Exactly 50 years ago on this day, my father collapsed on the basement floor of my childhood home in NJ and died of a coronary occlusion. He was only 59 years old, making my mother a widow at 52. I was living in Kentucky at the time having just been fired unjustly from what had been my favorite job until then. My husband had moved out a few weeks prior and I was single and jobless in a town where there were few jobs for graphic designers. It was a very difficult time for me. And for my mother.
My father had closed the restaurant on Vandam St and had just finished converting the three brownstones into apartments and renting them. My mother did not want to manage the apartments. I offered to do it for her which would have been a job and my ticket back to NYC, my goal at the time. She refused, chose to sell the buildings and divest herself of all responsibility. As far as I can tell, she sold them right before the real estate market in NYC exploded. Had she waited, she would have been an instant millionaire. I had even suggested she keep one apartment as a pied-a terre. If only.
Slowly, I got my life back on an even keel. I sued for my state job at Kentucky Educational TV, won it, plus back pay. By then, I had moved to Atlanta with Charlie and a neurotic cat named Cassandra. We rented a crappy apartment, found jobs, got a dog and 2 more cats. I was an emotional wreck, fed up with the way I was treated in Lexington and just needed a clean slate. Atlanta and Charlie gave me both.
My Dad died before he could retire, collect Social Security, enjoy life and reconnect with his family in Italy. He often talked about going back to live. Over the last 50 years, I wondered what he would have thought of the Italy he left as a boy. And how much it changed since. I wondered if my Dad would have been proud of the person I became, of the choices I made, and of the life I built with Charlie. I like to think he would have been happy to know that things turned out OK for me. After all, he worked so hard all of his adult life to provide for us but did not live long enough reap the benefits. My mother remarried, had a nice few years with Artie until Alzheimer’s took him away, too. She lived to be 94, a widow for longer than her two marriages combined.
When I am in Italy, I stay in my Dad’s home town of Pescia and walk the same streets he roamed as a child. They stiill look exactly the same. I stand on the bridge over the river to enjoy the cold breeze descending from the mountains, like he used to do on hot summer nights. People ask me why I don’t stay somewhere more exciting. I tell them it’s because I feel completely at home there.
I am taking it easy today, mostly to honor my Dad, but also because I am coming down with a cold or flu. The thermometer is busted so I don’t know if I have a fever. To add insult to injury, yesterday I met with pest control about the noises emanating from the walls and ceiling of my house, Today the tree man gave me an estimate on trimming a couple of trees in the backyard. Plus I have property taxes and estimated income tax payments coming up. It’s going to be a very expensive fall. Notwithstanding important landmark dates, life and every day realities go on regardless.