My father, Henry, paid a price for working at the Westinghouse Plant in Lester, PA, for over 40 years. The constant pounding of his drop forge hammer had cost him most of his hearing. He was “old school” and happy to have this job that kept my mother and him fed and warm during their 65-year marriage.

Suing the company was out of the question for a man like him. He knew the risks, and that was that. My mother, sister, and I got used to raising our voices when we spoke with Dad, as well as the TV blaring at night. Every summer, my Buist Avenue neighbors were treated to free radio broadcasts of every Phillies game emanating from our open windows.

My dear friend, Tom Manieri, a member of the wonderful service organization the Lion’s Club, used his influence to provide Dad with two free hearing aids. The only problem was that Dad didn’t like them, so he rarely used them. Also, as is typical with many hard-of-hearing people, he tended to speak in a very loud voice so that he could hear himself! 

As he grew older, Dad developed some health problems and became an insulin-dependent diabetic. Well into his 80s and a widower after Mom’s death, he valued his independence and was quite self-sufficient. He was still driving at the age of 87. I kept close tabs on him and came to realize that the effects of his diabetes were becoming dangerous. We had discussed the possibility of giving up his car, which he staunchly resisted. 

Until one night... 

At the dinner table, Dad’s sugar level dropped, and he was “out of it” for about 20 seconds. After I pointed out that losing control for that long behind the wheel could cause an accident that might result in the death of an innocent kid, right then and there, he agreed to stop driving. I took his keys, gave them to my cousin, and Dad’s driving days were over. It became my responsibility to take him wherever he had to go, whether it was the store, the doctor, to visit his sister, and, yes, to church every Sunday, unless my nieces - his granddaughters - Catrese or Kristina, paid a visit. I didn’t mind. It gave us a chance to get together and talk about his two favorite topics:  family and baseball. 

Dad and Mom belonged to Our Lady of Loreto church, located at the corner of 62^nd Street and Grays Avenue in Southwest Philly. This was one of the old ethnic parishes, and the parishioners were mostly Italian-Americans. My parents had been fixtures at the eight o’clock Mass every Sunday for over 50 years, occupying the same second-row seats just to the right of the speaker’s podium. With Mom gone, I would pick up Dad, sit with him in those exact seats, and, since no one sat in the front row, we were the closest parishioners to the priest. 

One particular Sunday, when Dad was 90 years old, the church hosted a young visiting priest. He was sent by the bishop to share his experiences during his six months of studies in Rome. As the guest started to give his remarks, our pastor took his seat just to our left. Our visitor was an enthusiastic young man, but to say that he was a bit “wordy” would be an understatement. 

First, he spoke for a few minutes on the overall beauty of Rome. He then gave his impressions of Vatican City, which included a 10-minute description of the Sistine Chapel that the most seasoned tour guide would envy. This was followed by another 10 minutes or so of his thoughts on St. Peter’s Basilica, the Coliseum, and the Appian Way. By then, I expected to hear the banging of heads on the wooden pews as the congregation dozed off, one by one. Remarkably, my father just sat there, wide awake, watching the young man speak. Suddenly, he turned to me and said in a very audible voice: “What’s this guy talking about?”  

Our guest’s eyes opened wide after joining the rest of the congregation in hearing Dad’s question. I looked for a place to hide, but, alas, there was none. Our pastor smiled, perhaps giving tacit approval. Dad just sat there, his question unanswered. 

As we filed out after Mass, a couple of the old Italian guys in the congregation came up to us to pat Dad on the back. One man said he wished he had asked that question. Dad didn’t mean to be disrespectful. He would never do that. However, I think his easily overheard question served two purposes:  First, the visiting speaker must have realized he had gone on too long and was losing his audience because he ended his talk shortly after Dad’s interruption. Second, perhaps the young priest learned a lesson in brevity that, hopefully, would serve him in later years as he tended to his own flock.

Charles Sacchetti is the author of two books, It’s All Good: Times and Events I’d Never Want to Change and his new book, Knowing He’s There: True Stories of God’s Subtle Yet Unmistakable Touch.   Both are available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other online outlets. Contact him at [email protected]