My father loved my mom. Wholly and completely. Just the other day, as they were discussing the thousandth different place they were going to move to in retirement – my mom, Linda, asked my dad if he would be happy living in Rome, cape cod, walkable Bronxville, who knows where – and he just said “I will be happy living anywhere as long as you are with me.”
My father loved his children so much. He always did what he had to do – stand in on the drums, make it to 5a.m. wrestling practices, or even drive – as he put it – somewhere in the wastelands of I-84– to let us do what we wanted to do.
And he did it all while driving in the center lane with some new obscure blues CD he picked up from this great new site called “amazon.com.”
Ali – remember that time you had the flu and you were worried you were going to miss your 5th grade band concert? Luckily, you were playing one of two drum parts and we had a dad who did that for a living. The man stood in and gave the best drum performance that 5th grade band had ever produced.
Jess – we were just talking about those wastelands of I-84. That would be the Perkins Restaurant Parking Lot in Matamorris, Pennsylvania where Dad would drive to from Beacon to pick up his first Grandchild, Adrianna, to take her for the weekend while you were working.
And I remember the man who took me to Wrestling practice everyday before school – yes before. We would load up early, to be honest I slept in the car on the ride, and I would be one of the first ones there everyday despite that the fact we had the farthest commute and he still had to get to school in Washingtonville after.
If I may digress, the last two years of wrestling practice drives I had my license. We flipped the commute. And I don’t know a single other grown man that would have the patience to allow his 16 year old son to drop him off at work hours before he had to and then sit around hours after he was done waiting to be picked up.
He was so proud of all of his kids. And we all showed Dad’s traits. Ali, a social worker by training, working at home while also schooling at home and raising two of his beloved four grandchildren. Jessica, a nurse who lives to keep others alive – and who just the other day told dad she was going for her doctorate degree. All dad could say was “I knew you would.” Oh yeah – she’s also raising the other two grandkids. And me, a lawyer by trade who works as a public servant in government. Dad would call me anytime my boss was treated unfairly in the press. And he wanted me to tell them why.
Dad also loved his two Sons-in-law. Bobby & Paul. My brothers. Paul – Dad would always have a new food or pizza article to send your way. Bobby – Dad described you to me as the man who knew a little something about just about everything. He loved that. The Jack-of-all trades.
My Dad’s true passion was his love of music. A love he shared with his sister Susan. Susan, a musician herself, calls my dad her first teacher. Well, Aunt Sue, I hope you then take credit for being the first pupil of thousands he touched with his voice, guitar – or whatever instrument or music producing object he could get his hand on – and sheer joy. From Round Hill Elementary to Purchase Day Camp, Dad played and sang what I’ve been told was the “soundtrack of their summers” – hits like “Monkey Baseball Game,” “Big Rock Candy Mountain,” “This Land is Your Land,” “at the ‘quariam,” and an all time great – multi verse – rendition of “Meet the Mets.”
Dad also lent his talents as the Parish Music Director of St. John the Evangelist Church. Dad played nearly every funeral, wedding, baptism, vespers, Saturday and Sunday Masses. Don’t forget the extra ones on Easter and Christmas.
One Easter, as he was closing a boisterous hallelujah as the parishioners were processing out, the final note stopped and toddler grandchild Adrianna let out a loud “YAY AMPA!” – much to the Church’s delight.
While my sister’s sang in church with my Dad, the choir loft was my babysitter while my mother worked. One Saturday, when I was attending a wedding, funeral and 5pm mass, I asked my dad “which one do I HAVE to pay attention to?
On Christmas, Dad always made time to set up our presents in the morning after midnight mass, he would then play the morning mass, come back home and we would open gifts. The man just cared so deeply.
Dad brought his gift of music to many church services over the years. And just like everywhere else he played – his notes sustained.
Before his teaching, day camp, and church music life. Dad was a rock drummer in some classic 80s wedding bands. It was surely glamourous, just ask my mom who had to carry his drums through the kitchen before set up. I hope she got free drinks because she was “with the band.”
While my Dad’s musical prowess crossed many genres and generations – his greatest hit was what came to be known as “the birthday song.” If anyone knows my family and had the pleasure of celebrating a birthday with us, you got it. It was a medley of “On the day that you were born,” “Happy Birthday to Ya” by Stevie Wonder, and the traditional “Happy Birthday.” And never forget the Elvis ending.
Dad – the angels are singing and blowing on their horns for you now.
My Mom and Dad spent their time in retirement often travelling to Italy. Once in Rome, my parents were taking a train for a mini-trip to Assisi. They get a taxi and my Dad goes to load up the bags in the trunk. The driver says “no, no” – and my dad looked down and saw a guitar and told the man he was a musician. The man grabbed the Guitar, gave it to my dad, and put the bags in the trunk. He then asked “can you play the Beatles?” Dad went on to play “Blackbird” all the way to the train station.
What all these stories mean to show is that Dad was the most patient, loving, caring – and just content – human being many of us have ever been lucky enough to know. And I got to call him Dad.
My mom and dad also in their retirement grew – both in Rome and New York City – an immense passion for helping others as they were both active members of the Community of Sant'Egidio. Tuesday nights, my parents would haul homemade turkey sandwiches to Grand Central Station to meet up with their “friends.” These really were their friends. My dad often called me asking for legal advice for some of them. My Dad even brought his new friend “bob” to a concert at Tarrytown Music Hall. For my dad, what may have begun as a hobby he did because my Mom wanted him to do it, became a labor of love. He would go – alone – on nights my mom didn’t feel up to it. They even brought along the grandkids sometimes.
And my Dad loved being a grandfather.
Adrianna – when you wanted to live with Grandma & Grandpa – that man went with you to drug stores to pick out eye lashes.
Francesca – You and Grandpa had the best conversations. He loved being goofy and talking to you. He often said if you were his student, you’d be his favorite.
Jason – you and Grandpa had the same observational sense of humor. You just cracked him up with all of your jokes. Never lose it.
Zoey – Grandpa loved how direct you could be. Often saying he loved your use of language. For example, if you didn’t get something someone said to you, you would say “Sorry – but I just don’t understand you.” I’m sorry you got to spend so little time with him.
While Dad passed on many great traits, he also passed on his love of the New York Mets. Nothing else may speak to his patience more than this particular passion. The love began in 1961 while passing the Polo Grounds on the West Side Highway and a sign reading “1962, The METS are coming.” He turned to his Yankee Fan Dad and said: “I’m going to be a Mets fan.” 1962 came – and this lifelong love was born. I will forever cherish all the games we went to together. It was our thing. From Shea to Citi to joining 1600 other Met fans at Fenway. Dad, Let’s Go Mets, forever.
Any discussion about Dad must include his humor. Once, after a car ride home where he said he had a headache at the start – I told him I had developed a headache now to. Which prompted the question – “Dad, are headaches contagious?”
The reply – “Yeah, you giving me one.”
While Nick was a beloved Husband, Father, and Grandfather – he was also a beloved Son to his Mother Anne and Father Nicholas and Brother to his Sisters Teri & Susan. Sue sent me some anecdotes to include and I thought it best to just read them verbatim.
“Our house was filled with music, always. The story in the family was that when Nicky was in 1st grade at Roosevelt School his teacher Miss Hansen walked him home at the end of the day to talk to our mom. She said that Nick displayed unusual interest and ability in music, and he should get a piano. Our parents immediately bought the Wurlitzer, and the rest is history.
Nick started playing in bands in middle school and by high school was gigging. But I’m pretty sure his first band was a duo – me on piano and him on drums. Nick was 9, I was 4. He taught me everything.
Nick was as comfortable with classical piano repertoire as he was with blues guitar and jazz drumming. He was a highly regarded percussion section leader of the Ossining High School Band which toured Europe in 1972.
Nick was brilliant academically. I’m pretty sure he scored an 800 on the math portion of the SATs. Also, I remember him translating Bob Dylan’s Subterranian Homesick Blues into Latin. Few people know that Nick had a rigorous classical education in western philosophy, literature, and art while also majoring in music at Columbia College.”
Thank you, Aunt Sue for sharing your memories of a Nick I didn’t know.
My Dad was just so kind and loving. And it can never be overstated how this was always shown with my Mother. Every day, my Mom would cook for him. Every day, he would say – no matter what it was, how intricate, how simple – he would always say “Thanks, Lin.” Always.
When my Dad first met my Mom, he couldn’t quite remember her name. But he could remember the name of her daughter, the little girl who held court all night. So he got her number, called, and asked for “Jessica’s Mom.”
The last anecdote I’ll share was sent to me in the last few days. It took place at PDC from my counselor when I was age 5:
“You will probably remember in those days that you loved Zorro. Absolutely LOVED it. Every time we passed the bandshell, no matter what he was doing, your dad would stop everything, look at you, smile, and start playing the Zorro theme song on his guitar. Every. Single. Time. And you loved it, without fail, every single time. It was a very early lesson for me for how Dads should do right by their kids. And it stays with me now with my own kids.”
Sadly, I wish I could speak more about my dad’s younger days. I always loved to hear about his time in the Columbia Marching Band. Dad lived a full life – if sadly and tragically it is far too short. He loved his students but man – did he love retirement. Making plans with Mom, watching the news and the Mets – and making beautiful Music. Always making music.
As we can all tell you, Dad never said “Goodbye” when he was on the phone – he just kind of stopped talking. Often puzzling friends who witnessed or overheard the conversation. So with that, I don’t say goodbye. Nick Sgammato was a great man. He loved his wife and his family. He loved his music and loved to jam on his guitar. He loved to call us “ya big” – never really knew why.
