In Loving Memory
Joseph Anthony Nolla, Sr.
December 3, 1932 - November 13, 2006
"... the leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old, but his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul ... "
Leader of the band - Dan Fogelberg
Winter has finally come to Pittsburgh. Sometimes at the beginning of a new season I think perhaps it might be possible to avoid the adverse conditions of that season... a winter with no frigid temperatures or snow... a summer with no humidity ... spring with no mud ... autumn with no loss of foliage. But, alas, no matter how long it may delay the new season will surely come, there is no avoiding it.
The season of death came in 2006. On November 13th, my dad died. I watched him change from a robust and active person to a frail, sick man in a matter of 8 months. At the beginning of such a season, it is normal to deny it, "he won't die"... "he can kick this"... (perhaps it won't snow). But slowly the reality of a season shows itself .
Saturday night, November 11th: Four children are called to the hospital: "internal bleeding"..."respirator" ..."off the transplant list" ... "24-48 hours".
Two daughters spend the night in the hospital with their dying father. The younger tried to keep him from removing the tube.. He cried, "Please let me alone"... "I want to go home"... The older said, "Ok, Dad, we'll take you home"... they let him pull the tube out.
Sunday, November 12th, 11AM: He was home: his music, his chair, his garden... a hospital bed, hospice, medications to make it easier....grandchildren, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews... Great Aunt Marge... good-bye dad, grandpap, pap-pap, Joey, Joe, Uncle Joe.
Monday, November 13th, 7AM: A phone call, "Dad is gone"... a son's lament, "Oh, my dad, my dad!"
Tuesday &Wednesday, November 14th & 15th: The funeral home: Sinatra plays... photos.... faces from the past, so many swirling faces.... "your dad was a great guy".
He looked like himself again. The hospital gown was gone, replaced with the red shirt and red tie he bought for himself (and was quite proud of) after his wife of 40-years died. His derby was on his chest along with his sunglasses. The bruising on his hands was less evident.
A tiny little red bud from one of his rose bushes managed to defy the season. A grand-daughter placed it on his lapel. A gift from his garden.
Thursday, November 16th: A funeral: one last glimpse ... his face ... his hands ... good-bye daddy ... his four children huddle together in a group embrace... no mom ... no dad ... orphans.
A funeral mass: a young grandson wearing his grandpap's hat and sunglasses leads the procession... a son's tearful story of a relationship reconciled ... a daughter recounts a joke her dad always told... the crowd laughs through their tears.
The gravesite: taps... a flag is folded and placed in the arms of his grieving little brother... sobs.
The season of death came in 2006. On November 13th, my dad died. I watched him change from a robust and active person to a frail, sick man in a matter of 8 months. At the beginning of such a season, it is normal to deny it, "he won't die"... "he can kick this"... (perhaps it won't snow). But slowly the reality of a season shows itself .
Saturday night, November 11th: Four children are called to the hospital: "internal bleeding"..."respirator" ..."off the transplant list" ... "24-48 hours".
Two daughters spend the night in the hospital with their dying father. The younger tried to keep him from removing the tube.. He cried, "Please let me alone"... "I want to go home"... The older said, "Ok, Dad, we'll take you home"... they let him pull the tube out.
Sunday, November 12th, 11AM: He was home: his music, his chair, his garden... a hospital bed, hospice, medications to make it easier....grandchildren, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews... Great Aunt Marge... good-bye dad, grandpap, pap-pap, Joey, Joe, Uncle Joe.
Monday, November 13th, 7AM: A phone call, "Dad is gone"... a son's lament, "Oh, my dad, my dad!"
Tuesday &Wednesday, November 14th & 15th: The funeral home: Sinatra plays... photos.... faces from the past, so many swirling faces.... "your dad was a great guy".
He looked like himself again. The hospital gown was gone, replaced with the red shirt and red tie he bought for himself (and was quite proud of) after his wife of 40-years died. His derby was on his chest along with his sunglasses. The bruising on his hands was less evident.
A tiny little red bud from one of his rose bushes managed to defy the season. A grand-daughter placed it on his lapel. A gift from his garden.
Thursday, November 16th: A funeral: one last glimpse ... his face ... his hands ... good-bye daddy ... his four children huddle together in a group embrace... no mom ... no dad ... orphans.
A funeral mass: a young grandson wearing his grandpap's hat and sunglasses leads the procession... a son's tearful story of a relationship reconciled ... a daughter recounts a joke her dad always told... the crowd laughs through their tears.
The gravesite: taps... a flag is folded and placed in the arms of his grieving little brother... sobs.
Good-bye my father, Joseph Anthony Nolla. Sr., my root.
I will always remember your sacrifices... your loving... your laughter... your generosity... your jokes ...
your food ... your song.
