Skydiving, Flashers & Action Park

When I think about my childhood, I think of warmth, laughter, and a home that was never just ours but belonged to anyone who needed a place to belong. Daddy, you were the reason why. From the time I was little, you showed me what it meant to be inclusive—not just in words but in action. Our house was a revolving door of my friends, who somehow always felt like part of the family. You welcomed them with your easy humor, your kindness, and the unmistakable sense that they mattered. It was the same when you visited me in college—taking my roommates and me out to dinner, making everyone feel special. And, of course, I can’t forget how all the girls thought you were so handsome. (They weren’t wrong!)

You taught me independence early. I remember being allowed to walk alone from MumMum and Nini’s apartment on West 86th to Eeyore’s, the beloved children’s bookstore on West 79th. Which is why I was only eight when I saw my first flasher—a true New York City rite of passage—but I had bigger things to focus on, like the worlds waiting for me in the pages of my next great read.

Reading was sacred in our house. You modeled it every day, gathering insights from all kinds of sources, weighing perspectives, considering ideas. You showed me that learning never stops and that being intellectually curious means being open to seeing the world through more than just one lens.

And you didn’t just teach me how to navigate books—you taught me how to navigate life. In the ocean, you taught me to swim with the current, to watch where the lifeguards marked the safe zones. It was never just about the water. It was about how to move through the world—when to push forward, when to ride the waves, and how to find my way back to shore.

You also taught me how to survive Action Park. Somehow, against all odds, you’d pile me and my sisters into the car, take us to that wild, barely-regulated amusement park in New Jersey, and we’d manage to make it out alive every time. Bruised, exhilarated, a little bit traumatized, but alive. And, of course, no trip was complete without a stop at McDonald's, where you'd confidently order "five orders of French Flies." Your tongue, trained first in Italian, sometimes had its own ideas. We’d all burst into laughter, but we knew it was just part of you.

That’s the funny thing—I never heard an accent when you spoke. Not until I watched you give an interview on TV one time. To me, you just sounded like Dad.

One of my earliest memories of you is standing in a big open field, looking up at the sky, waiting for you to come floating down after jumping out of an airplane. You were fearless, larger than life. And to this day, I have never met anyone cooler than my Dad.

You taught me to see life with humor and philosophy. That’s probably why, no matter what came my way, I always knew I could handle it—because you showed me how.

Daddy, on your 80th birthday, I want to thank you for the lessons, the love, and the laughter. For shaping me into who I am. For showing me the depth of kindness, the strength of independence, and the beauty of a life filled with curiosity and connection.

Happy Birthday, Daddy. I love you always.