Dad

As my parents age, I find myself in a heightened state of denial. Even though the time will eventually come, I hate to think about being on this planet without Mom and Dad alive and kicking.

The night we returned from Disney World, my father took an unexpected ride in an ambulance after he developed chest pains. Thankfully, it was just his gall bladder.

Whenever Mom or Dad has a health scare, I double my efforts on my memoir – and reflect on who my parents are and the memories we share.

The youngest of seven children born to Italian immigrants in 1931, Dad was the only member of his family to graduate high school. His linear career path led him from a stint in the U.S. Air Force during the Korean Conflict to the police academy. He served our hometown as a police officer for 38 years – even though he was eligible to retire after 25 years – and he adamantly refused to advance through the ranks because it would be “too political.”

The men of Dad’s generation knew how to waltz and jitterbug. They helped women with their coats, held doors open for them and walked closest to the street when escorting a lady on the sidewalk. In their world, there were no shades of gray – just black and white. They never warmed to rock music, voted Republican and hated the sight of boys with hair past their ears.

Being a police officer was central to Dad’s identity. He was of average build, but could summon up an aggressive intimidation that served him well on the job, spurring our town’s “little darlings” to sputter, “Yes, Mr. M.” and “No, sir, Mr. M.” when he questioned them.

However, when he was off-duty and could lower the cynical shield he wielded against the darker element of society, Dad was an amenable sort and well-liked – unless you broke one of his cardinal rules, like not reciprocating a dinner invitation or (God help you!) going against a member of his family. Then, forget-about-it. He’d cut you off – permanently.

Anthony and I grew up hearing Dad tell us three things: 1) “you’re 100% Italian;” 2) “don’t ever touch my gun,” and 3) “what’s said in the house, stays in the house.”

At home, Dad was quick to tease and play with us, and we lived for his invitation to “take a ride.” He introduced us to fishing, Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom and Abbott and Costello.

Dad was the first person to nickname me “Ri.” He taught me how to ride a bike and drive a car, how to protect myself by being aware of my surroundings, and how to love without actually saying the words.

This time it was just Dad’s gall bladder, and that’s good because we’re not done yet, making memories.