Dynamite

A tribute to a father

After a pretty rocky ninth year of life, my mom rekindled love with a teenage sweetheart.
He looked just like Chachi Arcola from Happy Days.
He wore polo shirts and jean shorts.
A handsome Italian who talked fast, a little shorter than average, and always quick to say,
“Dynamite comes in small packages.”

I was not thrilled at first.
My main concern was Thursday pizza night at Luigi’s.
That was just for me and my mom.
I was worried that might be forgotten.

I do not remember our very first meeting exactly. I spent a lot of my childhood dissociating.
But I remember Frank entering my life like a lightning strike, suddenly brightening everything around me.

He took the us to parks and playgrounds after school.
We played catch.
We watched comedy, and no one ever caught the joke before Frank.
He was a good time scout. He knew where the joy was and got there early.

And yes, pizza still happened.
Frank made chicken pizzas, a keto genius ahead of his time.
Frank loved good food. Actually, if Frank loved anything, you knew it.
He lit up. His enthusiasm was contagious.
Whether it was kielbasa, high school sports stats he never missed, or a joke from a buddy at factory, he had to share it.

Not long after, our families moved in together.
It was 1990 in Kutztown, Pennsylvania.
My mom, baby sister, and I squeezed into a two bedroom apartment with Frank and his two boys.

It was the golden age of my childhood.

For the first time, I had a full time father figure who wanted to know me.
He showed me how to play softball.
He complained that my room was too messy.
He laughed at my jokes.
He sprayed me with a water bottle to wake me up for school.
He told me I was smart.
I had never heard that before.

Frank was, above all else, a family man.
A dad.
A baby brother of five.
We never missed a family event. Birthdays, holidays, deck builds…
Something was always being celebrated by the Amato clan, and Frank could not wait to be there.

His loyalty was unwavering.
You always knew he would show up the best he could, no matter what.
That changed me.
It shaped who I wanted to be for the people I love.

Frank was a weatherman at heart.
There was no storm he was not prepared for.
He kept a little battery powered Realistic weather radio in the cabinet with the bills.
As soon as a storm rolled in, he pulled it out and extended the antenna, power outage or not.

It always felt like this might be the big one.
Frank would stand at the window, eyes wide, excited to see the next lightning strike and feel the thunder.
“Oh man, you gotta see this” he would call the kids over.

Living across the country from him was hard.
I could not wait to tell him about my adventures.
He was always amazed.
Summiting a peak. Walking the streets of Seattle.
“No way, Bec,” he would say.
“You have done such incredible things with your life. I am so proud of you.” - “Freaking-A”

When my mom and Frank divorced, I was 23.
We talked a lot on the phone during that time.
One day, he gently interrupted our conversation and said,
“Bec, no matter what happens between me and your mom, you will always be my family.”

Anyone who knows Frank knows that is who he was.
His love did not discriminate.
It was generous and unconditional.
but hearing it out loud brought me to tears then, and it still does.

I could not wait to introduce my children to Frank.
I wanted them to feel his brightness.
And they did.
Frank was the kind of guy who could spend a day touring a crayon factory and still have reckless enthusiasm to race down a ridiculous slide with his grandkids.

One of my favorite memories is a late night on his back porch, just joking about sherbet.
Phonetically spelling it.
Laughing so hard my face hurt.
His smile. His full belly laugh.
It was contagious.
It was pure love.

I have long known that the biggest turning point in my life was the day Frank walked into it.
I was a child who felt like a burden.
My biological father left early on, and I was hungry for love.
Frank leaned in without hesitation.

He was curious.
Even when we disagreed about politics or religion, he wanted to understand where I was coming from.
We almost always found common ground, usually with laughter.

They say you can see how worthy you are by the way someone who loves you looks at you.
Frank showed me my worth from the day I met him until the last time I saw him. It is so powerful to experience - it never leaves you.

When I learned Frank had cancer, I bought a Realistic weather radio.
Three thousand miles away, it was my way of feeling closer to him.

In the early morning of January 16, Frank left this world peacefully, surrounded by love.

We will feel his presence when storms gather.
We will see his joy in every crack of lightning.
And we will carry his loyalty, his laughter, and his love forward.