(In honor of Father’s Day, I’m reposting this piece that I wrote 20 years ago but first published here in February.)
(An old item that comes to mind when I find myself missing Papa. I wrote this for him at the time. In this 1924 photo, my father Ettore is center, uncle Salvatore left, uncle Francesco right.)
I write on the eve of Columbus Day, a day with personal meaning unlike mere national holidays, a day for reflection on more than salutary celebration of a new world conceived, a day I respectfully decline to debate of political correctness and revisionist Columbian history. You see, it is the anniversary of my father’s arrival in America, the day he transplanted my own roots in this most fortunate soil of freedom.
It was seventy years ago when Ettore Paolo Lenzi, a tall, robust, thirteen-year-old boy, looking much like my handsome son does today, brushed the harbor blown hair from his large brown eyes and gazed anxiously through the cold, gray New York mist at Lady…
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