Buon compleanno, caro Papa

Buona domenica a tutti. Hoping everyone had a glorious Sunday. Picture perfect here - 80 degrees Fahrenheit (27 Celsius for my Canadian family and friends), 50 percent humidity, azure blue sky, gentle breeze. Absolutely, gloriously, dazzling day. And today is venerable for another reason; my father would have been 88 years old today. Happy birthday, Papa, or as my dear family in Italia would say: "Buon compleanno!"

My father - Vito was his name - was a good man. He was handsome, dashing, hard-working, an extrovert, talkative (some might say opinionated), quick-witted, and although he was not an educated man, he was  well-read and intelligent. He immigrated to Canada in 1948 from post-war Italy, which was not in a very happy economic state at the time, and he - like many others of his generation - left his family and home land to seek a new life in the land of opportunity. With a mere $20 in his pocket, and literally the clothes on his person, my father bid adieu to everyone he knew and loved - including my mother who would join him three years later -  took a train to Genoa, where he boarded a Canada-bound ship, sailed for days and days, eventually reaching Halifax, where he then hopped on a train and at last, he reached uncles in Hamilton and Guelph - weeks and weeks of travel.

Now, imagine it if you will. In those days, there was no high speed anything. The trains were chug-a-lug. There were no flights - immigrants traveled third-class on boats and not fancy cruises! No cell phones. No texts. No telephones period! People were incommunicado for weeks on end. Telex was a privilege reserved for the wealthy. And add to that, the thought of having to say good bye to everyone you love, not knowing when you would see them again - I cannot even imagine the depths of those emotions. And all because of the need and desire to make a new life. When my father started working, he toiled - literally - in a foundry; back-breaking, thankless, dirty, miserable work. I still have childhood memories of my father coming home from work at that accursed foundry, wracked with pain, and you must know that he was a brave man and a man of his generation; that is, men of his time did not cry. But my father would come home from that foundry and lay on the living room floor and my mother would comfort him as he tried to find relief for the searing pain in his back. Alas, the foundry was a means to an end; my dear father didn't complain because he saved every penny and dollar from those paychecks, and he and my two uncles literally built the house I grew up in - there was never a mortgage on the house I might add - and we never wanted for anything, ever ... ever ...a warm, cozy home; clothes; a new car every five years; refrigerator, fruit cellar and wine cellars full of food, canned goods, wine .... I have fond childhood memories of never wanting for anything .....including lots of love and affection and hugs and kisses ...

And yet, flash forward to today and we dare complain about not having enough stuff. About getting cut off in traffic in our $50,000 cars. About having to wait in line for our $6 coffee; that there is nothing to watch on the 800 high-definition channels on our 80-inch flat screen TV...blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda ..... oy vey ... I could go on and on with more inconsequential examples, but my point is not to  come off as high-and-mighty, or judgmental. Quite the contrary. For me, it all comes back to perspective. My new mantra... that, and F**K Cancer! because lung and throat cancer killed my dear father. So, tonight's post is to raise my imaginary glass of home made Italian red wine (the best stuff EVER and drink enough of it and it will in fact make you see God; just sayin') and to toast the memory of my dear departed father, who I love more every day, who I miss more every day and to whom I wish a very happy birthday. Buon compleanno, caro Papa. Ti amo.

Giuditta (aka Cancerella)
xoxoxoxo