Through My Eyes...: THE TRUE DEFINITION OF A GENTLEMAN...

ca 1924 or 1925

Someone once described my father as the true definition of a gentleman. It was not because of his social position, status, or education, but because of his character. He was a good man of even temper that never spoke ill of anyone. He was always willing to help another human being when others would just turn and walk away.

His name was Rocco Poppa. He was known as Rocky to most everyone that knew him, though my mother would call him Rock on occasion. The nickname suited, as he was definitely the rock of our family, but to me, he will always be known as dad. He was born on March 22, 1916, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. The fourth out of the eight children (2 of which would die in infancy) of Isidoro and Theresa Poppa, dad was only seven-years-old when his father died. I asked my dad once, what grandpa died from, and he told me, mustard gas. At the time I posed the question, I did not know much about WWI or my family history. It seemed to make sense. There was fighting throughout Italy, and mustard gas was a poisonous gas used in chemical warfare during the First World War. Many years later, I began work on my family tree, which included studying many of the events surrounding the lives of some of my ancestors. I discovered that my grandfather was already in the United States by the time WWI broke out in Italy.

My grandfather's cause of death was actually pulmonary Tuberculosis. I believe… though I haven't been able to substantiate it… that he contracted the disease aboard the ship during one of his crossings over the years. Once I found out the truth, I needed to understand how or why my father would think that his dad died from mustard gas?

Pulmonary Tuberculosis was and is a highly contagious infection that mainly affects the lungs. It's transmitted through the air by coughing, sneezing, spitting, speaking or even singing. It can last for months or years and can kill you.[1] Because of the nature of this dreaded illness, I believe that the children were told that their father suffered the effects of mustard gas poisoning to prevent panic and exclusion throughout the neighborhood. They had no reason to doubt that story.

Isidoro, Theresa, and the children moved back and forth between Bridgeport and Chicago throughout their marriage. The Poppa's all lived in Bridgeport, and the DiFoggio's (my grandmother's family) lived in Chicago. After my grandfather's death at the age of 31, my grandmother raised six children alone. So, she and the children permanently settled in Chicago to be nearer to her family. They would, however, continue to travel back and forth to Connecticut as time and money permitted. It could not have been easy for her, given that her eldest son was only 12, and her youngest was a little over 1-year-old. Without much money and many mouths to feed, the older children got jobs to help out.

Seven-year-old Rocky and 5-year-old Lenny got jobs working on the back of their Aunt Grace's husbands' fruit and vegetable truck. Working on the back of that truck was not a pleasant experience for either of the boys and would soon prove to be unpleasant for their uncle as well. Uncle Carlo, as he was known, was a jobber in the local grocery business in Chicago. He would deliver produce and dried sausages (i.e., pepperoni) to area grocery stores. The days were long, and there was no heat or air conditioning in that truck. For their efforts, Rocky and Lenny were each paid a penny apiece for a week's work. From the story told by both my father and Uncle Lenny, Carlo would stop at home every day for a hot lunch and leave the boys on the back of the truck…regardless of the weather… each with a piece of Italian bread to eat, and that's all. After a week or two of this, the boys had had enough bread. Dad, as the older of the two, led the revolt. He grabbed a pepperoni link and took a bite out of it and spit it out. He handed another pepperoni to his brother to do the same thing. Six sausages later, they then started in on the tomatoes and peppers. When Carlo came back from his lunch, he was furious. He paid the boys for the week and never let them back on his truck again.

Engagement Photo -1943

As time moved on, paychecks somewhat improved, but it was the Depression, however, and so you took any job that you could get and were glad to have it. Dad was in school in the early 30s, and so any work that was available to him was that of a day laborer.[2]

There wasn't a whole lot of time or money for dating as we know it today. Dad, now in his 20s, had a healthy interest in girls, and with his movie-star good looks, …girls were definitely, interested in dad. Fortunately for me, there was one girl in particular that dad was genuinely enamored … my mother.

Marilyn DeLio was the girl next door or rather…across the street and down the block. She was best friends with my dad's cousin, Lena. Since Lena lived in the same building as my dad, he would see mom now and then when she would get together with his cousin. As dad would say, she was a "real looker." Dark hair, hazel green eyes, petite, and beautiful both inside and out.

My parents knew each other from the time they were children, but their romantic interests while growing up lay elsewhere.

Suddenly, it was the 1940s. WWII and the bombing of Pearl Harbor had just happened. Military service was inevitable. His romance with my mother had just begun with some minor flirtations when dad was called up in the draft. He asked if he could write to her while he was away, and of course, mom said yes. Dad would serve stateside for the next twenty months at Camp Campbell, Kentucky. My parents would keep in touch through cards, letters, telegrams, and the occasional army leave. By the end of August 1943, dad was discharged from the military. After the army, Dad would become a baker by trade and a darn good one, too.

1942

July 2, 1944

On July 2, 1944, my parents married at St. Charles Borromeo Church in Chicago. Over the next 14 years, they would have four children. The plan was that dad would retire in 1982 at the age of 66 from Gonnella Bakeries. He and mom were going to do all the things that had been put on hold over the years. But it wasn’t meant to be.

One of the two darkest days in my father's adult life occurred on December 8, 1981, the day my mother died. The second one happened on June 4, 1987, the day my brother, Patrick, died in a construction accident. I had never seen my father cry before those two occasions, and I don't think I will ever forget it.

Four years after my brother's death, dad suffered a stroke. He was able to regain some ability to speak and walk over time, so in that regard, he maintained some of the resiliency, which I always knew him to possess. He lived with me until a second stroke ended his life on April 1, 1999. Some may say that I took care of him, but I think in many ways, we took care of each other.

Dad was, without a doubt, one of the kindest, gentlest, and sincerest men I have ever known, he was the first love of my life. He taught me many things over the years that still hold true today. Dad taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bicycle, put out a grease fire in the stove, and how to bake Italian bread to keep it soft on the inside and crusty on the outside. He also taught me what it means to be genuinely kind, not just by words, but through one's actions. I think of him often and miss him always. I love you, Dad. Rest in Peace.