February 13, 1918

Ninety five years ago today, my father was born. He was born to two Italian immigrants who had left their rural life on the Adriatic Sea to come to America, to seek their fortune, and a new life.  My grand parents worked hard. My grandfather dug graves, worked on the railroad, and finally saved enough money to buy a small corner grocery store. My father, who would have been 95 years old today, grew up in small grocery stores. He was always able to get a soda or an extra ice cream. He used to stop and play ball when he was supposed to be delivering groceries and his parents would fuss at him when he got back.

At the age of 5 his parents bought him his first saxophone. By age 8 he was playing on the radio and also in the Italian church’s marching band. He didn’t stop playing music for the rest of his life.

Music saved his life. During WWII he spent almost four years in the South Pacific, mostly on the continent of Australia. He was stringing telegraph and telephone lines and avoiding the frequent Japanese air raids for his first year or so, but one day an officer approached him. He had heard my father played saxophone and they needed a first chair sax player for the Army band. They also needed someone who knew all of the popular tunes and since my dad had been playing pretty much all his life he would be a good fit for the band. My grandmother shipped his horn to him in Australia all of the way from Washington D.C. Some how it arrived all in one piece and Dad joined the Army band. The first time he played with them he told me he was extremely nervous. He didn’t think he was good enough to be first chair. But he did alright and stayed in the Army band until he got out in 1945. Lots of the fellows in his Army unit didn’t make it. Some were even captured by the Japanese. That’s why I have always said that music saved my dad’s life.

My father said that 13 was his lucky number because he was born on the 13th. In addition, he always said that he was born on a Friday the 13th. I looked it up, and my father was born on a Wednesday, just like today.

He has been gone 10 years this year. There is plenty he has missed and often I seem to forget he is gone. But I still talk to him and ask his advice, and somewhere deep inside, I sometimes can hear him answer. Happy Birthday, Dad.