It’s hard to believe, but it’s been a full six years since Dad died: November 10, 2001. And although the loss of anyone brings unforeseen changes, almost immediately our lives and our family were infused with new life. Weddings, funerals, surgeries, babies, and houses, just to name a few, and these changes neither remain nor depart as time passes. Impermanence becomes our only truth, and with this truth we learn to live each moment to its fullest.
I try to imagine Dad in his younger years, embracing the joy of new life upon the birth of his children, and completely oblivious to their mortality as well as his own. Life is finite, our days numbered and years countable. We’re dying from the day we’re born, yet we confront death as if we deserve better, as if we’ve sufficiently failed and this is our sentence.
My relationship with Dad did not rest on the deepest of levels, so I don’t really know how he felt about death, or if he was afraid. But even if he felt strapped with a fast approaching end, or sentenced by an uncontrollable power, I can firmly say that in no way did he fail. Dad was a matter-of-fact guy when it came to the serious issues: you do what you gotta do and be done with it. When Rob was suspended from high school for fighting, Dad wasn’t immediately angered by his behavior. Nope, Mom did the grounding that time. Dad was noticeable proud that his son had stood up for himself against a punk that repeatedly made fun of him. You do what you gotta do and be done with it.
One area our relationship did flourish was in the expectation of pristine academic performance. It didn’t matter how much I excelled in school or how monotonous my report cards looked, Dad wanted better. It took me years to realize, even while writing at this moment, that Dad was expecting out of me what I expected from myself. Many times I confused this truth and attributed some of my stress to Dad setting such a high bar, until I realized that it wasn’t Dad who set the bar high, it was myself. But we’d all be damned if Dad was going to let one of his sons regress or repeatedly falter with observed knowledge of his sons’ potential. Dad accepted absolutely no less than “two steps forward, one step back”, and he was sure to tell you if you’d taken that one step back. Thankfully I had such a demanding father who knew well that his sons would play their part in making this world a better place: Scott, by serving his country in the Army; Rob, by serving public health needs in the hospital; and I, by educating and empowering our community’s youth.
Looking back on all the ups and downs in my childhood and relationship with Dad, and on all our good and bad decisions since his death, I know that Dad started a fire of dignity, of integrity, of duty, and of respect. His family will pass this on to future generations, by blood, friendship and service to others. For that is the fire that Francis John Ramacciotti, Jr., started, and that’s the fire that will burn as an eternal flame, both as a tribute to Dad, and as obligation to loved ones everywhere.
So Dad, if you’re reading this, and I imagine you are, I would like to thank you for everything you’ve given to us. You taught us to serve and to quit whining. You taught us to fight through all our hurt because a mile gained through pain is a lesson never forgotten. You taught us that dinner around the table is not a punishment – it’s what makes a family, a family. You taught us that every decision has a consequence, and while some are forgotten, the others form our reputation. And though you knew nothing of blogs, you taught us how to appreciate, and more importantly, how to recognize those who change our lives. Here’s to you, Dad – you changed my life and I love you for that.
