driving me to all those silly free throw competitions. (I was way too streaky of a shooter to ever get anywhere with that.) As much I didn’t really enjoy the competition, the lessons stuck with me. The last time we went. You’d driven me more than an hour to the other side of East Jesus. I don’t even know if you remember these things. It was the best of 25. They split it up where everybody shoots 10, take a break, and then shoot 15. I went 9 for my first 10 and was sitting in 1st place. After the break, they moved us to a different basket that looked crooked to me. I made 4 of my next 15 and lost. I complained bitterly on the way home about the crooked rim. You let me complain a while and then said simply, “if you put it in the middle, it doesn’t matter”. It’s a phenomenal life lesson that I’ve held onto my whole life.

I remember one day when we were headed out to the fields. I climbed up on the tractor and before I could sit down and get situated on the tractor wheel hub, you hit the gas and the tractor took off with a start. I tumbled down the back of the tractor hitting every hydraulic arm on the way down. (Fourth wall break – The tractors we had didn’t have cabs, and all our tractors had one seat. If you wanted a ride, you’d have to sit on top of the gigantic wheel well. Growing up, my dad would always ask if we were holding on before he hit the gas. At this point, though, I was a little older and he had stopped asking. He would usually double-check, but he didn’t this time. This time he got a little impatient. Back to the story…) I landed face down on the dirt road. When I picked up my head, you hadn’t even slowed down…you simply turned around and made a motion with your arm for me to run and catch up. Another good life lesson…brush it off and keep going.

I remember we were on the last wagon of the day baling straw. It was hot. It was July. It had been a long day, and I had bucked every one of the bales for all three fields where Calendar’s Nursery sits now on 203. (Fourth wall break – My dad had an older version of a baler. It would throw the bales into the wagon, and my job was to stack the bales neatly so we could fit more in each wagon. Pro tip – More in each wagon made less trips back and forth to the barn, which would save valuable time.) I knew we were in the home stretch and the remaining bales would fit without neatly stacking them. I took the opportunity to sit down and allow the bales to pile up willy nilly. I was sitting off to the side where I would’t get hit by the incoming bales. Next thing I know, a bale is coming right for my head. I figured the balor was merely tilting to one side for some reason. So I moved to the other side of the wagon and sat down again. The next bale comes flying at my head again. I look up to see what’s going on, and what did I see? I see you laughing hysterically messing with the balor tilting it side to side to mess with me.

I remember one time we went to the State park to cut wood. It was cold. Real cold. Snow was thick on the ground and was just a really cold day. All day we were dragging trees to a clearing and cutting them up. Even the effort to split the wood and throw it in the wagon wasn’t enough to keep me warm. After a while, I was BEGGING you to go. I couldn’t feel my fingers and toes despite my work rate. My hands were so cold I couldn’t hold the monster maul any more. Instead of leaving, though, you told me to climb up on the bulldozer and put my hands around the muffler sticking out the top.

What you said was: “Climb up there (pointing toward the bulldozer) and put your hands around the muffler.”

What I heard was…”Climb up there and put your BARE hands around the muffler.”

I climbed on the bulldozer and was in the process of removing my gloves and all-of-a-sudden I heard something. You were running at me telling me to get down. I could only barely here you since I was literally standing next to the muffler. you saved me from something horrific. When you told this story to mom that night, I said, “I would’ve felt the heat and not done it”. I caught the look you gave mom that said, “maybe…maybe not…”

I remember Pete and I went to cut wood with you in the spring one year. You were going along cutting the wood and moving on to the next log. Peter and I would follow along and stand up the wood and split it. Before long we were getting stung by a swarm of bees. We had gotten stung some 20 times. Apparently, on the way through the cutting process you had stepped on a hive, but because you moved in and we followed along you didn’t get stung at all. You finally relented and packed up to go. Before we left, though, you walked up to where the hive was to take a look. It was almost like you were trying to get stung out of solidarity.

I remember you were doing something in the back barn. You know, the “back barn”? That old dilapidated building that had all the fancy reading material? Yeah, that one. You pulled up the tractor next to the old diesel gas tank we had in front of it and said, “fill er up”. I’d seen you fill the tank before, but I wasn’t really paying attention when I had. I was just really excited to crank the handle. So excited, in fact, I didn’t realize I needed to take the nozzle off the handle and stick it in the gas tank. Well, I started cranking away. There are no safety valves on that old sucker, so that gas came out of the hose whether it was on the resting post or not. The gas gushed out everywhere, soaked me from head to toes, and got in my eyes. I remember you carrying me back to the house and laying me on the kitchen counter and holding my eyes open while mom flushed my eyes…in the faucet in the kitchen sink.

I remember when I went to college and got my heart broken for real. You and mom came down to spend time with me. You knew I was hurting. I was in college crying like a baby…but you cared. You drove 6 hours to spend time with your 19 year old son because his girlfriend broke up with him and he couldn’t handle it (what a wuss!). I’ve always been a little on the emotional side, and I needed the safety net you always provided without question.

I remember one time when Pete and I were young…real young…so young we still had that little kid table in the kitchen in Chatham before the breakfast bar was built (as only you would build a breakfast bar – on an angle into the room). Mom gave the three of us a ride to the house and then had to leave. You had just purchased the Bubba Truck and were having it dropped off that afternoon. The Bubba Truck. I knew you were excited. However, when we got in the house and mom pulled away, you asked where your duffel bag was. It was sitting in the back seat in between Pete and me on the ride home. I was little. I didn’t think to pick it up. Neither did Pete. You were carrying all of our stuff draped everywhere in your hands. Well, turns out the cashier’s check for the Truck was in that bag. You were so mad. I remember you ranting and raving almost worse than any other time. During your mini tirade, you went over and kicked that little table…which flew up in the air…which hit the wall phone above it…which made the phone ring…which made Peter and me look at each other wondering if we should answer it or whether the big, bad wolf was going to blow that house down and we needed to get out of there. Not knowing what to do…I picked up the phone and said, “Pessetto residence, Joey speaking”. There wasn’t anyone on the phone. But I looked over at you and you busted up laughing. I didn’t and don’t know what you were laughing at, but thinking about that laugh and smile gets me through some days.

The Bubba Truck…remember that thing? Danny and I had to drive that thing to Brooklyn to pick up a chair. It wasn’t until we were in the cab heading down the driveway when you stopped us and said:

You: “Oh…the seal on the gas tank is rusted through. If you put more than a half tank of gas in it, it will leak out.”

Me: “How many gallons is a half a tank?”

You: “Oh…I dunno…half of the full tank for sure.”

Danny and I stopped every couple exits on the Thruway both directions…as you can imagine. Oh, and the radio didn’t work. Also, the AC was busted. Yeah…and the muffler had fallen off. We were driving 65mph down the Thruway for 6 hours stopping every couple exits for gas with the windows down trying to have a conversation.

I remember the English Leather cologne you used to keep in your top drawer. You never wore it, but it reminded me of you.

I remember when I was 9 you made me promise I would never smoke cigarettes. To this day, I have no idea why you made me make that promise. I remember thinking I had no interest in drinking or smoking cigarettes or anything, so it was an easy promise to make. You should know, I never broke that promise. I smoked pipes, cigars, pot (shhhhh…), but I never smoked a cigarette.

I like the way you greet me when I come around. You are always like a puppy. You are as excited to see me each day as you are after a long absence. “Mr. Magoo, how do you do?!” I don’t even know where you get that stuff. You always have a smile or a joke, or a pat on the back.

I love that you are a rock. I love that you are a rock like no other. You are a loner, for sure, but you never separated yourself from us. You were always there if I needed money, or a ride, or a break from life. You taught us what family REALLY is. You were mom’s xanax, my net, and Peter’s cheerleader. You were whatever we needed you to be, and you seemed to really enjoy it.

I remember the Christmas’, Thanksgivings, and birthdays. I remember your cooking. I miss the Italian food. I remember the conversations, the smiles, the phone calls, and the support. You were always fair and honest. You didn’t care what other people thought. I remember the cold hands waking me up winter mornings. I remember I always had someone to fix things for me or build things for me or give me an opinion on a sensitive topic or help me move or co-sign a house for me when I’m 46 while you’re sick. And you did all of it without a question. I remember thinking I never wanted kids because there was no way I could be as good a Dad as you. It took so much patience and selflessness, I didn’t think I had it in me. (Most times I still don’t.)

I remember you never skimped on hugs, kisses, and I love you’s.

I love you pop. I just wanted you to know how great a dad you really were.