On The Silly Side by Jimmy Del Ponte

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I saw him go from dark brown hair to sparse white hair. I remember when he got a wiffle when my little brother and I had them. He became a scoutmaster and came to summer camp with the troop. It was a good feeling having dad along, especially since he could sign my merit badge requirements. Dad spent a few years doing the collection box at St. Clements church on Sunday.  After mass he would have breakfast in the Rectory with the priests. He was the one who got a truck and moved the piano out of the Convent and into the second floor of our house. The nuns said any one who can move it can have it. Dad got it, and my brother, myself, and my two sons learned to play on that old piano. He stopped helping out at the church when he became a Mason. He rose to illustrious heights within that organization. I’ll never forget the look of pride on his face when I became a Mason too.

He built a buggy for my brother and me out of an old wooden crate, shopping cartwheels, some planks, and 2-by-4’s. My brother and I would sit in it as he used a broomstick to push us all around the neighborhood.

Somehow he finagled a VIP tour of Fort Devens for the three of us boys. I don’t know who he told them he was, but they rolled out the red carpet for us. Or should I say the Fred carpet.

He took us to Norumbega Park where there is now the Newton Marriot. We had picnics there when the family was young. A few of those outings were in the category of “we are going on a picnic and we are going to have fun…damn it!”

I remember the three of us, my sister, brother, and me, all standing up on the huge back seat of his 1951 Mercury. When there was an abrupt stop, Dad’s arm would suddenly appear and hold us back. Maybe that was in the front seat, because he would have needed elastic arms to reach the back! There were many trips over to Elmwood Street to visit Grandma and Grandpa. In the summer we would feast on grapes and gooseberries from the yard. The house on Elmwood Street where my Dad was born (in the house) is still there, basically unchanged after all these years. All but one of my aunts were born inside that house. I was always impressed by the love that was shared by my uncle Joe (Dad’s brother) and his four sisters. It was a love that is still in their hearts. Although Dad and Uncle Joe are gone, we think of them and speak of them often. They both have three grandkids that they would be proud of. I hope my dad is proud of me too.

Dad would often start laughing even before the joke started when I told him I had a new one for him. We shared a sort of sarcastic type of humor. He also loved the huge sub sandwiches that Ross at McKinnon’s in Davis Square used to make. He would throw me a twenty dollar bill and say, “go down and get us one of those bombers from McKinnon’s.”

I recall how strong Dad was. The only one “physical” confrontation between us was when I had to hold his wrists so he couldn’t smack me. I don’t ever remember Dad hitting me. The threat was enough. Mom did his dirty work occasionally though.

Dad loved anything inexpensive or free. Mom used to get mad when he would bring a 20 pound hunk of cheese home that he said “fell off the truck.” Anytime I brought food or clothes home from the various events I would attend it was like he hit the number.

Dad’s bark was worse than his bite. He was happy if he could hang around Pat Connelly’s in Davis Square or drop into the Lion’s Den on Mass Ave. once in a while. When he passed away he didn’t leave one unpaid bill.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of him. I wish I had his technique, and his patience. The love he had for his brother was passed down to me and my brother. I can already see my own two sons carrying on the tradition. Family first. His favorite red checked shirt is still hanging in the closet upstairs.

I am trying very hard to be half the father my Dad was. I often ask him for patience. I especially love when one of his famous catch phrases comes out of my mouth. Last week I told my son that “someday the roof is going to fall in on you, young man!” He just laughed.

He bought me my first guitar at Raymond’s department store in Boston. He supported me in everything I ever did. He lent me money, made me agree to a weekly re-payment plan, and then told me to forget about it. The bank of Dad was awesome. I hope my kids feel the same way about me as I do about my dad.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. As usual, I wish you were here.