I remember him well as a young boy looking up to him as sons do their fathers. I remember as a young boy of 3 devilishly playing in our coal bin only to imagine some cosmic escape on the wings of Flash Gordon as I sullied myself from the soot. For some reason or other, I miraculously escaped his hand being hermetically sealed against my bottom. It was against his nature to use his hand for disciplinary correction. I only remember once when I was about 6 that his wrath was tested that I received a spanking; and even then it wasn't of any noteworthy proportion and unlike the cartoon characters depicted in those days, I was able to sit down after the experience. I can remember even trying to put the proverbial pillow on my backside as to lessen the blow.
I remember him buying my first bicycle-a 3 speed Italian Road bike made by Bianchi. I know we didn't have Consumer Reports back then but that bike outclassed the Schwinn by a hundredfold. Being of Italian heritage, it was going to be THE only bike for his son. I even remember what the cost of it was-$69. In 1958, that very well could have been a fourth of his paycheck. Being the only son had it's ranking privileges though and while mom's child bearing days were over, I was the last of the Bello clan to carry on the family name. Nothing was going to be too good for me, plus being the baby of the family didn't hurt either. In addition, I had two older sisters. Why....it was like the second coming of Christ.....well....not really, but you get the picture.
What happens to young sons as they get older and the bond or faint whisper of separation from their roots begins to flourish, that innocence begins to deteriorate. Or was it his inner demons that began to surface and the perils of raising a family became rooted in the bottle? Was the embarrassment of marrying a divorced woman with a child too much for him to muster? His lack or inability to relinquish those demons became paramount and his frustration exacerbated the problem. Gone were those childlike games of catch, strolls hand in hand at the zoo, and the surprise gifts on paydays. They were regrettably replaced by suspicion and contempt and a ridiculously feral attack on his family. As this behavior escalated, the admonishments became more directed at me. Now being the only son, had it's drawbacks. The years sped by and conciliatory acts of redemption were lethargic. Fleeting successes refused to penetrate my anger. And then, almost miraculously, almost ordained by heaven, he quit. No longer relying on the crutch of the bottle, his demeanor and attitude changed. Those wasted years of separation seemed too distant and that father-son loss began to fade, only to replaced cruelly by another invader; one that would eventually claim him. It was one that had sequestered itself and overlooked by others. All to late in the end to really intervene, his last 26 days of life were spent in the hospital. We became closer than ever as I felt his life slipping through my hands. Whatever previous efforts at atonement had failed, it was his love and presence that I knew were always there. The haunting words, "if you build it, he will come", encompassed my mind. I sat there with my sister that night, in the dark, as he lapsed in and out of consciousness, not really knowing if I was there. I hope in some small way, he knew that I was there to "ease his pain". "Hey Dad, you wanna have catch?" Happy Father's Day,
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