Years ago, when people were beginning to recognize me from being on the radio, I was tickled... and a bit delusional. Too brief a pause at a Peekskill stop sign found me being pulled over by a kind officer. As he took my license back to his patrol car, my big, fat ego thought he'd come right back once he realized he pulled over "Kacey on the Radio". I was half right. He returned with a stern warning and then said, "Why didn't you tell me you were Mo's daughter?".
That officer did me two favors that day, not ticketing me was the lesser one. "Mo", Antonio Romolo Morabito, my Dad, had many friends from his days working at Standard Brands in Peekskill, and later from bartending at Bertoline's and Jeremiah's. Radio Schmadio! Around here I am - Mo's daughter - the child of a simple man who served his country in WWII and came back to raise his family. Anything I have is a gift of grace or a product of hard work. I am no greater or lesser than anyone else on Earth. I'm Mo's daughter, and that's a good thing to remember.
Dad passsed away on February 15. Since that day I've struggled to know who I am without him.
My life was energized by the joy he gave me.
The gifts he gave were the constant reassurance that he was there for me and wanted me to be happy. Dad was interested in my world. He always asked me about my Mike, my friends and my job. If I found something to complain about, Dad would tell me to forget it. No big discussion, just enjoy what life had to offer. I came to rely on his simple wisdom.
As Dad grew older and was living in Florida, we made sure the distance did not come between us. I'd call to ask about recipes I never intended to cook. When he came to New York I'd ask him to make meatballs even though I gave up beef years ago. Every time I stepped foot in Yankee Stadium, or if I just saw a game on TV - I called Dad. I'm not one to chase interviews, but I went out of my way to talk to Michael Kay and John Sterling, just so I could tell Dad I did. Dad would send me Yankee's kitchen magnets he made from wood and I'd call him to order more for my friends.
The day he died, I walked outside, I felt the sun and the breeze and saw the sky and the trees as if for the first time. I felt peace knowing that Dad was now part of all the energy that spins the planets and keeps the stars in place.
Then, the world became a foreign place.
I lost the person who could make sense of chaos, and the one person who told me he loved me every time we spoke. I lost the person who accepted me without judgement. I lost the conection to my heritage in Calabria... and I gained a deeper knowledge of my Dad.
He outlived 10 siblings, yet walked quietly through loss ever looking for life's pleasures.
As the recent prospect of back sugery terrified me, I remembered Dad had twice undergone heart surgeries and so many medical procedures in his 83 years. He always found his way back and did the best he could. He was stronger and braver than anyone around him gave him credit for. The world around him changed so much in his lifetime, and he kept growing too, in compassion and tolerance.
Of course, it wasn't long before I got ticked off. I let Dad know it through the constant coversations I have with him in my heart. He left me. He wasn't going to be at my wedding, and I gave him hell for that. Mike Grean and I got engaged in October. Dad took ill in November. He knew he was leaving me in good hands. Overwhelmed wth confusion, I canceled the wedding.
The next day, Tom Furci came into work selling raffle tickets for Jenna's Dream Choir, a group I happily support, but my $100 ticket purchase came with a string attached. As I wrote my check I told Dad that if I won, I would know he wanted me to have a wedding. I had to wait a week for the drawing to confirm the $10,000 jackpot, but I knew it was mine from the moment Tom handed me ticket #159. 159 is the house number of my Dad's childhood home, where I will be married there, under the grapevines on July 8th, Dad's birthday. He's winning ticket is paying for the family party July 19th at The Bird and Bottle.
My Dad was a chatter, if you saw in him the post office or grocery store, you were going to get a big smile and a story. Dad always made time to stop and talk to friendly faces along the way. He knew where to find the real joy, and, becuause of him, so do I.
I love you, Papa.
That officer did me two favors that day, not ticketing me was the lesser one. "Mo", Antonio Romolo Morabito, my Dad, had many friends from his days working at Standard Brands in Peekskill, and later from bartending at Bertoline's and Jeremiah's. Radio Schmadio! Around here I am - Mo's daughter - the child of a simple man who served his country in WWII and came back to raise his family. Anything I have is a gift of grace or a product of hard work. I am no greater or lesser than anyone else on Earth. I'm Mo's daughter, and that's a good thing to remember.
Dad passsed away on February 15. Since that day I've struggled to know who I am without him.
My life was energized by the joy he gave me.
The gifts he gave were the constant reassurance that he was there for me and wanted me to be happy. Dad was interested in my world. He always asked me about my Mike, my friends and my job. If I found something to complain about, Dad would tell me to forget it. No big discussion, just enjoy what life had to offer. I came to rely on his simple wisdom.
As Dad grew older and was living in Florida, we made sure the distance did not come between us. I'd call to ask about recipes I never intended to cook. When he came to New York I'd ask him to make meatballs even though I gave up beef years ago. Every time I stepped foot in Yankee Stadium, or if I just saw a game on TV - I called Dad. I'm not one to chase interviews, but I went out of my way to talk to Michael Kay and John Sterling, just so I could tell Dad I did. Dad would send me Yankee's kitchen magnets he made from wood and I'd call him to order more for my friends.
The day he died, I walked outside, I felt the sun and the breeze and saw the sky and the trees as if for the first time. I felt peace knowing that Dad was now part of all the energy that spins the planets and keeps the stars in place.
Then, the world became a foreign place.
I lost the person who could make sense of chaos, and the one person who told me he loved me every time we spoke. I lost the person who accepted me without judgement. I lost the conection to my heritage in Calabria... and I gained a deeper knowledge of my Dad.
He outlived 10 siblings, yet walked quietly through loss ever looking for life's pleasures.
As the recent prospect of back sugery terrified me, I remembered Dad had twice undergone heart surgeries and so many medical procedures in his 83 years. He always found his way back and did the best he could. He was stronger and braver than anyone around him gave him credit for. The world around him changed so much in his lifetime, and he kept growing too, in compassion and tolerance.
Of course, it wasn't long before I got ticked off. I let Dad know it through the constant coversations I have with him in my heart. He left me. He wasn't going to be at my wedding, and I gave him hell for that. Mike Grean and I got engaged in October. Dad took ill in November. He knew he was leaving me in good hands. Overwhelmed wth confusion, I canceled the wedding.
The next day, Tom Furci came into work selling raffle tickets for Jenna's Dream Choir, a group I happily support, but my $100 ticket purchase came with a string attached. As I wrote my check I told Dad that if I won, I would know he wanted me to have a wedding. I had to wait a week for the drawing to confirm the $10,000 jackpot, but I knew it was mine from the moment Tom handed me ticket #159. 159 is the house number of my Dad's childhood home, where I will be married there, under the grapevines on July 8th, Dad's birthday. He's winning ticket is paying for the family party July 19th at The Bird and Bottle.
My Dad was a chatter, if you saw in him the post office or grocery store, you were going to get a big smile and a story. Dad always made time to stop and talk to friendly faces along the way. He knew where to find the real joy, and, becuause of him, so do I.
I love you, Papa.