I’ve Learned a Lot from My Dad--a Eulogy for Chuck DiComo

I’ve learned a lot from my dad. 

First and foremost, always carry a clean handkerchief.

But I also learned the value of hard work by example every day, and the value of a good laugh and a big smile, and a hug.

I learned that life is demonstrably better when you surround yourself with good food, and people you love.

I learned that when you have compassion and empathy for people, you can make the world better beginning with the circle closest to you and reverberating outward to circles you will never see.

My father taught me that my opinion mattered, even, and maybe
especially, when it was different from his own.  There was always a discussion at our dinner table.

My dad and I always disagreed about our opinions of the American people.  I’ve always been a pessimist about people and their decision-making seemingly against their own interests, and the interests of their communities. 

My dad, however, was always an optimist. He knew people may take some time to get it right, but in the end most people will do the right thing. He always believed in people, in the best in you.  Always.

When we were growing up in Miramar my dad was literally a member of the Optimists Club.  When my brother and I started to get into sports, my dad became a coach.  You may know that my dad never had any interest in sports.  It was only when I was in college that I found hidden in my dad’s office a pile of books on how to coach T-ball.  Other kids found Playboy magazines hidden in the back of their dad’s drawers, I found books on how to be a little league coach.  During the ‘70s when Don Shula and the Dolphins were winning Super Bowls he could care less, but that didn’t stop him from taking me to a Dolphins game for my birthday every year, or taking us to see the Miami Toros games, or the Floridians basketball games, or even from coaching my flag-football team. As a child, going to those games meant everything to me. He showed us that what was important to us, was important to him too.

But we also saw my dad work hard every day.  And when he came home from work, he’d spend much of his evenings on the phone with work, or sitting at the dining room table doing his paperwork.  We knew by example that work, like any other commitment, was something you did at 110% without exception.  We grew up in a fairly transitory South Florida neighborhood. But we never moved. When we were in high school, and then college, we watched as our father was required to train his inexperienced bosses who were half his age.  All those year’s growing up in the same house, with the same friends, and at the same schools, we never realized that we had that luxury of consistency because my parents decided they didn’t want us moving around from state to state, and school to school, so my dad didn’t take promotions that required packing up the family and moving to a new town every few years.  He sacrificed his own career for us.

My dad spent most of his professional life as a greetings card salesman.  Going to work with him in the summers was a real education.  Yes, we learned valuable skills that came in handy later, like navigating through the streets of Miami and all of South Florida without a GPS, and how to unload, and importantly, how to pack, a semi-truck. My dad even let me learn to drive a stick shift in an old U-Haul truck at the North Dade Dump!  But the real life lessons were observing my dad interact with his clients, and especially his client’s customers, and his fellow salesman (yes, usually at a Woolworth’s or another diner for breakfast or lunch—great stories there, but for another time).  My dad’s demeanor, common sense, courtesy and humor interacting with others in the workplace are examples of skills that make me better at my job, and a better person, every day.

My dad never cared about the color of your skin or the accent of your tongue, only whether you were genuine.  I remember at a time when racial tensions were high in Miami going to dinners at his co-workers’ and friends’ homes in Little Havana and Overtown without hesitation.    I also recall when the first African American family moved into our Miramar Parc neighborhood, and overnight half of the homes had for sale signs spring up in front of them.  My dad was adamant, we’re not moving anywhere. “These people worked hard to buy that home, and they have every right to be here. You treat them like anyone else,” he told us, “Color doesn’t mean a thing.”

When I was a teenager I began to show an interest in photography, so when my dad had a business trip to Tampa to install a card department for a new client, he brought me along because he said he needed a photographer to document the work.  I don’t know if that was true or if he made it up, but that was my first photography job, and my first airplane flight!

It was really important for my parents that their kids would have what they did not, a college education.  So, when my brother and I were in college, my dad moonlighted as a night watchman in a concrete plant after working hard each day.  He did whatever he had to make a better life for us, and I don’t think I every thanked him for that. When my mom was ill when we were young, my dad stepped in and got really good at doing the laundry, but I have to say, for someone who enjoyed food so much, he never developed cooking skills! 

When you met my dad, his big personality made a big first impression. He’s easily likable, and you became his friend in an instant. But he was so much more than his big personality. 

From my earliest memories, my dad was always involved, always helping others, always serving.  From working to elect local city council members, to the boy scouts, to simply giving a car away to a single mom who needed it more than we did.  Serving his community was always part of what he did. The local blood bank even had my dad on their speed dial.

My parents have taken in so many family members and wayward souls into their home, and their family, that they never really had an empty nest.  My dad always had his passion project—Optimists Club, Cursillo, the St. Bart’s carnival, serving as Santa Claus, Knights of Columbus, Mended Hearts. And in each, he committed 110% and left improving the lives of others as his legacy.

For years he served as Santa Claus with a custom made Santa suit, not just for my daughter, nephews and family members, but for so many organizations in the community, but he didn’t stop there, he would speak at mass as Santa about the real meaning of Christmas. 110% always.

My dad always saw the best in others, including those who many of us don’t see at all.  While my parents gave my brother and I both guidance and room to grow and make mistakes as teenagers, I was actually jealous of those he helped because my dad spent a considerable amount of his time as a surrogate father, uncle, big brother, advisor and friend to special needs individuals who didn’t have the same opportunities and health I was afforded. He gave so much of his own time to be there for those who needed him most. 

He wasn’t perfect, none of us are.  But he was a good man, and a wonderful example to me and my brother, to his grandchildren, nieces and nephews and to anyone who knew him well.

My dad taught me that one person can make the world a better place by simply trying their best, by listening intently, by working at it, and that what really matters is not to do something big and visible, or doing something because of the recognition you might receive, but by doing something close to home, that needed doing, simply because it’s the right thing to do.

My dad was never into technology, and never had a single ‘follower’ or ‘like’. In a world where people seek recognition and accolades for doing literally nothing, let Chuck DiComo be your influencer. Be humble. Love outwardly. Always be grinn’n. Be cool in the motor pool, and don’t give a damn if no one likes you.

And for God’s sake, don’t forget your handkerchief, someone may need it.

Epilogue:

We lost my dad on June 28, 2024, about three weeks before what would have been his 86 birthday.  However, we started losing him six years earlier when dementia attacked his mind and his spirit. I had the honor of delivering the above eulogy at my dad's funeral mass.  His spirit was felt as we celebrated his life, and I knew he was smiling and enjoying the moment.

Hot Tea, Cheap Aftershave and My Dad

     Growing up I loved the way my dad smelled in the morning before he left for work. I didn't quite know what the smell was then, but for a small child it was security and warmth all wrapped up in a hug.

     I was fortunate, still am, that my dad always believed in showing his emotions. There's nothing wrong with a hug and a kiss where my dad is concerned. On the same token, there's nothing quite like a good knock-down, drag out argument.

     My dad never believed in pulling his punches. I guess that's what almost cost him his life one day.

     I remember coming home from elementary school on this ordinary day. I watched a few cartoons, and maybe a "Gilligan's Island" re-run. A few friends and I tried to get a pick-up game of football going, but every time we'd get started someone's mother would call them in to eat dinner. After a few futile attempts and a quick game of catch I decided to head in for the night.

     I relished those few hours after school before our fathers would get home from work. The street' belonged to the kids of Dilido Boulevard from the time school let out until the familiar call that dinner was ready. We played football or kickball on the street and used light poles and man holes as goal lines or bases. There were always one or two parents who would yell at us for playing in front of their homes. They argued that we were ruining their yard, or hitting their car with the football. One guy even put cactuses in his front yard to try to deter us.

     Most of the "old farts", as we would call them, had kids who were too young to be playing football with the older kids. At first we tried to explain to them that we were only playing in the street, and couldn't care less about running in their yards. After all, it wasn't like we were only playing in front of just their house. We played in front of everyone's house.

     We soon learned that it wasn't worth arguing about, because we realized we could never win. We just moved on and waited for the next time to be told to move on.

     The cactuses put in by an angry neighbor never stopped us either. Since they were close to the light post - our goal line - the team defending the goal knew that the offense had to either throw left or into the end zone. Any pass to the right could mean a deflated football and the end of the game. Sometimes though you'd risk it and throw right anyway.

     On this ordinary day we would not upset any parents. We just couldn't get a game going. Back in the house my mom seemed to be in a grouchy mood, so I decided to sit down in front of the television until dinner was ready. It was definitely an uneventful day.

     Then dad came home. He seemed almost unrecognizable. He looked like dad, he walked like dad, but something was definitely up. He'd come home tired before but this was different. It was like he was in his own world. He went straight into the kitchen where my mom was getting dinner ready.

     "Get me a cup of tea," my dad said quietly.

     "I had a terrible day," said mom.

     And so the conversation went, mom telling my dad about the miserable day she had and dad asking for a cup of hot tea. Odd since dad is a coffee drinker.

     After a few minutes mom realized that dad was not quite himself. After all, not only was it a hot day for a hot cup of tea, but he just didn't seem right.

     All this time my brother and I stayed in front of the TV, trying not to pay attention to what was going on in the kitchen.

     We had no idea what my father had gone through that day, we just knew that we were getting hungry. My mom on the other hand began making his cup of tea. She knew something had happened.

     It would be a while before my brother and I would know the whole story. But we soon found out the basic details. Our first reaction was to see if dad would be on the news that night. He said that reporters were there, but that the police told him to get away from the door when they saw the television cameras. It was for his own protection.

     My dad had a hard day of work. He's been a salesman most of his life, and still is today. He's good at his job and the stores he calls on know it. My brother and I enjoyed when our father would take us to work with him. Those days remain some of my most cherished childhood memories. We would mostly go to drug stores and sometimes department stores or card shops. We liked being able to go into the store before it opened. We enjoyed walking into the storerooms, a place we had never been before. I especially enjoyed driving with dad all over parts of Miami that were much different from the Broward suburbs that we called home. It was in my father's company car that I first learned where Opa Locka and Hialeah are located. It was also with my dad that I first experienced Flagler Street, downtown Miami and Iron Beer and a Cuban sandwich.

     Sometimes the pharmacists in the drug stores we called on would give my brother and me candy or lollipops. Other times we would meet other salesman for breakfast or lunch at diners or small blue-collar luncheonettes where your silverware didn't always match and you always got a glass of water – places I still enjoy today.

     I remember one red haired salesman liked to joke around and would crack chewing gum on the side of his mouth when he laughed. Another had a wonderful British accent and would tell fascinating stories about the Royal Air Force during “The War”, as if there had been only one war.

     I remember all these things, but most of all. I remember how hard my dad worked. He told us that his father worked hard all his life so he and my uncle and aunt wouldn't have to work so hard in their lives.

     But I couldn't imagine that my dad was working any less harder than his father had worked. The way he figures it is that just because he's a greeting card salesman doesn't mean he can't do the best job possible and take pride in his work. Dad always told us that if he worked hard, my brother and I would have it a little better than my mom and dad did, just as they were a little better off than my grandparents were.

      This was just an ordinary day though, and we didn't go to work with our dad. It was a school day.

     After I knew what occurred that day, I laid awake nights wondering what may have happened if we had gone to work with him. I wondered if all that hard work would have meant nothing. I wonder today if my brother and I would ever have gone to college and gotten a degree -- something my dad was never able to do.

     What happened that day was this. After a long day's work, dad decided to return to one of the drug stores he called on. He was just passing by and had to cash a check. I am sure he'd rather gone straight home, but he needed the money and he knew the pharmacist would take his check.

     In a split second the ordinary day was about to change. At the very moment I was upset about not being able to play football, it was happening. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

     As my dad was walking back towards the pharmacy, a teenager approached him and told him to get down on the floor.

     "Go out and play in the streets," was my father’s reaction. It had been a hard day and he wasn't in the mood for games. But this was no game.

     As my father was pushed to the floor he realized that there were several men with guns. It was a robbery. My father’s belly kissed the tile floor, as his eyes tried to take in a description of the bandits. My dad noticed his pharmacist friend looking straight towards him with eyes that cried of fear.

     Suddenly, the pharmacist scurried behind the counter as quickly as he could.

     "Damn," my dad thought, "they're gonna shoot Joe."

     Then one of the robbers yelled out, "What are you crazy? Let's go!"

     He was talking to the teenager who first confronted my father.

     In a few minutes it was all over. Everyone got up and the police were called. No one was hurt.

     My dad went to his pharmacist friend and asked if he was alright. The pharmacist looked at my dad kind of strangely and asked, "Don't you know what happened?"

     "Sure, he was going to shoot you," said dad.

     "Me?" said the pharmacist. "That asshole had his gun pointed at your head from the minute you hit the floor. After the others got the money he cocked the gun. I ducked because I expected pieces of your brain to be splattered all over this place."

     The only thing that saved my dad's life that day was the fact that one of the robbers saw what the other was about to do and pulled him off. My dad's life was spared because one jerk didn't want more trouble than he already had. Some asshole with a handgun played God. How dare he? He was Caesar, and for nothing more than a whim and a quick get-away he gave my father a thumbs up. I guess I should be thankful.

     We knew from then on that whenever my dad asked for a hot cup of tea something must really be wrong. My dad likes to tell this story to his many friends. When someone gets a second chance in the movies it usually means a dramatic lifestyle change, a revelation of all things bright and beautiful. My father thought long and hard that night in the kitchen with his cup of tea.

     His priorities never changed. Maybe he appreciates what he has more because of it. Maybe he tries harder to help others. But my brother and I are the ones whose lifestyle has changed.

     I know now that the smell I relate to my father's hugs is a combination of a fresh shower and cheap aftershave. But I am thankful that I can still hug my dad. I know others who are thankful as well, but that smell is all mine. He's my dad.

     You may say this is no hero, but to me he is.

© 1982 Philip M. DiComo

50th Anniversary

A FINAL WORD, TODAY:  This was written almost 20 years ago now, and my

dad has been retired for some time. Today, like others his age, he struggles with old age and its effects, and just like when I was in elementary school, my mom is right beside him supporting him in every way. Throughout my life, there have been certain constants about my dad. His big personality, his work-ethic, his seeing the best in others who many of us don't even see, his loudness, and his desire to do the right thing. He's human, not perfect, but yet I think he strives to be so.  Today, he has good days and bad days, and on the good days I see the dad that I knew as a young boy, and then a young man. The dad that had no interest in most sports but when his son wanted to play baseball he bought every book he could find on coaching (I only discovered this many years later), the dad that worked extremely hard, and then got a night job as a security guard so his boys could go to college when he could not himself, the dad that picked up the slack when mom was sick (he became very good at doing the laundry but fast food was easier than cooking!). I am grateful that I grew up with a mom and dad that cared enough, loved enough and were stern enough (yes, even being grounded and missing my playoff football game when I was 11)--but mostly that they were never afraid to show it. 

The greatest currency to a child is never money, but love.

UPDATE. June 28, 2024. Tonight my dad succumbed to dementia and joined his parents in heaven.  We celebrate the life of a man who always loved outwardly, always was grinn’n, and above all else, was always cool in the motor pool, and never, ever gave a damn if no one like him. But everyone did.

Mom & Dad's Anniversary 2008

Taking Nothing for Granted

     He was just 38 years-old when a relatively minor heart condition detected in his teens became problematic. Phil was camping with his wife, six year-old daughter and friends at Disney World in 2003 when he noticed alarming changes to his physical and mental well-being. “I couldn’t hammer a nail correctly, later I sat down to play poker and couldn’t concentrate, and when I went to bed I had trouble breathing,” he recalls. “That’s when my wife, Karolyn turned to me and said, ‘We need to go to the doctor.’”

     Five months later Phil underwent open heart surgery for a mitral valve repair at the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio. He calls the medical event, life changing. “It made me realize you’ve got to value what you’ve got.”

     The traumatic experience also motivated Phil to rethink his career and eventually leave a larger law firm for Haile Shaw & Pfaffenberger, P.A. in North Palm Beach, where he’s a shareholder today. It was a strategic move that would allow him to concentrate on areas he loves best, nonprofit law and emerging companies. “I started working with all these businesses that can’t afford the big firms; privately held companies just above the mom and pops – and I could pursue nonprofit work.”

     You might say Phil’s commitment to the nonprofit world is ingrained in his DNA. He spent the first 15 years of his career working in public broadcasting, a path he chose as a young man.

     While an undergraduate student at the University of Florida, Phil drew up a list of 10 places he’d like to work after graduation and called each one. Nonprofit organizations dominated the list. “I wanted something beyond making money and that was focused on the public good.”

     The job-searching strategy helped Phil land a job in Membership and Development at Miami’s public television station, WPBT. He went on to work at WXEL-TV in Palm Beach County and eventually became Vice President of Marketing and Development. “I literally did a bit of everything and could pretty much work in any position at the stations, from radio and television production to programming.”

     However, during his years in broadcasting, the idea of attending law school was always in the back of Phil’s mind. One evening an underwriting spot at WXEL caught his attention. NOVA Southeastern University Shepard Broad Law Center was starting an evening program. That news, coupled with the fact that his wife was about to begin a master’s degree program and she wouldn’t be home many nights, convinced Phil the timing was right for law school. “Attorneys are always surprised I went to law school at night. They ask ‘How did you do that?’ and my answer is always the same, ‘You don’t think about it, you just do it.’”

     Thanks to that dual career path, a special synergy abounds at Haile Shaw & Pfaffenberger, P.A., as Phil’s nonprofit work has snowballed over the years. “My background gives me good context to understand my clients. I understand the issues from the inside.” Phil also notes that nonprofits and startup companies deal with a lot of the same issues related to funding and boards of directors. It’s all made practicing law highly enjoyable for Phil. “It certainly makes law more interesting being grounded in something I did before being an attorney.”

     Amicable and very approachable, Phil attributes his success on all fronts to a strong work ethic instilled by his parents. As a boy growing up in Florida, he saw how hard his parents worked and he says it was driven by the common working class goal of wanting to provide a better life for their children. “I saw that in my parents and it’s how I’ve lived.”

     Outside of work, Phil enjoys simple pleasures. He recharges by doing yard-work and spending time with his wife and daughter, Kara, who is now 21 and a senior at New College of Florida. He also appreciates Florida’s year-round beautiful weather. “I like getting up early and sitting outside with my coffee, listening to and watching the birds.”

     Simple pleasures, enjoyed by a man who understands the value of everything he’s got.

NOTE:  I decided to re-print this piece that I obviously didn't write myself because it tells part of my story in a way I could not.  This was written in January 2019. 

In 2021, Haile Shaw merged into Nason Yeager Gerson Harris & Fumero PA, where Phil heads the non-profit practice and is a member of the firm's executive committee.

The World Book Encyclopedia, the World Trade Center and Old Glory

            I became infatuated with flags at an early age, predominately thanks to the salesman who came peddling the World Book Encyclopedia at our home when I was in elementary school.  My parents valued education, and like many suburban families in the 1970s, wanted to ensure their kids would have a better life than they did. The ticket for that was thought to be through education.  So, I found myself often leafing through the pages of one of the randomly chosen 22 volumes of the World Book Encyclopedia my parents had purchased for my brother and me. To my surprise, the world was quite fascinating.

            Volume 7 was for all things that started with “F”, including Flags. I was mesmerized by the pages containing the various colorful flags of the world, and by the time I entered high school I am sure I had most of the flags memorized. It was exciting to think about the culture that created each flag—from the typically tri-color and not very exotic European flags to the unusual sideways twin peaked and oddly shaped flag of Nepal to the stark green-outlined star on the red field of Morocco. Fun with Flags before Sheldon Cooper, if you will.

            My love flags meant that I always knew that when I owned a home it would have to have a flagpole out front.  I typically display the American flag above a carefully selected flag that could be historic, holiday oriented, in honor of my favorite football team, or simply my state flag. Once I had the flag pole in my front yard, I soon realized that observing flag etiquette is not always easy, particularly taking the United States flag down every night if it is not lit and visible. So, I broke down and added lights. 

            Like most Americans, on September 11, 2001, I lowered the American flag outside my home to half-mast. It stayed that way longer than usual, but after about a month it went back up to the top of the flag pole where it belongs. When I was young, the American flag always appeared to be different than the flags of other countries. Some were simple, some a bit hokey, and some beautiful. But the U.S. flag with its purposeful stars and stripes was always more grand, emotionless and enduring. That was true even after 911.

            The flag in my front yard was something I assumed others didn’t notice, but I didn’t care because it was important for me. Then one day I found out that this particular modest flag pole, and this particular flowing stars and stripes had a purpose greater than me. It was there for somebody else.

            My neighbor captained an elite South Florida-based search and rescue team which was assembled the day after 911 for a special mission and securely flown to New York to take part in rescue efforts under the World Trade Center Towers. Their work zone included the subway station and tunnels underneath the towers. He and many other heroes worked endless days and tirelessly. He later told me that they started the first day searching for survivors that they all knew would be there, and ended realizing they would only be able to recover bodies, or in most cases, pieces of bodies. But those are his stories to tell, not mine.

            Three months after 911 when Americans were just starting to recover from the enormous wound inflicted on this country, and commercial aviation was just beginning to restart across our nation’s airports, my neighbor finally came home, unceremoniously and without fanfare or attention. The next day he came down to see me, because he had something important he needed to let me know.

His flight, he said, arrived at Miami International Airport in the middle of night, about 2 a.m. as I recall. There were not many flights yet at this time, and it was the only of the three area airports that had opened. His wife met him at the mostly silent airport and drove them the 2 ½ hours north to our neighborhood and their home. He told me he was so tired, so numb, he could hardly talk on the entire drive home.  He was warn-out and physically exhausted, but more so, he was mentally exhausted, and anguished, and even—in a sense--wounded.  During his mission he and others didn’t have time to think about what they were doing, and it was best not to do so.  He made a point to tell me that the entire time he was working, that all of them were working on the recovery, he didn’t cry, didn’t get emotional. Each day he quietly did his job, ate, slept and started all over the next day. But now he was home and he was empty. He told me that he and his wife drove home from the airport that dark night and when he arrived in our rural neighborhood after the long drive it only got darker. You see, we live on dirt road with no street lights, and the clouds blocked the stars on that night. He leaned close to me and said, “It was pitch black when we turned on our street, and then a light started to come into focus. At first I didn’t know what it was but as we slowly moved forward I tried to see where the light was coming from, and as we got closer…it’s an American flag, your U.S. flag, bathed in light, but surrounded by darkness. We slowed the car down as we got closer, and just then, in that moment, it all came to me, and after months of remaining emotionless, in my car, in front of your house and your American flag, at 4 in the morning when the world slept around us, I broke down, cried, and everything that had happened over the last months just hit me like a brick in that moment. That flag stood there shining out of the darkness. It was beautiful, and I knew you had put that flag there for me, that I needed it to remind me we are bigger than even this horrible, horrible thing.”

Of course there was nothing I could really say, but tears came down my face at that moment. Later he would share pictures and stories. But for this kid who grew up loving flags, I was reminded that things we do, whether we know it or not, impact the people around us. In this case, my flag, lit in the darkness, and inspired by my parents purchase of the World Book Encyclopedia some 26 years beforehand helped an American hero heal his wounds and return, we all hope, to normalcy.

 © 2019 Philip M. DiComo

The Star Spangled Banner

Francis Scott Key

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Holding on to Tradition with Anisette Cookies for Christmas!

     Christmas day for our Italian-American family was for opening presents, and food, and family when I was growing up, but it was Christmas Eve that we always looked forward to the most. Christmas Eve at the DiComo house was a night-long celebration of food, family, friends, more food, more friends...just more!

     My dad always told people, when you're invited once, you're invited every year. My mom cooked, and cooked and cooked. There would be scungilli, stuffed calamari and pasta.  And wonderful desserts of course, but all desserts were secondary to struffola (small honey ball bites stacked high) and anisette cookies.  As family spreads out geographically, and we become absorbed by work...work...work, it becomes harder to keep traditions alive, but my daughter helps to keep the tradition of anisette cookies alive each Christmas, and here is a look at that tradition through my daughter's eyes, with help from grandma!  Manja, enjoy!

Italian American Tradition Through Food.

By Kara DiComo

What an Eleven Year Old Remembers

If you hold a memory that isn’t shared by others, does that make the memory no longer real?

As far as I can recall now, the peak of my athletic career occurred in 1976 at the age of 11. For me, football wasn’t just a sport. It was my passion. Growing up in South Florida in the mid-70s meant no home-town baseball team to get in the way of football.  It also meant three straight Super Bowls for the Miami Dolphins and the ultimate undefeated season. When we played pick-up football games on my street the rule was no team could be the Dolphins, because we all wanted to be the best team ever!  That was solved when I was 10 and the NFL announced that in 1976 two new teams would join the league—the Seattle Seahawks and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.  One day after school we picked sides and after that we had a regular match-up of Bucs and Seahawks on a near daily basis on our street—light-post to light-post, or end-zone to end-zone. Our games started the very day Sports Illustrated arrived in my mailbox with logos for these two new NFL teams on its cover. Our own little neighborhood rivalry that lasted for years.

My once-in-a-lifetime athletic moment occurred the same year that the Tampa Bay Bucs debuted with a dismal 0-14 record. It wasn’t in a neighborhood pick-up game but on the Miramar Optimist football field that was sandwiched between Henry D. Perry Middle School and the Florida Turnpike. The highway provided the sounds of speeding traffic in lieu of screaming fans, but the manicured grass field was pristine compared to my asphalt street lined with palm trees and cactus where each neighbor’s yard singularly added a new dimension to defensive scheming through its shrubbery, decoration or the placement of cars in the driveway. As the years quickly pass by me now the memory of that Saturday afternoon 40 plus years ago remains as clear and vivid as ever in my head. I can still smell the fresh cut grass, and feel the almost cool breeze I associate with football season as if it were yesterday. Yet, I can’t help but think that it was so long ago that maybe I am just remembering a dream, a vision, or a hope. Or perhaps I just made the whole think up? Maybe it wasn’t me at all?

So, it was a surprise to me when at a recent family gathering I had the occasion to see my “former” uncle. I say former because Richie is my aunt’s first husband, now long ago divorced. This of course makes him a ‘funerals and wedding relative’. You know, a relative you only see every four or five years on occasions that make you say, “Great to see you, sorry we only see each other....”  However, Richie was not just my new uncle when I was 11 years old; he was also my football coach.

At this particular family event, a celebration of his and my aunt’s granddaughter, we sat down at a picnic table, but instead of the usual small talk, Richie surprised me.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I had a dream about you the other night? I know you probably don’t remember any of this,” he continued. “When you were a kid I was your football coach.”

I shook my head slightly. “Of course I remembered, but you remember too?” I thought to myself.

“I had a dream about what you did one game.” He almost hesitated, as if afraid that I wouldn’t remember. “I was running right along with you in the dream, although that’s not how it really happened,” Richie said. I suspect my jaw dropped a bit when I heard this.  “It was one of those plays. The other team was driving towards a touchdown. You played linebacker, remember? There was a pass play into the end zone, and you jumped the receiver’s route, picked off the pass.”

Coaches Richard and Felix. I am the strapping young man
in the back row, far right.

For a moment I was speechless. It isn’t a dream. I knew it. I remembered every second. I remember the running back going into motion, I remember reading the quarterback and seeing the running back go into the slot. I remember anticipating his route, jumping in front of him at the right moment. I even remember the feel of the cow hide hitting my hands as I grabbed the football out of the air. I remember running to get out of the end zone and thinking I wouldn’t get far, that I wasn’t fast enough. I remember after the first ten or so yards realizing everyone was chasing me. I remember knowing I had to run faster than I’ve ever run before, faster than I am capable of running. I remember the feeling of being pursued the length of the field, feeling like I was flying, and eventually crossing the goal line and the official signaling a touchdown. I remember so well.

Richie continued, “When you scored that touchdown in that moment you were the center of the universe. Everyone ran to you to celebrate. Do you remember what I said to you? After everyone congratulated you and celebrated, I pulled you aside and I told you ‘to always remember this moment, never forget what you just did. Most people never get to feel what you just felt in their entire lives, and it could be the last time you ever experience this in your life’. Do you remember I told you to never forget this?” 

“Yes,” I said. “I remember it all.” I am sure my teammates have long forgotten, just as I’ve forgotten most of the details of that Optimist league football season so long ago. I am sure the quarterback who threw that interception has no memory of it.  But for me the memory of that 100-yard interception return for a touchdown a lifetime ago and that special feeling I felt as an 11 year old is something I carried with me, and I guess I still do. I am apparently coachable after all because of so many moments in my childhood, I never forgot that single moment.

It means even more now, just to know that it is a memory that I share with someone else in this universe. It makes it real, and not just to me apparently. It makes it important, even if only for two people who see each other at weddings and funerals.

“You remember,” Richie said, looking down, “makes my day…makes my day.”

Me too.

EPILOGUE

When I was 11, we had red uniforms and one of the kids on the team was a Buckeyes fan, so the coaches improvised helmet stickers to recognize when a player had an outstanding play or performance. One of the stars below represented my 100 yard interception return for a touchdown! After seeing Richie, I pulled out an old photo album that I haven't looked at in years, and I was pleasantly surprised to find these. 

Pick An Airport, Any Airport, or Flying Ain't what it Used to Be!

            I was numb from head to toe. The day was just beginning and the sun was already on its way down. The Washington Monument sat stoically silhouetted in the orange brightness. A tiny speck, an airplane, fell out of site beyond the concrete tower.

Rush hour traffic was dwindling, and the tourists were all safe in the Marriott and the Hilton having dinner. The politicians were attending cocktail functions, shaking hands and smiling.

We sputtered our little 1977 Toyota across the Potomac and past this and that monument until we reached the Mall. I swerved into the first open parking space and sat there, hands on steering wheel, relieved and exhausted.

Karolyn felt the same, maybe worse. But we were finally here, together. We sat for just a moment, without saying a word. The back of the Capital building, covered with metal scaffolding, sat directly parallel to my rusty old hatchback.

The air was thick, sky graying. It should have been raining, but the gray, blah sky just sat there mocking us as the sun crept downward.

As I opened the hatchback I knew it was useless. I checked the cooler and glanced at the spoiled salad and fruit that I bought at Food Giant the night before. The cheese looked o.k., the wine could be saved for later.

This was a special occasion. I hadn't seen Karolyn in three months, and I hoped everything would be perfect.

But instead it was like a bad dream. How can things have been ruined so badly?

Just then Karolyn emerged from the car. I walked to her, kissed her and hugged her.

"I am really hungry," she said.

I was starving too, so we headed in the direction of the Old Post Office, trying not to think about the day that just passed us by.

It had all started about five in the morning with a phone call that abruptly woke me up.

"Hello, Phil?"

"Yeah, what's up," I said after pausing to think if she was right.

She explained that she was at a stopover in Jacksonville, and would be coming into Baltimore/Washington International instead of National Airport.

I told her that was great because BWI is only five minutes from where I was staying. We mumbled something back and forth and then hung up.

Great, I thought as I clutched a big, soft pillow, I'll be able to sleep late.

An hour and a half later I was again awaken by Ma Bell's striking ring.

"Hello, Phil," she began hesitantly. "I am in Newark."

What the hell was she doing in New Jersey. Why the hell did the airline fly her past Washington National, over my apartment and past BWI?

"There's a mix up with the flights," she continued. "It's really chaotic."

She said she would have to sit around for a couple of hours in Newark until she can get on a flight to Dulles Airport in Virginia. All the other flights were full. The airport was jammed with people, the corridors were lined with limp passengers, waiting.

“I might be able to get on another flight, but for now I am stuck in Newark," she said.

If my plans had worked out we would be picnicking at the Mall or under the Washington Monument. I would tell her about all the places I would show her and she would be amazed at the capital city's beauty and mystique.

Instead, I was watching the Price is Right and she was sitting in the world's ugliest airport in New Jersey's dirtiest city.

I thought about getting in my car and heading north to pick her up, to save the day. But no, things would work out. She'll be here soon.

I knew it would take about an hour to get to Dulles even though I had no idea how to get there. After a few futile attempts to find out if she was on the plane as re-scheduled, I decided if I didn't leave now she would be stranded in another dingy airport. So I put my trust in the Beltway and my Japanese car.

My little Toyota had never gone so fast, and traffic was worse than I expected. As I crossed into Virginia, I thought what a wonderful city Washington is. Soon I could share it with Karolyn. Show her its finest qualities.

But where the hell was I going? I knew there was a road that linked with the Beltway that headed straight for Dulles. I just didn't know where it was or how to find it.

As I zig-zagged and weaved across the massive highway, I began to get anxious. Damn tourist almost cut me off. Wait there's a sign. It said something about Dulles Airport. Do I take the road? Is that the right one?

Oh, what the hell, I thought as I headed down the exit ramp into the swampy bowels of Virginia.

I had landed on a two lane highway. The maintenance road for Dulles, and the sole access road for a number of new subdivisions. It was getting late, I was in first gear, and I was pissed.

I finally arrived at the airport an hour after her flight was supposed to land. I pulled into short-term parking and looked for a spot. All I saw were hundreds of cars. Line after line of cars with no open spaces.

Finally, I parked at the end of the lot in a no parking zone which others had found before me.

I ran, faster than I have since high school gym class, towards the terminal. I headed for the baggage claim area. It was empty. The rotators weren't rotating and the baggage was all claimed.

I ran upstairs to the terminal, past two Hare Krishnas and through the metal detector. It was empty. No passengers, no workers, no Karolyn.

What the hell was going on?

An old lady wearing a hearing aide at the information booth paged her. The page echoed through the empty airport.

I ran back to the terminal and paused only when I got close to the peach clad Hare Krishnas. Please, please I thought, say something to me, give me a fucking flower, anything. And I'll knock you out with the mightiest blow your face will ever feel. But the bastards ignored me.

When I got to the terminal I noticed a door marked private. In the place where a nob should be was a combination lock. But the door was open, slightly.

I pushed it in and startled a couple of high school aged airline attendants.

"Listen assholes, my girlfriend was supposed to be on flight 106 from Newark. Was she on that flight or not?"

A polite young girl got up and checked for me. The others went back to their Doritos and Diet Coke.

"No she never got on the plane," said the girl.

"What, then where the hell is she?"

Maybe she got a flight to National Airport or BWI, I thought. It's the only possible solution. That or she's still in Newark.

"Can you page the other airports for her?" I asked demandingly.

She never did hear my page, and I didn't hear the one she placed for me at Dulles. Fortunately, the attendant she asked to page me was the same one the Dulles girl called to page her at National. Otherwise who knows what would have happened.

So about 20 frustrating minutes later I heard from Karolyn. "Where the hell are you?" I asked.

"National Airport, where are you?"

"Dulles, didn't you hear the... I've been looking for over an hour... I had to leave to get here.... are you o.k.?"

"Yes, I don't want to see another airport in my life. Please get me out of here. I didn't have time to call. They announced a flight to Washington and everybody ran. I am lucky I even got here."

"I'll be there in 20 minutes," I assured her knowing it would take close to an hour.

I found the Dulles Expressway and sped towards D.C. I wasn't sure how to get to the airport, so I followed an airport taxi to the right exit. I got lost for a moment, but then found my way after losing only a few minutes.

I finally arrived at the airport at 6 p.m., seven hours after her flight was to originally land at National Airport. Karolyn was waiting impatiently, sitting on the curb in front of the busy terminal.

I pulled up, she got in, we kissed, sighed and felt much, much better for the moment. I think we both felt like we had jet lag.

We walked towards the mini-mall/tourist trap in the Old Post Office building in the misty sunlight.

A burly man in an oversized army green jacket walked towards us. Karolyn grabbed my hand and watched as he passed us.

"Who is that?" she said.

"The homeless," I said as I turned my head to watch the man urinate on a bush in the Mall, in the shadow of the Capital of the United States.

We walked faster, almost triumphant now. We climbed the steps up to the Old Post Office where we could fill our empty stomachs with any number of delights.

A bum was coming down the steps towards us, looking for handouts. He could have been the twin of our urinating friend. I reached deep into my pocket and, with a wide grin, handed him a fist-load of change. It slowly began to rain.

"I finally feel good," I said to Karolyn. "We're finally together, now we can relax and enjoy what's left of the day."

We had dinner to the sounds of cool jazz, and viewed the capital from the top of the Post Office Tower. Everything was going to be fine, but we would never forget this day.

A few days later, after showing Karolyn the Capital -- the monuments, the Metro, the people -- we left for Miami together. But this time we relied on my Toyota and I-95. It took longer, but it sure didn't seem like it.

           No wonder Peoples' Express went out of business.

© 1987 Philip M. DiComo

EPILOGUE

Washington, D.C., is a great city, and I was fortunate to intern on Capital Hill one summer when the country's political systems were in the midst of change in the mid-80s. Tip O'Neill was stepping down as speaker of the House of Representatives, Ronald Reagan had swept the nation, and Newt Gingrinch was dismantling the collaborative nature of two-party politics.  However, the charm of a non-industrial, service and government-based major U.S. city was everywhere in D.C., and I really loved it. When I was ready to return home to Florida after my internship, my girlfriend (now wife) had planned to fly up so I could show her around the nation's capital prior to driving home together.  What should have been a quick plane flight turned into an all day affair involving all three major area airports. Also, did you notice a number of references that would be impossible today? Such as the referenced landmark in the essay which is now a TRUMP licensed hotel, and no longer an historic and tourist attraction! Or the ability for a non-passenger to access the passenger terminal? Or actual Hare Krishna's at an airport? All true. Of course, we didn't have cell phones either.

What we call the present is given shape by an Accumulation of the Past.

Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

Every day moments accumulate in our lives, and we experience them with great feeling and passion, or even indifference. But they make up who we are and who we become as individuals and human beings. As the years accumulate, our memories and feelings about those memories tend to fade. Yet, everything we are today is given shape by each and every experience, so it is good to acknowledge the memories and life-moments that have brought us to today.