I Admire You, Dad, And Here's Why

by John Ettorre

If you’re at all like me, it probably took you quite awhile to realize how much you’ve absorbed from your father.

My dad, now a semi-retired architect, always loved cities. And of course he loved the buildings in them, particularly the architecturally significant ones. So whenever the family traveled to a new city on summer vacation, we had a ritual. Dad and his three sons would make a slow tour of the interesting buildings, while my mom and sister would go shopping.

Years later, I’d chuckle over a scene from the Woody Allen movie Hannah and Her Sisters, in which one character, an architect played by Sam Waterston, tries to impress a couple of female caterers by taking them on a whirlwind architectural tour of New York, to the accompaniment of rousing classical music. That was the cinematic version of my childhood, minus the caterers and classical music.

Naturally, we mostly rolled our eyes through the entire exercise at the time. But you can probably guess where this story ends: I now love cities and their exquisite buildings and never tire of touring a new (or old) one. Things just have a way of rubbing off.

But that’s hardly the only way in which Dad has rubbed off on me.

There was a time when it seemed that nearly everywhere I looked, there were reminders of his work and his life and of its echoes upon mine. I remember an editor once paying me what I considered the ultimate compliment. "Your stories are so carefully crafted," he said, half complaining, "that I can barely change a word. It would be like taking a brick out of a building. The whole thing could come crashing down." The obvious parallels to architecture left me stunned, then pleased. And then I thought: There he is again.

And yet writers are infamous for gathering others’ stories while neglecting their own.

I never knew my dad had played a part in designing a local hospital until the day when he came to require its care as a patient. There he was in the intensive care unit, weak from having just undergone heart-bypass surgery. He could barely summon the breath to whisper, and yet he began trying to tell me something. I bent over his bed to listen.

"The last time my heart beat this fast at this place was the day they were beginning to build it." It turns out that he’d pushed the envelope on the curved design for the front entrance, and he was concerned that his calculations might not prove workable when construction began. They did.

Though I’ve never told him this, I’m proud of my father for several reasons. Chief among them is his work ethic, his stubborn will to overcome obstacles. And there were certainly plenty of those for a mid-century immigrant.

In the early 1950s, he left his home in Italy as a young man, first landing in Canada for a time, where he took a job on the assembly line in an auto plant. He spoke almost no English. Years later, he told me that his language limitations caused him to nearly come to blows with a supervisor. The fellow was just trying to give him some direction, but my dad, failing to understand him, interpreted him as having a hostile intent. He picked up a wrench in self-protection and nearly bashed the poor guy. And yet barely a decade later, he had somehow managed to make it into his chosen field.

His work ethic came into play again in the 1970s, when I was otherwise occupied by my career as a high school student. While he had worked in architectural firms for many years, as a draftsman, he still hadn’t attained the full measure of his profession. He hadn’t taken the tests to win state certification, and so he wasn’t yet an architect.

And so for three years, while continuing to work all day at the office, he would retire to the basement most evenings and weekends, studying dense volumes on building codes and the like. Finally, nearing 50, he took the test and passed. He had finally reached his lifelong dream. He was a fully credentialed architect, something he had dreamed of as a young man, something that impelled him, an only child, to board a ship for a new continent and leave behind all that he knew and loved.

Last month, my dad turned 79. I know that because I have my own rituals to help me remember his birth year: He was born the same year that Babe Ruth hit 60 home runs. When your father reaches such an age, you don’t know how many more Father’s Days you’ll have left to tell him what you think. Before you can tell him you love him. And why.

So here goes, Dad. Because you always went for it. Because you followed your dreams, but didn’t marinate in your disappointments. Because you made something of yourself, and in the process helped me to do the same. Only my path was easier, because yours was so hard.

For all of that, and so much more, happy Father’s Day, Dad.

John Ettorre is a Cleveland-based writer and editor whose writing has appeared in more than 70 publications. To reach John, send e-mail to: jettorre@voyager.net or call him at (216) 382-6548.