“Wise up, Angela!” was his famous admonition. He loved tending his tomato garden, scooping up his gravy with Italian bread, dunking plain donuts in coffee, fiddling with jazzy tunes on the clarinet (when he wasn’t playing hymns in church), the New York Yankees, and most of all, God and his family.
My father, Giovanni Carro, was born in Brooklyn, NY to Italian immigrant parents. He was grateful to complete high school in 1944 and served in the US Army toward the end of WWII. Just a few years after the war, he fell madly in love with my Mom, who kept avoiding him like the plague, until she realized what a gem he was. They were married on November 19, 1950 and were together until Mom’s death on January 28, 1992.
John and Mary were blessed with four daughters. I am number three. When the fourth and last was born, Dad told Mom, “Okay, all girls. They’re all yours.” He was from the old school, thinking that he should have a kind of laissez-faire attitude when it came to the upbringing of females. That would be Mom’s domain. After all, we needed to be great models of femininity and virtue, and rightly so.
Discipline, however, was Dad’s domain. If Mom had any trouble with our behavior during the day, we were adequately warned that come 6pm, our lives and more aptly, our behinds, were at Dad’s mercy. We cringed when he came home, but we knew we deserved his wrath. Then we all sat down to supper, perhaps one of us sentenced to eat alone in our bedroom.
Dad was reserved and not openly affectionate. We heard his voice only when it bellowed to scold us. In spite of his strict authoritarian posture, we loved him dearly. Each of us sisters would compete to be the one solely up early to have breakfast with Daddy. Bread and butter, a folded slice of buttered white bread, dunked in coffee, was his favorite. Though I didn’t particularly care for it, I would eat it with joy just to have a few silent moments alone with him. He relished the company as well. Later that morning, one of us sisters would proudly say, “I had breakfast with Daddy.”
When I was in my late teens, I didn’t like my father. He’d slammed the door on one of my boyfriends, just as the guy was bringing me a bouquet of roses. Dad said, “It’s Christmas, what is HE doing here?” I cried and ran to my room. It was at this time that I blamed my father for everything that went wrong in my life. His lack of affection was why I was so shy and unsure of myself. It was his fault I had anxiety when asked to speak in front of class or when meeting new people.
With maturity comes the realization that we are accountable for ourselves. When we finally stop blaming environment for our refusal to correct our own iniquities, we’ve reached maturity. After having my own children, I saw my Dad as the epitome of love.
My former husband and I always struggled financially. We needed a new car but couldn’t afford one. My doorbell rang one day. I saw no one at the door, but there was an unmarked envelope in my mailbox. In it was a check for ten thousand dollars. There was a note that read: “ I cashed in some of my stocks. Why wait till I die to give you this? You may as well use it now! Love, Dad” He had dropped this in the mail and sped away. That’s Dad, I thought. He didn’t want the hoopla. He was a behind the scenes kind of guy. He wasn’t looking for praise or applause.
When Mom had cancer, he was her nurse. He didn’t even let his daughters know the half of her sufferings. He just prayed and took care of her. When she passed away, he was somewhat lost. To help him heal, he was at my house nearly every day after she was gone. This undemonstrative quiet man was hugging and playing with my children, his grandchildren. My boys were the sons he’d never had. They tinkered with him and watched him fix things around my house. Dad never asked what was broken, he just observed. He volunteered to baby-sit my 3-year-old daughter. How she loved her ‘Pam-Paw.’
Two and a half years after Mom’s death, on September 25, 1994, Dad also left us. He suffered a sudden, unexpected massive heart attack. I’d always thought that heart was just too broken to live without Mom.
My dad never craved recognition or reward, except for the reward he is enjoying now in heaven. But I would like to say a few words of thanks now just to honor this man whom my children, though very young when he passed, were so impressed with. I pray that my sons emulate him. I know they’ve learned from him.
Dad, you gave the job of parenting to Mom, but you molded me just as much as she did, maybe more. You gave me my first picture of my Heavenly Father. How else could I understand God without knowing you as my earthly father? Surely I couldn’t have grasped such an understanding without seeing pure love demonstrated to me all the days that you were here with us.
Dad, I never knew if I had pleased you, until two weeks before you died. That was when you sent me the loveliest birthday card I’d ever gotten from you, besides the sugary daddy’s little girl ones when I was five or younger. I know you spent time scrutinizing the card racks for the right one. That was your way. You were never superficial or hasty with words. You were a man of few words and I know the words expressed in that card came from your heart. In it, you told me how proud you were that I am your daughter. Well, I could not be who I am if not for your loving guidance as my father. My daughter has your Bible and she treasures it. Your first grandson, now 27, has posted you on his MySpace as one he can’t wait to meet—again.
Sometimes I still hear you saying, “Wise up, Angela!” I wish you were here to offer your carefully chosen words of wisdom. Thanks, Dad, and thank you Lord for blessing me with such a godly father.
