Today is my father’s birthday. March 19. He was born on St. Joseph’s Day, a big celebration for Italians, especially Sicilians. As a kid, year after year, our entire family would dress up, pile into our white Pontiac Catalina, and drive to some church or somebody’s home for a “feast of fishes” – a gorgeous display of food, similar to a cruise ship’s midnight buffet, but set up on an altar paying homage to the patron saint of fathers, families, and workers.
It’s fitting that my Papà and St. Joseph would share their day. Fathers, families, and workers: that pretty much sums up what my dad Antonino Milana represented, at least during my lifetime and from my perspective. (That’s me as a baby in his arms; my siblings were flower girl and ring bearer at my aunt’s wedding.)
My mother once told me “Che pense? Papà non ha mai cambiato i pannolini finché mi sono ammalato.”
