Memories

A few days ago, my son, Brian, started talking about my father. He was laughing at some of the stories about my father, and he said that he was sharing those stories with his children. He wants me to write them down and suggested that he bring his daughters over, and have me answer some of their questions, and tell them more stories. He added that I should write a book about my father. In the past I have written short stories about my father. I plan to write more stories about my family in the future and probably will put them into a book.

My father was 100% Italian. He stood 5’9” but was the biggest person in my life. I worshipped him simply because he was my Dad. Whatever he said was law. If I had to be home by 11:00 p.m., regardless if he was in bed, he knew exactly what time the back door opened and closed. If I was late, I would get an earful. Even when I was engaged, there was a curfew and I had better keep it. I did.

My father was quirky in some strange ways. He had to eat his food on separate plates, and he hated mayo or cream sauces. He didn’t want garlic in his food but my mother put it anyway without him seeing her. And he liked all the food that she cooked. He loved his coffee looking like a café au lait with sugar and cream. But his coffee had to be accompanied by cookies. Any type would do but he really preferred Stella D’Oro cookies.

He loved getting presents and had a hard time waiting to open them. At Christmas, if he found his presents, he had to open them before Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. He loved my mother but it was that aluminum Christmas tree that he lusted after, and painstakingly put u. He was mesmerized by the color wheel that changed the tree different colors. Christmas Eve was his favorite time, sitting around his parents’ dining room table and eating, drinking, talking and laughing for hours.

After my father died and I inherited all his ornaments…I divided them up between my nine children. Brian and his family set up a separate tree in their dining room , where they use all of my father’s ornaments to decorate it. It is dubbed Grandpa Aiello’s tree. When he emailed me the photo, it made me smile and I was so happy that he would do this. It was a great way to share memories and the past

Now for the other side…my father ran a jewelry store in Utica, New York, and in the back room he ran card games. He was a big time gambler, who would file his finger tips so smoothly that he could deal the second and third cards from the deck without being noticed. He worked as a card dealer in Las Vegas. He also gambled away my mother’s dream house. Our family left Utica owing a number of debts. But once in Cleveland, my father lived a straight and narrow life. All my mother’s prayers seemed to have been answered.

After my son left, I sat down and wrote more. I wrote about the good, the bad and the ugly. It is from the past that we learn a lot of who we are and how we want to be remembered. I loved my father, despite all of his weirdness. My father made me who I am, along with my mother. Along the way, I chose some of the same roads, but I discarded some of the darker ones.

I plan on writing about my father. But for now, I will tell my little grandchildren some of the stories that will make them laugh and leave the other stories to be told later.