The measure of success

What is the measure of success?

To some, it is material. The Porsche Cayenne. McMansion. Oversized yacht. To those of us looking on, we must wonder – how much do you own, how much the bank? Perhaps the measure of success is the ability to hornswaggle one’s banker?

There are many other measures of success. Popularity. Athletic skill. Acting chops, Oscars. Youtube views. Nobel Prizes.

But perhaps the more meaningful measure is deeply personal. At the end, what did you accomplish? Did you do good? Are others better off because of you? These are important questions.

Dad was second generation Italian. Sicilian, more specifically. That means that his parents migrated here through Ellis Island in the early twentieth century, nearly 100 years ago. Sicily, the land of intense sun, shimmering seas, incredible beauty, heartrending cruelty, and mind numbing poverty. A good place to be from.

Grandpa came first, his wife following a year later. This is because it was necessary to start a life, find work, build some reserves. Something the government does for folks nowadays.

Dad was the youngest of four, born in the late 1920s, with his formative years firmly spanning the Great Depression. Life was hard. Speaking only Italian, he learned English on the side as he attended school. He worked at twelve to help support the family, without complaint. Hard work, farming and landscaping, calluses, sunburn, exhaustion. The 1930s were not kind.

And then it got worse. His father, stressed, or drunk, was abusive. Other, darker things, not to be spoken of. He moved out of the house as a young teenager, just to survive.

Then, the war. Rationing, rag picking. Gleaning. Times were tough, but the American spirit was strong and we built ships and planes and trained our troops and won the war. Dad did his part, a proud Navy veteran at the ripe old age of 16, lying about his age, serving in the South Pacific. The war was soon over, and he, with millions of others, returned to civilian life.

He took up with his high school girlfriend, a ravishing redhead, the love of his life, and by 1948 was married. Soon after, the children began to come – third generation Italian English Scottish German mutts. The wonderful generosity of America chipped in with the GI bill, and Dad became the very first in his large, multigenerational family, spanning two continents, to gain a college degree. Physics, science, and mathematics, thank you. Not bad for a scruffy Italian brat, knees protruding from torn trousers just a few years prior.

We moved to the country, the family growing in size - ultimately nine kids, too expensive in the city. With room to breathe, we learned to prepare the soil, plant the garden, weed and cultivate, harvest and store. In spite of tough times, we never went hungry. Instead, we learned to prune the apple trees, milk the cows, tend the chickens, and care for the garden. We ate well, but it was the fruit of our labor. We learned the value of work.

Dad became a high school teacher. Science and math. Planning laboratory experiments for his students, he often tried them first on us at home. We learned to make gunpowder from scratch. To burn magnesium, brighter than the sun. That the age of paper could be determined by the degree of yellowing, and modeled by “aging” in a hot oven. We learned to think.

And much, much more. How to change the oil in the car. To replace a flat tire. To add an electrical outlet. Repair a leaky faucet. Plumb a brand new hot-water heating system. Dig a septic system and pour concrete footings. Always teaching, a lifetime vocation and avocation.

What was the outcome? At the end, he lived in a small cottage, drove a tiny, rusted car, and tended a postage stamp garden. He worried and fretted that he had not been a good father, could have done better, should have done more. The kids deserved far better.
 
Now that you’re at peace, Dad, you may rest well knowing what you’ve achieved. Your students, hundreds of them, benefited from your tutelage. Your children are successful, each in their own way. We are happy, secure. We are kind and charitable. Self-reliant and capable. We learned well.

Thanks Dad. You were a fabulous success, the model of a life well lived. You made us who we are. You made a difference. No Nobel Prize here, but perhaps there should be.