Dominic Joseph Iachini
Senior picture (Gallitzin High School Class of 1950, Gallitzin, PA)
By Jodi L. Severson
Written for my father, Dominic Joseph Iachini
In honor of his 70th birthday, October 30, 2002
I suppose my earliest memories of Dad are much like those of most little girls who look up to their fathers through eyes wide with wonderment, admiration, and love. Viewed through my round, dark, blue eyes my Daddy was a man who could master great feats of strength like balancing me on his black, polished leather shoes as we walked out of St. Benedict's Church on Sunday mornings. My Daddy could bravely confront any villain, including big brothers who liked to hide in closets or under beds in an effort to scare unsuspecting younger sisters. But above all, my Daddy could fix anything.
Having four kids with Osteogenesis Imperfecta (a rare genetic bone disease) meant Dad was constantly setting someone's broken arm or leg. MacGyver had nothing on my Dad. Give Pops two rubber bands, a magazine and a tea towel, and he could splint and sling a broken arm faster than you could say, "We're off to Mercy Hospital." Loose tooth? No problem. Dad would just reach into his back pocket, pull out a freshly ironed, white hanky, and in one painless yank out it would come.
Dad took his medical skills a step further as a paramedic/fireman with the Geistown Ambulance Service. In that capacity he once delivered a baby for a neighbor, routinely helped people who were in automobile accidents, and even fought fires like the one that destroyed Busy Beaver Lumber Company in the late 1970's. But I remember one ambulance call on a cold winter's night in January that was the worst call of his life. A commuter plane from Pittsburgh crashed while trying to land in a blizzard at the Johnstown Airport. Dad was gone a long time that night, and when he finally returned, I could tell he had changed somehow. There was a profound sadness in his eyes, and the warm smile he usually greeted us with was absent beneath tightly pursed and trembling lips. He immediately went downstairs where he found Mom, ironing his hankies.
"What?" was all she said, knowing by the look on Dad's face that something terrible had happened.
"Danny. . ." Dad muttered with a gasp in his voice as tears began to well up in his dark brown eyes, ". . . Danny was the pilot." That was the first time I ever saw my dad cry. He didn't know that I had followed him. As I sat quietly on the stairs, I watched as he took off his hat, ran a trembling hand slowly over his wet face up to his forehead and through his thinning, black hair while the words, meaningless to me, hit my mother. With the iron suspended in one hand, Mom gripped the ironing board with her other hand as tears began to spill down her cheeks.
I didn't know who "Danny" was at the time, but I later learned that he was my Aunt Barbara's brother. He was a young, good looking man who left behind a wife and several young children (one of whom was my age). Even though I didn't know the family, I knew I couldn't imagine at my age having to live without my Daddy; and the thought of Danny's kid's having no choice in their fate made me sad, too.
As it turned out, Dad's medical skills extended beyond his children, neighbors, and the strangers he encountered on ambulance calls. Toys-particularly dolls-were also his specialty.
"Daddy, Drowsy won't talk anymore," I sobbed to him one night as I cradled my beloved baby doll in my arms. "I think, she needs an operation," I said with a sigh.
Carefully folding the newspaper and laying it on the floor next to him, he gently took Drowsy and said, "Let's have a look." As he examined her he asked, "how did this happen?"
"Bobby threw her down the stairs, and Dana stomped on her!" I replied angrily. "They said it was an accident, but don't you believe them!"
"Well, that wasn't very nice of them, but I think we can make her all better," my Daddy assured me. A few twists from his screwdriver and a couple of "stitches" in her fabric stomach, and Drowsy was singing, "I want a drink of water" by bedtime.
Once, I accidentally left Drowsy and "Pinky," my faithful blanket, at my grandmother's house. Unfortunately, I didn't realize my oversight until we were about 30 minutes into our return trip home. But like any good Daddy would do upon hearing the cries of his baby daughter, my dad turned the car around and retrieved my trusted friends so I could rest soundly that night. In hindsight, and with the benefit of now being a parent myself, I realize he made that trip as much for his own restful nights sleep as he did for mine. But when you are four years old and missing your favorite doll, the person who safely rescues her for you is forever etched in your mind as a true "hero."
Kindergarten brought new opportunities for my dad to display his superhero talents. At the end of each day, I would stand by the front entrance and peer through the big glass doors waiting for my Mom to drive up in our trusty, pale blue Ford station wagon. One day I found myself to be the last child waiting at the school. "Your Mommy must be running late," my teacher commented as I bit my lower lip hard, bravely fighting back tears, feeling certain that I had been "forgotten forever." Suddenly, a wave of relief swept over me as I caught sight of my hero galloping through the parking lot in a red Chevy sedan. I pushed open the doors and began to race to the curb only to be caught by my teacher who was reluctant to let me go with this male stranger in a red, not blue, vehicle. "It's o.k.!" I assured her with pride, "That's my dad!" Apparently, the old Ford had lost one too many pieces and was in the garage (the one in our driveway to be exact) for repairs. I remember that almost every day for a week before this fateful day, there would be a different part of the car in the trunk when Mom would pick me up from school-a hubcap one day, the exhaust pipe, or the bumper on another. The day before I remember pointing to an odd shaped, rusty, metal object in the trunk and asked Mom, "what's that?"
"I don't know," she replied. "It's just something that fell off the car. Daddy will have to fix it when we get home." It turns out the "something" was the gas tank, and Dad still doesn't know how Mom made it all the way to and from the school without it attached to the car!
On cool, fall nights after I had my bath and had put on my pajamas and slippers, I remember Mom would wrap me in Dad's tan, plaid bathrobe. We would then go out on the porch and I would sit on her lap while we waited for Daddy to come home from working late. Fighting to stay awake, I usually made it long enough to see the headlights from his car streak across the driveway. Then I knew I could safely go to sleep because "Daddy was home." I remember being allowed to go to work with Dad one day. He bought a Hershey bar and amazed me by being able to steer the car with his knee while he unwrapped the chocolate candy and split it between us.
Like most children when they reach their teens I was convinced I knew more than my parents. I'm sure this "knowledge" equated to me giving Dad much grief during those tumultuous years. But I had help in the form of three older sisters and a brother. Having to put up with four daughters and one bathroom, meant Dad gave up a lot of privacy. He quietly put up with jars of Noxzema and bottles of make-up falling out of the medicine cabinet each morning as he tried to brush his teeth. And he stood by calmly as choking clouds of Aquanet hairspray were blown in his direction while he tried to shave (hey, it was the 80's and "big hair" was in.). But when the large vein at the side of his head began to pulse, we took that as our cue to kiss Pops on the cheek and head out the door as fast as we could.
Dad never criticized the poor choices in boyfriends we all eventually made unless we asked (usually after the fact). And he managed to teach all of us how to drive a car despite our Mom's instructions. True, he is now almost completely bald as a result of those years, but that's what Dads are for, right?
Now, as an adult and a parent myself, I can see that my dad was far from perfect. He has his flaws and shortcomings just as I do-as we all do. They say children don't come with owner's manuals, and the same is true for parents. You just go with what you are given and give it all you can. Dad and Mom managed to raise five strong, talented, independent children on meager salaries, yet I truly don't recall wanting for anything. There was always food to eat, and clean clothes to wear, and toys to play with. They saw to it that each of their children benefited from eight years of Catholic school education, and that we all graduated high school. Dad helped me buy my first car. Granted, it was a Pinto, but I was grateful to have it. Our parents taught as the value of money and how to work hard for the things we wanted in life. They supported me through college, and instilled a strong work ethic in all of us. Dad's advice included: "Never quit one job without having another job lined up." And "don't be afraid to go that extra mile. No job is too big or too small as long as you always do your best at it."
So while it's true that my Dad may not have been Ward Cleaver, and he never said "Cheer up, Kitten" when I was sad, he was and will always be my Father-the fixer of all things broken; my hero in a red Chevy; and my Daddy I will always need and love.
Happy Birthday Pops!
© Copyright 2003 Jodi L. Severson
Jodi L. Severson is a freelance writer for hire from Rice Lake, Wisconsin
Published U.S. Legacies June 2003
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