They Just Don’t Make ’Em Like That Anymore
A Hesped/Eulogy for my Dad
Robert D. DeBlosi
April 29, 1945 — June 27, 2011
A Buster, Beloved
Written with Love by
Nikki Lyn DeBlosi
July 1, 2011
All quotes from Dad should be read in a Boston accent.
My baby boy is only a month old and I’ve already found myself passing on bits of wisdom and sayings from his Papa. Just the other day, I was eating an ice cream cone, and I looked at my son and said, “Ha ha! I’m eatin’ ice cream! You can’t have ice cream yet!”
My Dad was definitely a “buster.” Most daughters get calls from their dads on their birthdays — and we did, too, usually before 7 am so he was sure to be the “first” to wish us a happy birthday — but Gina, Robin, and I also expected the annual April Fools’ prank. And then there were the elaborate schemes of the F.B.I. — the Forgotten Brothers-in-Law. And that time he locked his cat into his sister Patty’s room even though she hates cats. With Dad, there was always joking and teasing. “He’d drive you nuts,” my mom said, “but you’d keep coming back for more.”
I wish I had saved all the messages my Dad would leave on my voicemail saying, “Nik, ten o’clock, channel four, The Blues Brothers.” Or my favorite, the one that just said, “Blood makes poor mortar!” — not, “Hi, it’s Dad. Did you know The Ten Commandments is on right now?” Just the quote, because he knew I’d recognize it.
Sitting in his car, Motown music in the background, my dad would interrupt our conversations to prompt us: “You got a smile so bright you coulda been a what? … A candle!” He’d listen to the Temptations and Sam Cooke, Etta James and Otis Redding, singing off-key or reciting the lyrics just a beat before the performers sang them, and he’d shake his head saying, “They just don’t make songs like this anymore.” They were wholesome, emotional, true to life. They were clever and old-fashioned, direct and smooth. Just like Daddy.
My Dad remembered every place he’d been, every job he’d worked, every person he’d met. Not two weeks ago, he talked me through the photos of his trip to Italy with my mom, practically drawing maps of all the towns they visited and sharing stories of the friends they met and the meals they ate. His attention to detail benefitted everyone who knew him. He remembered your shirt size and your kids’ birth-date and your favorite flower. And he picked up a shirt for you at the outlets, and sent your kid the perfect gift, and brought you lilies for Easter. He built his business not only on his skills as an accountant, but on his compassion and his generosity.
And he passed those values down to his daughters and to his beloved grandchildren. Robin remembers that sometimes we’d imitate Dad’s “buster” side, teasing one another and joking, and our mom would look at Dad slyly and sing “Teach your children well…” But the thing is, he did teach us well — and we all knew it, we know it today, and we will carry that with us into the future.
When we were kids, our Dad looked at the world with as much wonder as we did. Waiting for an elevator, he would estimate the time the door would open and, a split-second before, he’d say “Open Sesame!” He made our lives magic. And in Church, when most people around us recited their prayers at lightning-speed so you could barely understand the words, Dad would lean down to our level and say them slowly and with meaning… (unless he’d already fallen asleep). He taught us to tell stories and to listen to other peoples’ stories, too. He taught us to respect tradition and also to think for ourselves.
When Rachel and I named our son, we knew we wanted to honor my Dad by giving him the middle name “Robert.” But we honored Daddy with our son’s first name, too: Ilan. In Hebrew, Ilan means “tree.” A tree needs deep roots so that it can spread its branches out into the world and offer shade under its leaves. A tree weathers storms not by being rigid, but by remaining flexible at its core. A tree’s strength is natural, and unassuming.
Playing on the rooftops of Somerville, gathering for fried chicken picnics in Salem with all his cousins, and celebrating the Fourth of July in Townsend with all his siblings and nieces and nephews, my Dad honored his roots. And he added to the strong roots of his family, headed by his remarkable mother Emma Rose; he dug his roots into the soil of his Italian-American community — and beyond. “Family” became not only blood relatives and in-laws, but people who gave and received love and care — people like Angelo Caterino and Theresa and Nick Dell’Anno.
Dad reached out his branches into the world; with strength and determination, he held down many jobs, put himself through college, became an accountant, and ran his own business.
And his shade has sheltered so many people. Though the “baby” of his mother’s first marriage, my father undoubtedly made himself a patriarch in the DeBlosi extended clan. He was someone to turn to — for the big things and for the “little” things, too. He brought loaves of good Italian bread up to the “woods” in Townsend for every conceivable relative who might possibly show up for the cookout. And on quiet Aruba mornings, the peace around the pool would inevitably be interrupted by his voice: “Coffee? Coffee? Iced? Hot? I’m doing a Dunkins’ run.”
Daddy — Bobby, Robert, Uncle, “Cuz,” Buckie — Bob was a strong tree: generous, intelligent, and determined. He was a classic, just like those old Motown songs: romantic, funny, and witty.
And they just don’t make ’em like that anymore.
