My Dad Loved a Good Story

About 3 years ago, I shared one of my dad’s WWII stories on my blog.  One particular place he cherished was a little town in Sicily called Caltanissetta.  There in the burned out remains of the town were two Italian children, Maria and Geno, who would come out every evening and sing to the soldiers in exchange for a little piece of candy.  My dad recalled their voices echoing off the walls and he marveled at how they could sing so beautifully when their world was literally crumbing around them.

Soon after I released that story and his many others, he passed away. He had made plans to give his body to medical science so that researchers could learn something from him, even in death.  Fast forward 3 years, and his ashes are returned to the family. We decided to scatter his remains in his childhood home of Tuckahoe and planned a big family brunch at the Tuckahoe Inn before going to the river to say our final goodbyes.

My dad, never one to let anyone else have the last word, made himself known in a few ways.  First, on my way down to the brunch, I got an email.  From the town historian of Caltanissetta.  He found my blog from 2011 and said he translated it into Italian, hoping someone would know Geno and Maria. He called my dad a “noble soul” and hoped he was still alive.  Then, my in-laws were walking on the boardwalk the day of the brunch and were approached by an old man who just wanted to chat. He used to own the Tuckahoe Inn. Before parting, he said, “oh, and my name is Harp, like the angel.”

My dad was always a storyteller. Still is, apparently.