The Passing of My Dad

Domenic Joseph Villari (1930-2019)

There are ways we prefer to remember those we love, those who are no longer with us, those who pass on to their next great adventure.  I like remembering my father as a good looking Sicilian who married my mother.

Mom was from Taylorsville, Mississippi; dad from Providence, Rhode Island.  They met in Texas after he joined the Air Force during the Korean War.  He never made it in-country and spent the conflict repairing gunnery cameras for the bombers returning to Japan.  When he left the service he applied for a fledgling federal organization and never heard back from them until we had all moved out to sunny California for a chance to open a photographic equipment repair shop in a camera store there.  NASA was a bit late with an offer to run their photographic section.

California was still a land of opportunity for those who knew where the money was, and it was all over the place, in real estate.  He and mom made "modest" investments and, after many years of rising State taxes, sold most of their holdings and moved back to the South, to Pass Christian, Mississippi, where they bought properties in Timber Ridge.  They finally finished their final home (after losing it prior to moving in, to Hurricane Katrina) on Second Street, near War Memorial Park., a couple of blocks from the beach.

He loved to cook, to make canes and walking sticks, and to watch the stock market and invest.  He was never truly in his element unless he had a project.  His latest ongoing project was in support of the regional animal shelter to which he gave much money and supplies over the past years.

After several strokes and winning a battle with prostate cancer, he was still a force to be reckoned with.  He could be a belligerent and kind.  He would arm-wrestle a bid down to what he wanted, and then give a bonus when the job was done well.  Each stroke changed his personality in ways which we all had to accept.  He would alienate those he would normally cherish.  I think the cancer meds began this personality disorder and the strokes just exacerbated it.  What pissed him off the most was that he couldn't do the simplest of tasks without asking for help.  He hated asking for help.  But, in the end, he fought the good fight.  Life didn't beat him down, the final massive stroke did.  He was almost 89 and bragged that he had outlived all the men in his family by double.  It occurs to me that I've almost accomplished the same feat.

He is survived by his wife, me, his grandson,  granddaughter and two great-grandchildren.  Dad will be cremated, next week, and his ashes spread with those of his beloved pets, as was his wish.  Where he felt all of his old friends had died before him, he made a few "younger" friends here in the Pass, many who called him "dad" as a greeting.  He will be missed.

There is much I never told my dad. Things I did in the service and couldn't talk about, philosophies I knew he wouldn't understand and disagreements with his which I kept to myself.  I never really told him I loved him until he couldn't answer me back; until he was lying in the hospital bed and I would stroke his hair and kiss his forehead.  He knew, and I will miss him.