Father’s Day has always been a bit of an enigma for me. My mother and father separated in the 1940s when I was only four years old. In those days, especially among Italians, divorce was almost unheard of. Catholics, particularly Italian Catholics, stayed married regardless of their circumstances.
My father didn’t come around much when I was young. As I got older, I began to understand why. My mother was a very difficult, stubborn, and thick-headed Italian woman. They were literally “Night and Day.” My mother was strong, aggressive, dominating, and held grudges for a lifetime. She didn’t speak with her sister Rose for years, and I can’t even remember how they finally made amends. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my mother, but there’s no getting around the fact that she was one tough cookie. The worst part was, she didn’t know how to show affection.
My father Sal, on the other hand, was soft-spoken, shy, mild-mannered, loving, and forgiving. They were married in 1930 when they were very young—my mother was 17, and my father wasn’t much older. After three years of marriage, they had two kids: my sisters Ann and Rose. I came along much later as a last-ditch attempt to save their marriage. Needless to say, it didn’t work.
What I didn’t know at the time was that my father did attempt to see me, but my mother would not allow him to do so. He sent me birthday and Christmas gifts, but she always returned them. He tried, but eventually, the attempts became fewer and farther apart. My sisters, who were closer to my father because they were 15 and 16 when he left, brought me to see him a few times. I tried getting close to him, but I always had this sense of guilt because of my mother. She told me stories that made me wonder why my father gave me up so easily. When I got older, I realized that he would have done anything to get away from her domineering and over-powering personality. He felt castrated with my mother. I understood his sense of hopelessness. My mother could be hard and cold when she shut you out.
I regret not getting closer to my father. He tried to the best of his ability to get close to me, but he was a very shy and introverted man. Fighting up against a brick wall like my mom, he tended to throw in the towel. I understand that now. He remarried a widow with two daughters. Though he didn’t have more children with her, they got the opportunity to spend the good years with him that I did not take advantage of back then. I wish I would have. It was also uncomfortable for me with his new wife and family. The old adage “If I knew then what I know now” definitely applies here. Everyone that knew my father said he was a very good man and handsome too.
Eventually, my mother found a wonderful man named Frank Greco when I was 11 years old. His nickname was Muzzie—there’s a whole other story behind this. They never married, but Muzzie was very much a father to me. He took care of us, supported us, gave us gifts, and he was the one who walked me down the aisle when I got married. I found out years later that my father was disappointed that I did not go to see him on my wedding day, like both of my sisters had. I didn’t know they had; otherwise, I would have done the same. Seems like I found out a lot of things when it was too late. Muzzie became a grandfather to my three kids, and to this day, they refer to him as Grandpa Muzzie. Unfortunately, my kids didn’t know my father, and I truly regret that.
I hope both Sal and Muzzie are happy in heaven and know how much I love and miss them. Happy Father’s Day!
To all you fathers out there, have a very Happy Father’s Day.