Saturday, January 14, 2017


If you were to ask me what were my greatest, fondest or sweetest memories, you might think I'd say my childhood, where I have written extensively, for various Facebook pages and that would not be so! My greatest memories are of my children, my sweetest ones of my wife and my fondest of them both.

I have written about growing up in the Italian-American experience, and it was both educational and historical, as I watched a transgression of lifestyle and assimilation into the fabric of American culture by Italian immigrants. But if I look back, there is a certain air that pervades my thoughts, an air of nostalgic warmth, a certain sweetness that will never be forgotten. The family I helped raised.

There is always a feeling of home when I think of my mom and dad, a certain love and warmth that goes through my veins, yet it is the past, what was, not is anymore. Now when I see my wife or a child of mine, I still see that little kid, the one I would seek to entertain, worry about and most importantly, love.

I look at old pictures and see them once again the way I feel about them now, as a small child, innocent of all wrong-doing and playful, filled with joy and innocence, and no worries in the world, the good of it all!

I see a younger woman, the one I married and yet she is still here, with me, sharing my tears, my pains and mostly my joys! How much more could I want? Where would I go with it anyway? She has made the days and years special, she looks out for me, gives me presents of love and affection not with a material, but with her thoughts and kindness toward me. Anyone who has doubts about me, she ignores knowing I am who I promised I'd be to her so many years ago. She, in turn, has kept her promise too, but enhancing it many times over.
I can remember all the years we spent together, quietly side by side in our den, reading or watching TV, knowing I was happy because she sat there, sometimes talking, sometimes not, just there made me happy.

I can recall the despair of losing a child, the strength came from love holding me up for the other children I had, the pain of losing a daughter to a disability that would ruin her life, and greatly sadden us, as we mourn her every day of our lives. The anxiety of depression that invaded our lives, how hard it was for me to adjust to this attack on my children, how I needed to comfort both the child and mother.
I recall the baseball, basketball, and sports my sons played, how we rooted and gave support, how proud an accomplishment was to me! I remember the potty-training, the ‘advice' rendered by a three-year-old, the joy of bringing them to work with me for the first time and their meeting my bosses and co-workers and crew, all giving me rave reviews.

I see this all in the memories of the photo box, all four playing once again, smiling, speaking and bringing joy to me as I sit here getting a little older.  Do I wish I was there again? No. Because it would deny me their successes as adults, I'll keep the pictures and take new ones, maybe a get to know the next generation and look back with my wife and think: Look what we did!


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