Dad and the Bride Doll

Today marks the 50th anniversary of my father’s death. I am reblogging a post I wrote about him on December 12, 2016.

My father, a complicated man, was the oldest son of 10 children. His parents came to America from Naples, Italy via Ellis Island at the turn of the century, and settled down in Jersey City, New Jersey.

He left school in the sixth grade to pick up bits of coal from the railroad tracks, placing them in a wagon, to later sell to buy food for the family.

Brookyn Navy Yard
Brooklyn Navy Yard

My father was a tight package of a man. Dark and solid with biceps of steel and large hands heavily calloused. He worked on the docks of the Brooklyn Navy Yard during World War II and then in construction. When we visited Grandma for Sunday dinners, he would flex his muscles and I, and another cousin or two, would hang on his arm as our legs swung above the floor.

A hard drinking man, he was the black sheep of the family but my grandmother’s favorite. She would cook the foods he loved and he would sing and dance her around the kitchen, dodging the hot wood stove and the table that could expand to serve her large family. He never failed to make her laugh, she who took to her bed with headaches; dour and sad, more days than not.

I was his only child. I knew he would have preferred a son who he would teach to box, throw a ball and take to the Yankee games. To please him, I learned to swing a bat, hit a fastball, and bob and weave as I sparred with an imaginary opponent. He took me out of school to see the 7th game of the World Series when the Yankees beat the Dodgers in 1952.

One Christmas when I was about eight or nine, I wanted a bride doll. I knew it cost a lot of money and money was always tight. My father shook his head indicating I would not get my wish.

3967bf2cf9b139f298c080f54bbad403

Close to Christmas, when my father went into his bedroom and pulled the door behind him—not quite closing it—I crept up to watch through the slit. He opened the closet and reached on the top shelf and took down a box. Opening it, he removed a beautiful blond doll with a white gown and stroked her veil with his heavy hands. I guess I faked my shocked reaction when I opened the present on Christmas day. I don’t remember if I wished at the time I hadn’t peeked into the bedroom, since it diminished my surprise. However, now as I look back I treasure the sight of my father gently smoothing out the doll’s veil, knowing he was making his little girl happy on Christmas.

By Marianna Crane

After a long career in nursing--I was one of the first certified gerontological nurse practitioners--I am now a writer. My writings center around patients I have had over the years that continue to haunt my memory unless I record their stories. In addition, I write about growing older, confronting ageism, creativity and food. My memoir, "Stories from the Tenth Floor Clinic: A Nurse Practitioner Remembers" is available where ever books are sold.

20 comments

  2. I remember your father well. I always thought of him as being gentle and great with children. I remember thinking that my Aunt Jean was so lucky to find him.
    love, irene Janssen

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  3. What a beautiful memory. I did not know your father very well and love hearing about this side of him.

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  5. I LOVE this memory, Marianna! I remember your Dad and always liked him. Thank you for sharing this beautiful story. You made my day!!

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  6. What a sweet story, Marianna. This is the time of year that those sweet memories tend to surface. Remind me to tell you sometime of my favorite Christmas Doll story. Merry Christmas to you and Ernie and to your children and grandchildren!

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  7. Lovely images. I can picture your swinging from your father’s iron biceps, and also picture him smoothing the veil on the bride doll’s veil. Yes, he was a complicated man. We are ALL complicated.

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