The Legacy of Louis Thomas Marotta
Today would have been my father's 100th birthday. Were it not for the coronavirus I would be celebrating with my siblings, attending mass at his beloved Our Lady of Pompeii church in Greenwich Village, walking the streets he loved, saluting his life at Monte's on Macdougal Street.
Because of the coronavirus masses throughout the city were canceled; dining in a small restaurant would violate the guidelines of social distancing. So instead, I'm home, celebrating my father's life with a candle, a prayer, and a few words of remembrance.
My father was not perfect. A second generation Italian still constrained by traditions of the old country, there were many a time, particularly in my adolescent years, that I wished he were less strict, more flexible, more progressive. I couldn't go for pizza after play practice on school nights, and I couldn't see Bonnie and Clyde with my friends who were also not yet seventeen, but whose parents understood that the times, they were a-changin.
How could anyone, particularly someone as creative and artistic as my father grow up in New York's bohemian Greenwich Village and still be so traditional?
It wasn't until I was older that I understood his worries and the weight of his burdens. Only when a tree has fallen can you take the measure of it, Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote. It is the same with a man.
Except for memory's few prickly teenage moments— for me, my father's life has always been his measured by his profound faith, his kindness, and a love which stretches to and from eternity.
One hundred years ago today, an infant, the youngest of five children, was born in a small tenement apartment on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village. Oblivious to the counter-culture swarming around him, my father lived a life centered on family and faith.
On the cork board in his home office, the following quote was posted: I shall pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer it or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.
This is how my father lived his life and how he inspired his children to live theirs. Emily Dickinson said it differently,
My father's legacy can be found in the worn wooden pews of Our Lady of Pompeii Church on Carmine Street and the covered cobblestones of Bleecker and MacDougal. And though I wish I could have traveled to New York and walked the streets my father loved, his greatest legacy is carried with me wherever I go. He is here in this moment, in my heart and the hearts of those who love him.
Because of the coronavirus masses throughout the city were canceled; dining in a small restaurant would violate the guidelines of social distancing. So instead, I'm home, celebrating my father's life with a candle, a prayer, and a few words of remembrance.
My father was not perfect. A second generation Italian still constrained by traditions of the old country, there were many a time, particularly in my adolescent years, that I wished he were less strict, more flexible, more progressive. I couldn't go for pizza after play practice on school nights, and I couldn't see Bonnie and Clyde with my friends who were also not yet seventeen, but whose parents understood that the times, they were a-changin.
How could anyone, particularly someone as creative and artistic as my father grow up in New York's bohemian Greenwich Village and still be so traditional?
It wasn't until I was older that I understood his worries and the weight of his burdens. Only when a tree has fallen can you take the measure of it, Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote. It is the same with a man.
Except for memory's few prickly teenage moments— for me, my father's life has always been his measured by his profound faith, his kindness, and a love which stretches to and from eternity.
One hundred years ago today, an infant, the youngest of five children, was born in a small tenement apartment on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village. Oblivious to the counter-culture swarming around him, my father lived a life centered on family and faith.
On the cork board in his home office, the following quote was posted: I shall pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer it or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.
This is how my father lived his life and how he inspired his children to live theirs. Emily Dickinson said it differently,
If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one Pain
Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his nest again
I shall not live in vain.
My father's legacy can be found in the worn wooden pews of Our Lady of Pompeii Church on Carmine Street and the covered cobblestones of Bleecker and MacDougal. And though I wish I could have traveled to New York and walked the streets my father loved, his greatest legacy is carried with me wherever I go. He is here in this moment, in my heart and the hearts of those who love him.
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