Life in the Ville by Jimmy Del Ponte

It doesn’t have to be near Father’s Day to talk about dads.

I started thinking about my dad recently when my boys were back home rehearsing with their band this past weekend. I love when the boys are both home. Their band, Mallcops, has a show coming up February 2 at The Democracy Center, 45 Mount Auburn St., Cambridge. Having the kids back at the house got me thinking of my dad.

My dad was fearless and dedicated like most fathers back then. He grew up in the ‘20’s, went to war and came back to start a family in Somerville in 1951. He bought a house a few minutes away from where he was born off Holland St.

Seems like yesterday that dad brought me and my brother and sister to the Engine 7 fire station on Highland Ave. My Uncle Joe DelPonte was a fireman and we got the royal treatment from him and his fireman friends.

Shortly after we bought our house in 1960, there was an alarm rung for the house two doors down from ours. My uncle thought it was our house and launched into, “I told him not to buy that (exp) place!”

My dad was a wheeler dealer. Me, dad and my brother Joe were being driven around Fort Devans in a staff car and given the red carpet. Why? Because dad told them he was Alderman DelPonte from Somerville! Dad later became a scoutmaster and came on free weeklong camping trips with me and my brother. It was cool and embarrassing at the same time. Memories! Dad was popular enough in the city to have been mayor. As long as his office was in The Supreme Deli, formerly at the corner of Elm St. and Chester St. That’s where dad held court daily.

When I started guitar lessons, dad picked up a guitar from a fellow patron at The Coronet, now Redbones. He started taking guitar lessons with me. We played together in our backyard a few times.

I remember when there was a small alley next to the Stop & Shop in Davis Square, where broken shopping carts were kept. The back wheels of those old shopping carts were perfect for making go-carts and buggies. Dad never asked where the buggy wheels came from as he helped build our go-cart.

It was very traumatic for me when at 6 years old we moved from Pearson Ave. to the Davis Square area. To me, it was a million miles away. The new neighborhood came with a real bona fide bully. He had derogatory Italian names for my brother and me, and my mother, a very good judge of character nicknamed him “Jerko.”

Jerko’s jets were cooled after a couple of visits from my cousin Butch. Nuff said.

My dad was ferociously proud of his Italian heritage. One day, at a dinner party with other neighbors, the hostess introduced my mom and dad as their “Guinea friends.” Dad never spoke to them again and they were lucky he didn’t flip out on them.

Family dinners at The Continental on Somerville Ave. were memorable. Pizza and orange soda! Take out at Ball Square Fish on Fridays were the best. Frank and his kids became friends.

Dad loved Ross Blouin’s sub sandwiches from McKinnon’s. Dad called them “bombers.”

When doctors determined that dad had to remove salt from his diet, my sister bought saltine crackers with no salt. My father could be seen licking the crackers and sprinkling on salt from the saltshaker. He was a riot, Alice.

My boys were here at the ranch (as Dad called it) all weekend and I couldn’t have been happier. I moved back with my dad for a few years before I got married. He was getting up there in years and he called me his “right hand man.” Unfortunately, he never lived to see our wedding or his grandsons, but dad’s presence in this house is very strong and we talk about him often. Luckily, one of my sons also lives with me and I couldn’t be happier. He’s now my tight hand man.

it was great having the boys back at home, making snacks, playing music and bringing a smile to the old man. My sons and The Patriots made it a very good weekend.