Remembering my father, Danny Hugh Piombo
My dad passed away a year ago. His name was Danny Piombo. You would have liked him.
Most of us ponder what we learned from a parent after they transcend this life. Dad showed us the value of hard work, how to be a loyal friend and a good neighbor, and the importance of making sure your children and grandchildren know you love them and you’re proud of them.
That being said, Dad taught us a couple of things that weren’t in the manual.
He showed us you can use black electrical tape for everything from repairing a leaky garden hose to holding up your baseball socks to handcuffing your little brother when he’s bugging you during “Gilligan’s Island.”
He impressed us by dropkicking a football long and true in the middle of Franklin Avenue while wearing tan work boots. He’d yell in his best Lon Simmons voice, “Brodie pumps once! Brodie pumps twice” before chucking the ball 40 yards down the street.
He proved that tossing your St. Christopher’s medal over your shoulder then sprinting full speed into the icy waves at Santa Cruz was a much better approach than tip toeing into the surf.
He turned napping like an old house cat into an art. If he was busted sleeping in front of the old Zenith during “The Carol Burnett Show,” he’d deflect criticism by confidently stating, “I was just resting my eyes.”
“I had a cup of coffee with the guys,” meant he’d spent two hours at the Ranch Café before starting his work day for Continental Telephone in Linden. “Heading for the barn” was quitting time. “Don’t let me catch ‘em,” indicated Mom was in charge of discipline for the day, and, “Why don’t you and your brother go out and play with the cars in the street,” was code for, “I worked in the Valley heat all day and you two degenerates should find another victim in a different area code.”
He showed us if guests hang around too long after dinner, you simply go in and start brushing your teeth. If they don’t get the hint, you walk out into the living room still brushing your teeth.
If your spouse dilly-dallies at someone else’s house and you really want to get home for some shut eye, you simply walk out, start up the car, and rev the engine until you get the desired reaction.
He was an All-Star at Pittsburg High School and was the best pure hitter I ever saw. Sure, his ego on the softball field was as big as our battleship-sized gold Plymouth Fury four door, but he showed us that your confidence comes from practicing harder than the other guy. He batted the way he lived his life, smoothly hitting the ball where it was pitched instead of trying to pull it.
His signal that a dinner of barbequed ribs, shrimp salad and scalloped potatoes was ready was a dramatic, “Mangia” delivered from the top step of the kitchen. He ended every meal — whether it was a simple lunch on Thursday or a big Christmas gathering — by checking with each participant and asking, quietly but sincerely, “Did ya get enough?”
Dad had shortcomings and challenges like we all do. But he taught us the importance of simply being there for people, that your legacy isn’t determined by how much you earn, and that it’s important to support your children and grandchildren whether they’re in first place or last.
And that you should make a point to say, “I love you,” to those you care about.
Finally, Dad showed us that people display courage in places other than the battlefield. He’d lost 80 pounds and his eyesight towards the end but he kept his sense of humor. He kidded with the nurses an hour or so before he died telling them with a wink he’d had eight glasses of wine and they would have to take extra special care of him that day. They laughed through the tears while telling us the story.
We had a quiet service for him and afterwards we gathered at a local hotel near the cemetery for lunch and stories. Eventually it was time to go, and we shared hugs and goodbyes. The lot was just about empty and I looked off into the distance towards where we’d laid him to rest.
I thought, “Did ya get enough, Dad?”
I smiled. I think he did.