DAD
WAS A PRACTICAL MAN
Dad
was a practical man. I remember that he
would carry an umbrella to work every day, just in case it rained, for he had
to walk a few blocks from the car to the Bridgeport Brass Company where he
spent forty years. I can’t remember that
he ever missed a day of work. He had
been caught in a few downpours of rain and decided that he did not intend to
have that happen to him ever again…thus, the umbrella.
My
dad suffered from migraine headaches and Major Depression…there were no
effective medications for him, unfortunately. As a result, he endured the pain
of migraine headaches for most of his life.
My Dad busied himself with his garden, made the backyard (almost an
acre) of our home in Nichols, Ct., resemble a park. He won many medals for his artistic way of
gardening. I recently learned by finding
a favorite book of his that he had an interest in the Bonsai Tree, a miniature
tree that grows in a small tray: Vincent
and I visited Selby Gardens in Sarasota, Fl. on several occasions where the
Bonsai are plentiful. Curiously, I also found a copy of Writer’s Digest dating
back to 1979, the year of my divorce from my children’s father. I am not surprised that my Dad was interested
in writing; I just wish I had known so that we could have commiserated, communicated,
had fun with words. We had a lot more in common aside from mom’s illness but
our common ground was never realized. I
often think about all the conversations we might have had about our interests,
things to do and places to see…but
whenever we had an opportunity to talk to each other, we talked about
Mom – how to ‘fix’ her and how to deal with our own feelings of helplessness
and frustration regarding her behavior.
One place he wanted to see before he died was Banff: he never traveled there due to mom’s fear
that she may not have been able to deal with his cancer while far away from
home.
Dad read the Bible early in
the morning and sang hymns most of the day. He whistled hymns and played the
harmonica and accordion by ear. I can
still hear him singing, if I listen closely enough...He had a distinctive
baritone voice that would have highlighted any choir but mom wanted him by her
side and he adored her since their high school years, so he never joined the
choir. He focused on the Lord and the beauty of the earth and dismissed that
which he could not control. I am sure
the Lord has a special place for him in Heaven’s Choir.
Dad worked in the basement of
the Bridgeport Brass Company in Bridgeport, a die-maker, a perfectionist at his
trade….every day for 40 years. He worked
a second job doing mason work, building fireplaces, walls, stone floors,
sidewalks. He was artistic,
multi-talented and worked under poor conditions to support his family. My father, a man with an extraordinary sense
of humor, telling stories to the whole family about his days when he was a
young man working on his brother, Lou’s small truck delivering milk, eggs,
juice, cream. In those old days when no
one knew the extent to which cholesterol could harm us…we just enjoyed the
delectable flavors.
We would laugh until our
bellies hurt but dad kept on making us roar. My cousins who are far younger
than I still recall the milk truck stories ‘Uncle George’ told and the laughter
that followed. He was a raconteur at heart; you were on the edge of your seat
waiting for the next detail! Dad was a
‘world-traveler’ said my cousin John, another only
child, our mothers having been born sisters.
Dad was an avid reader and traveled to the far corners of the world in
his mind as he read. He would always
say, “I have a great imagination.” This man, with a knack for beautifying
everything he touched outdoors, from his rock-garden to his flagstone walk,
merely accepted the fact that he worked at the Bridgeport Brass Company in a
basement with no windows, cutting dies with precision for a living for
forty years – and worked almost incessantly as an artist after work,
either sketching, or building stone walks and walls and fireplaces or working
in his garden. (Our family called the
landscaped acre in our back yard our Park.)
He would never take credit for any of its beauty though…he would say
with humility “I just plant the seeds and God does the rest.”
I remember the newspaper
covering for his head that he would fold in place, with the same precision he
used when measuring a cement walk, when he was working outside on a very hot
day. Dad fastidiously folded each corner
to result in a raised oval covering above his ears. It shaded him from the sun …He would wear it
while he was pouring cement in the hot sun, whistling all the while, (usually,
Jimmie Crack Corn or Little Jimmie Brown-the Chapel Bells Were Ringing) enjoying what he was doing, proud of a job
well done when he finished his work. I remember him fondly.
CHEERS
A Letter to Dad
Here's to you, Dad
To your skills as a builder
of houses and dreams
To your craft, etched with
precision
To the work of your hands
Through the years of your
life
Thank you for building my
world.
Here's to you, Dad
To your strength of character
- to your acceptance of life in the raw
To your readiness to forgive
- and your caution in judging
Thank you for the heart you
try to conceal,
For letting me see your
imperfections ~ thereby making it
Possible for me to embrace my
own.
Here's to you, Dad
To your love of life and God
and people
To your spirit - to your
sacrifice - to your sense of humor and the
Raconteur within you - to
your quest for knowledge
(My self-taught dad with a
genius all his own)
Thank you for pursuing life
in spite of its storms that rage
Thank you for teaching me to
smile
Your heart is an open book -
It teaches humility and hope and Courage
The words speak echoes of
truth and of Christ's promise for an Eternity without pain.
Your loving daughter, Carole
Photos Carol A. Castagna
 |
| Sketch by the late, George Turiano, Author's father |
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