On Sunday I honor the memory of my father, Peter “Pete” Cuttita. Peter from the Greek word Petros, meaning stone or rock, the perfect name for a gritty guy with an iron will and a soft heart. When he returned home after fighting in North Africa during World War II, he fell in love with my mom, a free-spirited beauty of Irish descent. They married and staked a claim for their share in the American dream.
Dad was and continues to be, my rock. He offered compassion and administered tough love as I navigated my way through adolescence. His memory served as an inspiration when I became a father, and his spirit cast a guiding light when I discovered the fulfillment that arrives with the birth of a first grandchild.
My daughters were denied the joy of knowing their paternal grandparents. After a long illness my mother passed when I was 11; 10 years later dad fought a courageous battle against cancer only to succumb to the same disease that took his wife.
I was the only child of Pete and Anne Cuttita. After Mom died, Dad was left with the difficult task of raising me on his own. Thankfully for both of us we had a large extended family to turn to when the challenges seemed overwhelming. There was talk of sending me to live with one of my aunts, but dad was determined to give me the life he and my mother had dreamed about. Although it was never easy, he succeeded in providing a nurturing environment.
By day, Dad labored on the operating floor of factory that produced rubber products. At the end of his shift he’d stop at the local gin mill to unwind with a workingman’s martini — a shot and a beer. After throwing down his daily tonic he’d head home to make sure I had a proper dinner and that my schoolwork had been completed. Eventually he’d settle into his chair, relax with the New York Daily News and fall asleep. The next day he’d get up and do it all over again.
I never wanted for anything; Dad did his best to make sure I felt secure and loved. Two summers after my mother died I was hit in the face with how impossibly difficult dad’s life was; he was on a well-earned vacation when he took me to the company store to buy a pair of Keds. The store was in a corner of a large brick building that housed the company’s manufacturing operations. In what turned out to be a teachable moment, Dad insisted we visit the area of the factory where he spent his long days.
What I experienced on that hot summer day would be seared into my memory — it was sensory overload. The sights, the smell, the sounds assaulted my 12-year-old senses. The factory tasted of misery. I grabbed Dad’s hand and literally cried, “Get me out of here!” He looked at me and said, “If you don’t pay attention in school, this is where you’ll wind up.”
Needless to say, I started paying closer attention to my schoolwork. I also developed a keen understanding of how demanding his life had become in the wake of my mother’s death.
Despite the love we shared, our relationship wasn’t without conflict, especially as I grew into a rebellious adolescent. Without his consent, I bought a Harley-Davidson for $90. When I finally told him about my purchase his Italian blood boiled over:
“NO! You’re not keeping it! Get rid of it, now!”
“Why?” I asked.
“Just get rid of it!” he barked.
I pressed, “But why?”
Chocking back tears, he responded in a faint voice, “Because you’re all I have and I don’t want to lose you.”
I’m the man I am today because of Pete Cuttita — my rock. He didn’t have the benefit of a big education, but he taught me the value of hard work, the importance of family, and how to love fearlessly in the face of uncertainty.
Thom Cuttita (thom@cuttita.net) was a Colorado Voices columnist in 2000.
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