Letters From My Father

“As to be expected, the more I look to the past, the more I learn.”


     



     

           It started with a simple request to my father one Christmas. Take some time over the course of the coming year and write down stories and memories from his life, his childhood and especially, of my grandparents. I was, and still remain, a sponge when it comes to learning all I can about my father’s parents. Though they never saw me reach adult hood, they remain stronger than ever in my thoughts each day – something some may say find unbelievable since my grandmother left us all when I was just eight years old. I say it’s a testament to her memory and all that she stood for that even now, over three decades later – I can still feel her hugs, smell the aromas from the apartment downstairs and see her as vividly as if she were downstairs this very day to greet me. My grandfather was a mystery to me, much like my father for so many years. But in a new century of electronic mail and text messages, it is old fashioned letters that have shone a light on the mysteries of the past and on the family that never willingly shared the stories that they kept as secrets to be forever locked away. Through it all, I have come to understand and discover emotions towards a man who was an enigma to me for so many years. 



     
           My parents still live in the house I grew up in, one that when I return for visits, seems so much smaller than I remember. I moved out right after college. Since then, I have lived many places – escaping the winters and memories of my young adulthood in Boston for the golden state of California when I was 24. Perhaps like my grandfather who arrived in Ellis Island on September 17, 1911 when he was just fifteen years old, I too was seeking a new life – one that was full of the unknown, but held so much promise.

     
    In the old country, Pa was apprenticed to a carpenter. He told me he didn’t like the trade and finally went to work for a tailor. He must have remembered much from the former for I saw him install a hardwood floor in a bedroom in our house in Chelsea. He used those flat flooring nails and it was an excellent job.

     
    Like Alfred, Sr., I had a lot of jobs that I didn’t like before landing a gig in a company that I hope to stay at for a very long time. And similarly, I remember a lot from the previous jobs, because reinventing myself was how I got to work at one of the most historic and storied broadcasting networks in the world. But one thing’s for sure, I could never lay a hardwood floor and the only time a hammer has been in my hands is to hang some pictures that inevitably had to be leveled and straightened. While some may say I’m also a puzzle, they may be right since it seems figuring me out started when I was just a baby.

     
            When is Jimmy going to talk? Is something wrong? Jim was three and never said one word. Little did Ma know that you were taking everything in like a sponge. One day, coming home with everyone in the car, Ma and Pa in the back and you between them, I was driving around the curve of the pond in Malden. The water is just below the hospital, and we were coming up to Salem Street and the Immaculate Conception Church. I don’t remember if the pump in the middle of the pond was spraying water in the air or not, but the car was quiet when little Jimmy said, “There’s the water!” Ma and Pa were so ecstatic. How they would smile to see him writing and today, a television executive.



                         



    Was this the reason I spoke at last? Fountain on or off? The mystery remains.




     
          



     
  It’s funny the things you remember as you grow older. I can still clearly visualize running downstairs every day after school to visit with my grandmother. My grandfather, who I called Papa didn’t return home from his work in the South End of Boston as a tailor until later in the afternoon. No matter what my parents bought my brother and me to wear to school, my grandfather always tailored it so that everything fit perfectly. It wasn’t until after his passing in 1980 that I realized how lucky we all were to have him and his talents. To this day, the original Singer sewing machine that he used still sits in the cellar – fully functional and a remnant of a simpler time and place.

     
            Memory is a funny thing. Pa made me a suit and I always remembered it seemed to be when I was in grade school. However, it had to be my first year in high school, I was a freshman and though we lived in Medford, I had to take public transit for six months to finish my year in our old city before my new school would accept me. The suit was blue and it was very nice looking. I don’t remember where I wore it again or what happened to it. There was a man named Peter who was a good friend of  Pa and also a tailor. We walked to his house once, a beautiful place with a gorgeous yard and fig trees, and Peter helped Pa make a pattern and together they cut the material and sewed the pants and the jacket. Peter is also buried in Oak Grove Cemetery, now neighbors forever.

     
            And today, I walk into Macy's and spend hours looking for a pair of jeans that will fit. Then I pray, that after I buy them, they'll still fit within six months.