Peter Arena

 Normally, when I write here, I write to share some thoughts or feelings or something that has happened.  I write in a way that is public and shared and in a way that is enjoy this, but also, look at my words.  Today, as I write, I am writing in a way to be public, but not for credit or accolades or likes.  I am writing because before I left Buffalo, my aunt and others asked me to please post my dad's eulogy here.  And I don't know if it is crass?  Or in bad taste?  

I am still not sure, but after a harrowing week, I do know that death is inconvenient.  My dad died the day before a major snow and ice storm hit the southern part of the US.  (the northern part just got subzero temps and more snow).  This made travel a nightmare for people who wanted to come but couldn't get out.  It made travel difficult for those who did find a way to come.  It was quick and air travel a fortune, so I post for those who wanted to be there but couldn't.

I have also come to realize that death is communal. You are never alone in your grief.  From the hospital room to the funeral home to the places stopped in between; grief is never just yours.  It is shared.  It is shown, and that helps. I have lived far from home a good portion of my life and I have missed many funerals and will miss more.  It is hard to be sad alone.  Perhaps this will make someone feel not as far away.

Writing my dad's eulogy was easy.  Giving it was terrible.  I, who always speak loudly, found myself unable to speak.  I briefly glanced up and look at my mother, smiling through her tears, my son and nephews who had delivered their Papa's casket through the church, and the people in the pews there to honor my dad, and I took a deep breath, and one more, and these are the words I had to say. And if you read them, I hope they give you a sense of community, of comfort, and one more smile about my dad.

I think that when you have a parent, you only see them as your mom or dad, and not always as the entire person that they are.  Over this past week, I’ve been reminded again and again that my dad, our dad, was so much more.  He was a husband of 58 years.  A brother. An uncle. A Papa. A friend. A coworker.  A proud veteran.  Peter Arena was so many things.

Our dad was a good man.  He was also selfish.  Opinionated.  Stubborn.  And like any true Sicilian, he could hold and nurture a grudge with true craftsmanship.  You knew if you got the quiet frown, you were in trouble.  If you got the quiet frown and the intricate hand twist?  Pack your bags; he wasn’t talking for weeks.

Our dad loved a good story.  He loved to tell them, to hear them, and to tell them again.  These stories were a solid 40% truth and 60% embellishment.  He also loved telling a joke.  He loved telling them so much he would be laughing too hard to do more than wheeze out the punchline.

When I look at our dad’s life, two words that come out to me again and again are service and love.

Dad served 4 years in the US Navy as a medic.  He spoke of that time as a great adventure. He was proud to serve and of his service.

He was part of the Lancaster Police Department for over 20 years.  Being a police officer and a detective defined him.  He loved it.  He loved the weird hours, the camaraderie, helping people in need, arresting bad guys, and endless cups of coffee in a world before Tim Horton’s.

He missed being a police man from the minute he retired and put that need into serving his town.  He ran for judge.  He became a very active member of the Lancaster Lions Club. He kept on serving.

The other word that defines our dad’s life is love.  Peter Arena loved and he loved hard.  He loved his wife, his kids, and his grandkids.  And if you’re associated with any of these people, he loved you too.  He loved his family, his friends, his community, and his country.

Peter presented a tough, grizzled exterior but everyone in this room and beyond knew that underneath that front was one of the most sensitive, faithful, loving men around.  He was no saint, but by God, he loved.

Our dad loved life. He loves the parties and holidays. He loved traditions.  He lived in the moment.  So much so that when we were younger, my mother referred to him as Peter Pan.  Sometimes, this was in a loving way as in “Peter, you charmer” and sometimes in a frustrated way of “Dammit, Peter”.

I hope that we remember the service and the love our dad gave to this world.  I hope we remember the good and the bad.  I hope that we remember the frail old man and the lithe, younger Pete who could find his sister across a crowded party and clear the dance floor with their polka.  And, I really hope that our dad remembers that it is the second star to the right and straight on til morning.