by Barry Girolamo

Created on: October 13, 2009   Last Updated: October 14, 2009

My father was brought to this country by my Grandparents via Ellis Island from Italy in 1929. He was seven years old. They settled in an enclave of Italian speaking immigrants in Oyster Bay, Long Island, New York, the home of Teddy Roosevelt. He lived through the depression, but not having anything to begin with helped, because it was just a normal way of life for them. My father was called WOP(Without papers)even though he came to this country legally, and had all of his papers in order. It was just the discrimination of the times, and he was in fist fights almost daily, defending his right to exist.

He had three younger brothers, and my grandfather worked as a laborer to support his family, and didn't stop working until he came down with Parkinson's disease and could no longer do so. When WWII came along, my father volunteered, as so many others did, and marched through Europe hunting down the Nazis helping to bring Hitler to justice. He served as a cannoneer, and his job was to scout out the enemy, and radio back their position. A very risky endeavor, to put it mildly. But he served without complaint, and never much talked about his experiences to us, wanting to shield his family from what he had to endure. I asked him once, when he was well into his eighties, as to whether or not he thought of himself as a hero, as he certainly was. He thought about it for a minute, and then said to me, " You know, some of us just went and did our jobs, and if we were lucky, we came home. We left the heroes on the beaches and battlefields." And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving me to reflect on how most of his generation, "The Greatest Generation", viewed what they had accomplished. They saved the free world from the tyranny of Hitler, and yet they looked upon it more as an obligation, not a risk to be shunned or avoided. What an awesome lot they were.

After the war, he went on to college, and worked until he was forced into retirement as a public school teacher at the age of sixty five. None of this fifty five and out baloney like they have now. And during his last year of teaching, he made a whopping $48,000.00 for the year. They had only one superintendent for his school district, and he worked hard for his money. I recently ran into one of his ex-students, some forty five years after he had been in my father's classroom, and he told me that my father was one of "those" teachers, who's lessons stayed with you for life. "I'll never forget the influence he had upon my life," he told me. Neither will I, I thought to myself.

On August twenty fourth, 2009, my father passed on due to complications from prostate cancer, and just being old, I guess. He let me know, as he was lying in his hospital bed after having suffered from a heart attack and a stroke, that he'd had enough. You see, I had been his caregiver these last five years, and he had lived with my family and I for some time, and we worked and fought together to give him the quality of life I felt he deserved. In the end, it's always the same. The quality of life is no longer there, and neither is the will to continue. He had led a good long life, and I am very proud to be his son. He left me with quite a legacy, and a big pair of shoes to try to fill. I had to make the tough decision to let him go, to grant him his last wish. He wanted no feeding tubes or machines.

I have dealt with his death as do most. You grieve, you get mad, and with time, you learn to accept that which we cannot control. I will miss my Dad. He was my father, my teacher, and my best friend. May he rest in peace.

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