Quote:
Originally posted by Greyson:
For all of you who are fortunate enough to still have your dad, if you have anything you want to say to them, do it before its too late. I lost my dad 5 years ago today and this has been a very hard Father's Day. The only thing that has saved me is knowing that we will be together again some day. Don't quit telling your dad (or other loved ones) that you love them, tell them on a daily basis. I wish I could have 10 more minutes with my dad because so much was left unsaid. God Bless all of you today, dad's and everyone else who reads this.
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Thanks Greyson.
I know this could be off-the-topic, but ...
Sometimes to talk with your daddy becomes difficult slowly, so slowly you can't realize it.
Mine got Alzheimer, and his mind dried away a little bit every day.
It was so hard recognizing that that man, your father, not at all: your Father, wasn't that man no more.
He was not more the respected man he used to be, he was a poor body wrapped in a bedspread and sitting in front of the window to stare into space.
After he died, I saw one more time my Father.
My Father, the real one, lied inanimate in a casket but wore his formal dress, he looked like he should get up and walk away asking me about the tasks he gave me in his public notary office.
He looked rough and grumpy, but later I was told from more people I'd never have thought how a good man he was. How many unknown hands I had to hold in months !
Please let me tell you all a strange thing regarding him.
He was born in 1920 and had no father. This, in the pharisee Italian country (wheat fields around Bologna) at the time, forced his mother to move alone to town and work as a servant in a family of richs. He grew up in the country with his unmarried aunts.
He was good at school: in the late '20 was invited to Rome for a writing children contest and read his composition before the "Duce" Benito Mussolini, but as the first school step ended he had to go to work in Modena's foundry.
In 1940 he was called in the Army: a few weeks later Italy declared war and he was sent to Africa as a car and truck driver.
Soon they were caught by His Majesty Army, and became P.O.W. in Bangalore, India.
There he learned English and was charged with the keeping of the Camp British Library.
He understood what Fascism was (he never had seen anything else) and September 8, 1943 he choosed Badoglio against Mussolini, Allied Forces against Hitler.
After six years he was allowed to return back home.
He studied and studied, got university degree in Bologna, became a lawyer and later a public notary.
To make some money he gave English lessons to many people ... including his future wife and my future mother.
He died at the age of 85. Precisely, ten days before his 85th birthday.
He knew, we knew he'd reached that age.
As he was in India - he always recalled, and we all knew this following thing since we were children - met a mendicant. Though he was a POW, he gave him something to eat (nothing to say about His Majesty Army, PsOW were well treated. British were haughty and supercilious - he said - but without them ... and I cannot disagree).
The beggar was thankful and predicted him three things:
- he would come back home;
- he would get married and have four children;
- he would live till 85.
The first, obviously, was a 50% - 50% thing; indeed, dad came back home.
He got married in 1958, I was born in 1959, my brother in 1960, my sister in 1962.
And the prediction ? was the beggar a fraud ... ?
Unexpected, in 1969 my last brother came into life.
And then ... he died just a few days before 85.
How could the beggar ?
We all in the family think that it doesn't matter the religion, the place, the race ... that indian poor man was in touch with Something.
Or he was Someone.
See you later Dad, seems to me we'll meet at that beggar's home.
Or at least I hope to reach you there.
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