Me, Dad and Bogey

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I turned on Turner Classic Movies (TCM) the other night and saw that “Casablanca” was on. I love black and white movies. Truth be told I love most old movies, although I am partial to musicals.  Casablanca is a classic, albeit nonmusical, but still an amazing movie. When one of the classics comes on, I usually try to remember to call my father, who also loved old movies. In fact, my brothers and I often joked that Dad didn’t like any movie post-1950 with the possible exception of “The Passion of the Christ”. He and I shared that passion of old movies and in many ways, of Christ, but that’s a post for another day.

I would call Dad because after Mom died, he established a very strict routine for himself to be sure he got out of bed each morning and kept himself going. I knew what time he ate dinner, when he watched TV and what he watched, when he took his shower, when he had his nightly snack, when he went for his walk, when he watched the Yankee games etc. Always organized and driven by routine, Dad became even more so after Mom died.  Anyway, I knew at the time Casablanca was on, Dad would be watching the Yanks on the west coast and not wanting him to miss it, I would call him and say “Hey…put on TCM, Bogey’s on” and he would say “Thanks honey…. the Yanks don’t have it tonight anyway” and he would switch to TCM. Often, we would call each other during the movie to discuss a part we particularly liked and it was always an enjoyable night. In all honesty, sometimes I didn’t watch it all the way through, but if Dad called, I would talk to him about his favorite part and pretend I just saw it too. The fact that I had almost every classic movie memorized and could recite each line verbatim, didn’t hurt in that instance! We would discuss a scene, sometimes argue its merit but always enjoy our discussion. Sometimes we would even say goodnight a la Bogey, “Here’s looking at you kid”. It was kind of our thing. Which brings me to the other night.

I was channel surfing when I caught Bogey’s face on the screen. Immediately my hand reached for my phone to call Dad, but then, it just  froze on the keypad, as I realized Dad was no longer there to receive my call. But for a glorious 2 seconds, I smiled and started to call before reality, with the same voracity of a rip tide tearing into a gentle ocean current set in, and with it, that joy was gone…. just like Dad.

My father left us in June of 2020, the year of COVID-19 and lockdowns. While he didn’t pass away from COVID, that heinous virus did affect us all. Dad was diagnosed with advanced colon cancer that had metastasized to his liver. He was almost 94. There was not much they could do. The irony is that Dad was diagnosed with a type of lymphoma over 20 years earlier and he beat that, which only made this diagnosis all the more cruel. Our plan was to spend as much time with him as possible for however many months he had left. My brother Frank was going to fly in from California, I was going to drive up from VA and we would join Mike as we surrounded Dad with all the love we could give him. For a little bit of time at least, we wanted to help him relive the joyful memories from happier times. Unfortunately COVID-19 had other plans.  Before we could mobilize, the country was in lockdown and we were not allowed to be near Dad.  

 My brother Mike would check on him each day, but was forced to sit on the landing while Dad sat in the living room, maintaining social distancing. When Dad was taken to the hospital, he was there alone, due to COVID restrictions. It was only at the end, the last four days, that my brothers and I were allowed in for a few hours. I am forever thankful for that time, as it allowed us to be with him when Mom took him home. I could go on endlessly about how infuriating it was to see COVID evolve into a study in contradictions. My Dad, who was a WWII veteran and staunch Catholic could not even have a funeral. I wanted him to have a mass at our parish church and full military honors, as befitted his “Greatest Generation” status, but instead, we were given a maximum of 10 people graveside. I tried not to be bitter as I saw businesses that were allowed to remain open. I could shop at COSTCO or a liquor store and somehow COVID was not a factor. Kids from all over the country swarmed the beaches at spring break and somehow that was ignored.  Thousands could gather in the streets to protest and COVID was apparently not an issue.  Yet somehow COVID would  wreak havoc should a 94-year-old WWII veteran have a small mass in a church in small town NJ.  But this is not a post about my father’s death being caught up in COVID times. This is a post about my father and me and TCM.

This movie and my almost phone call were so significant because it was the first time I actually forgot for a brief amount of time, that Dad was gone.  Prior to that, I was consuming pain for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He was my last thought as I closed my eyes each night and my first thought when I opened them in the morning, beginning and ending each day with a hollow, empty pain that reverberated throughout my heart and into the depths of my soul. My father was my hero, my own superman. He was the one who told me I was beautiful when I went through the most awkward of adolescences and again when I went through the most painful of divorces and felt anything but. Dad gave me advice, sometimes not what I wanted to hear, but always honest and heartfelt. Dad supported and comforted me when I was down and rejoiced and celebrated with me when I was happy. When I had to go back to grad school after my divorce because I needed a higher paying job with benefits, Dad knew how tough it was for me to be in my 50’s and return to school, while working full time and caring for my sons. When I finished, he was so proud of and happy for me, he organized a surprise party for me up in NJ. He asked to see my transcript which he called my “report card”, and hung it on the refrigerator, just as he did when I was in Elementary School. It was still there, when we went up to clean out our house after his death.  I could go on about what an amazing man he was and at some point, in the future I will. But this is about two people joined by love and TCM.

Once I realized Dad would not answer that call, I started thinking of all the other times I called him about movies. When I would visit him over the summer or at Christmas, we watched all the oldies together and would even sing along with the some of the musicals.  When Mom was still alive, she would stick her head in the door and mutter “You two are nuts”, but smile and shake her head at our antics. I remembered him explaining why Frank Sinatra’s version of “Ol’ Man River” was inferior to other versions. He waxed poetic about “Holiday Inn” and told me how he and his friends created a club in his friend’s basement back in the Bronx, where they celebrated each holiday similar to the plot in the movie. He would complain that his all time favorite movie, Gregory Peck’s “Keys to the Kingdom” was hardly on anymore. We would both get a little teary-eyed but never admit it when we watched Spencer Tracy and Elizabeth Taylor in “Father of the Bride”. But I think my favorite TCM induced memory with Dad occurred about 20 years ago when I was up visiting my parents after my grandmother had passed away.

To understand this story, you have to first know that after my grandfather died, my grandmother and her cat Morgan, moved in with my parents.  Now my father loved most animals, especially dogs, but always maintained that he hated cats. To his credit, when Grandma moved in, he accepted Morgan, didn’t love him, but tolerated his presence. Actually, being a cat, perhaps it was Morgan who tolerated my father’s presence. We’ll never know, but my grandmother knew that Dad was not a cat lover and said when she died, she wanted Morgan euthanized and buried with her, so as not to be a burden on Dad!! Morgan of course gave a shocked and angry “Meow” to that!

Of course, none of us, including Dad, had any intention of ending the life of a heathy cat prematurely. Morgan would live out all of his nine lives with my parents after Grandma passed away. When that ninth life finally caught up with him, my mother suggested we fulfill Grandma’s wishes and bury his ashes at her grave.

Now, mind you, my grandparents are in a mausoleum up on a hill, so there is no grave per se. There is however, a little strip of earth across from it, where we can plant flowers or little bushes. So, we thought we would put Morgan among the daffodils. Sounded like a solid plan. As we drove down to the cemetery, almost an hour away, the skies opened up and it started to pour. I suggested we save this for another day, but Dad insisted we “get this over with”. When Dad had his mind made up about something, there was no dissuading him, no matter how absurd the situation. So onward we went. We arrived at the cemetery and all got out with big golf umbrellas to have the “ceremony”.  I held one over Dad as he dug the hole for Morgan’s ashes. Three minutes into the dig, the rain shifted sideways, making sure every stitch of clothing we had on was drenched.  Mom retreated back to the car while Dad and I finished up.  As soon as Mom was back in the car, Dad said “Let’s just do this” and poured the ashes into the hole.  Unfortunately, between the shifting wind and the downpour, we watched most of Morgan’s ashes either blow away or get carried downstream by the rivulets of rain.  We justified it by remembering how much Morgan liked to wander, so decided it was fitting for him to wander all over the cemetery now. We of course told Mom all was well. Yes, we told a little while lie, proving in my Dad’s case at least, that even saints can lie for the greater good.

Of course, as soon as we got back to the car the rain started letting up, so we decided to go to lunch in a quaint, nearby town.  After drying off with the hand dryers in the restrooms, we all had a nice lunch and shared some warm memories of my grandparents and poor Morgan, who was probably still winding his way down the hill at the cemetery toward route 35. They had some cute shops in the town and Mom, a self-avowed and non-apologetic shopaholic, wanted to “browse”. Dad rolled his eyes and said he would catch up with us “in a bit”, leaving Mom and me in search of items we didn’t need, to spend money we didn’t have, side-stepping the many puddles still dotting the streets from the earlier downpour. As we walked down the street, suddenly I heard some loud splashing. I turned just as Dad leapt from a puddle onto the base of a lamppost.  He twirled around it singing “Singing in the rain, I’m singing in the rain”. He and I burst out laughing. Mom tried not to laugh as she muttered “You’re a horse’s ass”.  I can’t tell you how much that singular memory makes me smile. 

That smile of a memory, was buried under so much heartbreak that I had forgotten it. The moment I reached out to call Dad about “Casablanca” and realized he was gone, while so painful,  triggered all the other times I called him and many of those memories were not so  painful, nor painful at all. They were funny, and joyful and made my heart croon like Bing Crosby in “Holiday Inn”.  It was at that moment, I was no longer afraid to think about my hero, my Dad. It was that night I realized; his memory would not always hurt. What a life changing epiphany! As soon as it hit me, I cried out loud, this time with relief. I felt as though I had part of my Dad back.  A few days later, I called to wish my Aunt Rosemarie a happy birthday and told her about the “Singing in the Rain” memory. We both had a good laugh and that triggered some fun memories on her part.  Toward the end of our conversation, she said “Aren’t we so lucky to have these memories?”. She was right and those memories made me no longer afraid to think about my Dad, Frank Palmieri, father extraordinaire, but rather look forward to remembering this most amazing of men and the special relationship we shared. It took me all this time, almost a year after his death,  but I am finally able to talk and write about Dad again without grimacing at the sting in my heart. In fact, more often than not these days, those thoughts make me smile.

 I am so I thankful that I found those memories, those snapshots of the heart.  Or I guess, more likely, they found me again, on a warm night in April, on TCM, watching Bogey in “Casablanca”.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine”, when Bogey spoke those words I smiled, as I paraphrased them in my own mind. “Of all the families, in all the towns, in all the world, I fell into his”. At that moment, I realized how truly blessed I was and am. “Play it again Sam”….and again and again and……