My Papa was born a few years shy of the start of the Great Depression. His family emigrated from Sicily and he and his youngest sister were born in Brooklyn.
My father was the baby of 7 children, 5 sisters and one brother. His eldest sister was almost 20 years older than him.
Needless to say, they struggled in their new country. Since he was the youngest, he spent the most time with his parents, helping them when his older siblings left and got married.
Like most immigrants who arrived in NYC, his sisters took factory jobs in the garment district while later on he enlisted in the Army’s Air Force division.
Like most immigrants who arrived in NYC, his sisters took factory jobs in the garment district while later on he enlisted in the Army’s Air Force division.
As a child he worked with his father selling fruit on the street. He spent much of his time on the streets of Brooklyn, and learned quickly how to survive.
He ran errands for his mother, picking dandelion leaves for soup and carrying up blocks of ice to put in their icebox. Dad always called our refrigerator an icebox.
He was the only one in his family to leave Brooklyn and see the world. He taught men how to fly small planes, communicated through morse code and later worked for the FAA. He made a good salary at that time.
He ran errands for his mother, picking dandelion leaves for soup and carrying up blocks of ice to put in their icebox. Dad always called our refrigerator an icebox.
He was the only one in his family to leave Brooklyn and see the world. He taught men how to fly small planes, communicated through morse code and later worked for the FAA. He made a good salary at that time.
He was an immensely smart, funny, compassionate man.
Happy Father's Day, Pop.
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