Twelve out of ten people walking around are nuts

No, even my mathematical skills are not so dreadful that I do not see 'twelve out of ten' as logical. Rather, that is a classic quotation of my dad's. This favourite expression began as "7 out of ten," but gradually grew - he would add "it went up." He also was quite inclined to say, frequently, that too many people had "the book learning, but not the ways of the world," and that "the smarter you make'm, the dumber they get." (It probably is obvious who he usually meant, but his commentary on a lack of common sense amongst the intellectual nonetheless has some validity.)

My father, Sebastiano (he called himself "Sam," disliking "fancy" names), died on the 14th of March 1997. (Both my parents would die in March, and at 5:30 AM - my mother, Giuseppina, on the 17th in 2002.) It seems appropriate to share a bit of his 'wisdom' here. Sam was not the world's most devout man - on the day when he unexpectedly came in whilst I was at meditation, he seemed a combination of uneasy and afraid, and asked, "Why are you kind of like mesmerising yourself?" The only comments on the scriptures I recall was in relation to the gospel of the labourers in the vineyard. (For one from a family of tenant farmers, labouring in a vineyard hit a little too close to home.) "That is such a stupid thing! Who are the nuts who make them read stuff like that in church?"

Sam's belief was that what God required of him was caring for his spouse and family. I may have more theological knowledge, but must admit that I shall be very fortunate indeed if I live to fulfil my vocation as well as he did his.

There is a saying in Avellino (it loses something in the translation from the dialect) "why raise children? You could raise pigs and at least kill and eat them." This must be remembered in Sam's single reflection on a sermon. At the time (this must have been 1970 or so), there was a children's book called "The Giving Tree," which was a tale of a man and his tree, from climbing it in childhood to using it to build a first house to when the man, now very elderly, rests his weary self on the stump which is all that remains of this most sacrificial tree. The priest at the service Sam attended had told the congregation the story, and attempted to connect the tree to Christ's own giving. Sam would tell me about this sermon later, drawing his own conclusions: "Goes to show you how parents. You give'm all they got all your life, then they sit on you."

No one sat on him, of course... but my innate cynicism (well, all right, the variety burnt idealists have... a slightly different one from dad's) seems an inheritance I came by honestly.

Rest in peace and rise in glory, padre mio. Time to go and kind of like mesmerise myself now.