My Dad, Joseph C

 

   My Dad. A good man. A good son. A hard-working man.  A religious man. A frugal man. A great father. A great Grandpa. An adventurous man. A New Yorker.  An American-born son of Italian immigrants. An American.

Born in 1926 on Manhattan's upper west side, he remained in New York City during World War II, having volunteered in 1943 for military service. Less than perfect vision and fallen foot arches kept him from Army service, as many of his friends and schoolmates went from basic training to combat service.  By the late 1940s he had taken jobs from outside New York, traveling to points west such as Cincinnati, Ohio, and Peoria, Illinois; and a few more places in the Midwest.
   In 1951 he took a position with management in Pan American World Airways, his office located in Queens Plaza, Long Island City.  He would soon travel, as a bachelor, to Bermuda, having with him his Pan Am travel pass. He had attended work meetings and heard speak Pan Am president Juan Trippe and world-famous American aviator, Charles Lindbergh, who scouted out potential flight paths and destinations for Mr. Trippe.
   My Dad had flown on the Pan Am clipper planes that landed on the water of Bowery Bay at the Marine Air Terminal, now at LaGuardia Airport.  An older Pan Am colleague told him tales of rowing the U.S. Mail boats out to the clipper planes and large water craft during World War II and into the 1950s, in all weather conditions.
   In 1955, three years before Pan Am began the passenger jet age, he flew on a Pan Am twin propeller plane to Rome, Italy. My Dad was with two New York buddies of his, to include a man who later became my Uncle Rocky; the three were set loose in Roma.  Three young, on their way up, Americans traveling to Italy, and to Rome, the Eternal City.

   One evening, the fellows dined finely at Alfredo's, an acclaimed Italian restaurant in Rome.  The American gents were served the dish Fettucini Alfredo by Alfredo himself, actually, his son, Armando, “Alfredo II”.  It was an honor to be chosen by a restaurant's chef to taste a dish.
   Funny, my Dad imparted to us that it reminded him of the egg noodles and butter with some cheese my grandma, his mother, would feed him when he was sick.  My Dad, while in a very classy and influential restaurant, was unimpressed.  Never the snooty type, he thought that the Fettucine served by Alfredo was good, but not great.  Rocky began to prompt my Dad, perhaps with an elbow or two, to react well to the dish, as would be customary in a place of such exquisite stature. Finally "getting the message," my Dad feigned delight and said to Alfredo something along the lines  of "magnifico!" 
The other restaurant patrons applauded at the joyful spectacle of it all.  When in Rome...

   You could get roughly removed from the dining establishment if you are loath to graciously acknowledge the master chef.  It was 1955 Italy, after all. Not a few former and defeated Fascist Italians may have still scorned the Americans, yet I may safely assume that most Italians were happy as heck to have the Americans spend their money and help to build their war-ravaged country.
   And I am sure the Italian ladies were attracted to Joe, and Rocky, and the other guy.  His name may be in the family archives still.  There are stories I could never extract from my Dad pertaining to his bachelor days, and noteworthy family incidents of yore.  Having passed away in 2014, my Dad proverbially and literally took those stories to the grave.
   In June 1958 he married my Mom, Brooklyn-born "C."  They went to Paris, France on their Honeymoon, of which I have recently had home movies of digitized from 16mm film reels to a digital flash drive.

My Dad, the traveler.
Well, Dad and Mom had no children for the first 2 1/2 years of their marriage. Then, in April 1961, C. and J. C. took in to their handsome suburban home two of the cutest kids in recorded history, Loretta, age 4, and Richard, just 9 months old.  You see, their biological parents could not hold the family together so their blood father, C., placed his children into the Angel Guardian Home, a Catholic home for children awaiting foster care or adoption, in Brooklyn, N.Y.  The magnificence of these two young children, especially the infant, had for J. and C. become an instant family.  Loretta, at 4 years, who was old enough to know, kept questioning our new foster parents, "What about Steven?"  "What about Steven?"
   Upon further inquiry, Loretta had enlightened our foster parents that we had an older brother, Steven!  Mom and Dad contacted the AGH and they located Steve, who had been placed in a different foster family already. 
Loretta saved Steve!  Hurrah!  The three M. kids were raised in the Long Island suburbs by Connie and Joe. Steve arrived at our suburban home, hardly beknownst to me, in August 1961.  Instant family, indeed.
  Now that the family was intact, we became quite the traveling show, not the Von Trapp singers, but the C.'s and M.'s ready for any adventure.
   My Dad's quest to raise his children under God and to provide us with education through travel was underway.  One trip by car to Washington, D.C., at age 12, my Dad put me in the front seat with him and effectively forced me to navigate. On the job training. Get tough or literally get lost.  My personal mantra now is "Have map*, will travel."  [*And a leg wallet and a boot knife, depending upon your itinerary.]
   My Dad was the man I wanted to be like. Kind but firm, loving but expecting you to do your chores, be good to your Mother, and do your homework. All of which I didn't do at all times.
   His love of his wife, his life, family, home, country and God made him the best man I have ever known.  His sense of duty first, and his sense of adventure brought me to places that helped to shape me into the man I am today.

   My Dad is ever present in me, in my heart, in my sense of direction, and in my feet.  I had the best upbringing.  Any faults that I have or any errors I’ve ever made as an adult, are all on me.  They did a pretty good job raising us.  All credit goes to them.

   C. and J., my foster parents, the only parents that I ever knew, allowed the travel bug to bite me hard, and often.  May the antidote never be administered, and never spoken of.   
Hey kids, just 10 miles from here is the 3rd largest hairball ever regurgitated by a cat.  You want to see it? 
YAY!!!
  

Richard Melnick
Astoria, N.Y.
Sep. 7, 2021.