It was 1968…

A time of turbulence and enlightenment. To many, it felt as though the seeds of hatred, bitterness and divisiveness were planted across the land. To others, especially those involved in the hippie movement, it was the Summer of Love.

I recall that it was June, and my freshman year at NFA was slowly coming to an end. Next Sunday was Father’s Day. I was standing in front of the Hallmark section at W.T. Grant’s, trying to pick out the perfect Father’s Day card — that had to be perfect! Between my grandfather and uncles, Father’s Day was on the same level of importance as St. Joseph’s Day.

I chuckled, thinking back one Father’s Day I experienced in the past, growing up with two Italian parents in the 1950s. We lived in a neighborhood in Bozrah typical of the era, where rows of small, square, two-story houses lined the street with maple trees shading every yard. It was a time when neighbors were considered family and treated every child as their own.

When my father was younger, he hosted the annual Father’s Day barbecue at our house. There was one gathering in particular that taught me the real meaning of Father’s Day.

As usual, my father took charge, giving orders and making sure things ran smoothly. Everyone in our family had a job. My sister washed down the patio, my mother would shop for food, and my job (in my father’s words) was to help my mother and stay out of trouble.

The morning of the barbecue my mother left early to go shopping. My father thought she went to the First National in Norwich, but she went to Westerly and bought Italian sausage, provolone cheese, prosciutto, capicola and cannoli.

“Where’s the hot dogs and hamburgers?” my father asked.

“Nunzio doesn’t sell hot dogs and hamburgers, you know that,” she replied.

With 10 or more neighbors soon arriving, my father focused on getting the charcoal ready. After going through two books of matches, he called to my mother in the kitchen.

“Rose! Get me my can of Zippo lighter fluid.”

My mother came outside with a worried look.

“I think we should call Gus Lorentz. Albert, do you remember what happened the last time you tried to light the charcoal?”

With an exasperated look my father answered, “Rose, you attend to the meatballs, and let the men attend to the men’s work.”

“But Gus was a World War I decorated veteran,” she said.

My father’s mouth dropped.

“Did you forget Rose? I’m a war veteran too!”

Inside, my mother picked up the phone and dialed.

I asked her who she was calling.

She sighed. “Gus Lorentz.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth when an explosion was heard outside.

Zippo lighter fluid really works.

After the neighbors helped put out the fire, we ate provolone, prosciutto and capicola sandwiches. My father was discouraged, but Gus gave him some sound advice.

“Al, I think I’d like to say a prayer,” and he took off his hat and bowed his head. “Lord, we thank you for this day. We remember all the men that served and will never have the chance to celebrate Father’s Day, nor see their children’s faces. Lord, we know, these men are the greatest fathers of all.”

Concetta Falcone-Codding is a 1971 graduate of the Norwich Free Academy and the author of “The Lonely Nest.” You can contact her at sarah_falcone@yahoo.com.