Hey Pa, I Love You

How a brilliant movie triggered memories

I’ve come down with giardia for about the 18^th time, and when I’m sick, I turn to movies as my drug of choice. (A friend calls this ART - alternate reality therapy. I have to say, it’s effective).

As a result of the illness sapping my energy, Vital Animal News will be postponed this round.

Angel Studios

I just finished an amazing flick called Cabrini, about an Italian immigrant nun who was stunned to find her countrymen, especially children, living in squalid conditions in turn of the century New York City.

I’m always drawn to underdog stories, and this was an amazing one, with a lead actress unknown to me facing staggering challenges, both political and patriarchal. It was deeply inspiring and gave me further insight into what my father must have faced a tiny bit of, growing up.

An immigrant father

Pietro Falconero arrived on Staten Island as a seven year old, his immigration papers pinned to his jacket, accompanied only by his mom, who’d left Milwaukee to return to Italy to birth him in her home country. Neither spoke English, and he recalled chicken wire caging as they were “processed” as newly arriving foreigners.

I know little more than that about his childhood, but luckily, he had family waiting back in Milwaukee, and Noni (my grandmother) likely left NY in short order to make the rest of the journey to her established homestead.

He had older brothers there and a sister, so there was a family of support, unlike many of the street waifs portrayed in the movie.

Peter, as he was later called, had no middle name and was born on Christmas, so he always was a bit shortchanged on birthdays.

His was a classic “up by his own bootstraps” story of working through his school years, then night school once he was old enough to work full time, learning machining and engineering skills.

Assimilating

He married Marion, an English Norwegian girl from Racine, but never lost ties with his birth family who we visited regularly for amazing Italian meals and camaraderie. Noni never learned English but his brothers and sister acclimated well to America as did he, blending in successfully and living the American middle class dream.

When I came along (clearly an “oops child,” as my parents had raised a clutch of three much older than I) he was in his mid-forties and beyond playing catch or doing much one on one with me. I remember a Packers game and a Braves game with him, but camping and horsemanship was on my own, though he’d ridden horses as a young man.

Still, I was loved and well cared for and wanted for little as a child. I fondly remember summer Sundays at the beach (Lake Michigan’s white sand was but a 20 minute drive from our house, with a stop at A&W’s for a bucket of root beer on the way). And there were cookouts and neighborhood block parties in the summers, and one Buick after another as I grew up.

Americanizing the name

Before I was born, he’d changed the family name to Falconer, claiming most dropped the O anyway, but I’m convinced even more after seeing Cabrini that shedding his Italian heritage was likely a strategy to get ahead.

And get ahead he did, landing at Twin Disc Clutch Company and climbing the ranks to finally become “works manager,” where he oversaw a lot of the workings of the factory and traveled overseas periodically as they grew. When he was finally forced to retire at 68, it took three men to fill his shoes.

He spent his retirement days walking the dog, mowing the lawn, and making more trips to the store than seemed humanly possible. He was kind and affable and made friends with all the checkout girls and stock boys.

My son, the doctor

He was ever so proud of me when I graduated as the first doctor in the family and moved back to Wisconsin to join a practice an hour and a half north of my home town.

He was equally crest fallen and perplexed when an inner prompting moved me inexplicably to leave said practice for parts unknown after seven happy years there.

“What will you do?” he wondered aloud.

I wasn’t sure, but it appeared to be something pretty woo woo compared to what I had been doing.

Channeling? For humans? How could I explain that to my old man?

Well, that’s another chapter for another day, but suffice it to say, “Black Pete” (as his workers had lovingly called him) was relieved when I finally came around to veterinary medicine once more after a bumpy year of sorting things out in Hawaii.

I had become certified in veterinary acupuncture before he died and was honored to be allowed to give him a treatment as he lay in our home in a hospice setting, dying of prostate cancer, metastasized to his bones. He found it relieving of his endless thirst and it brought him some comfort. He was even able to decrease his pain meds, thanks to the needles.

Peter, Pietro Falconero, my dearest Pa, you were much loved by the many you touched during your 80 some years and I was lucky to have you as my father. Where ever you’ve landed, I’m sure you’re continuing to spread love and kindness.

Happy (belated) Father’s Day.