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| Dad, Mr. Gerard Fischetti |
Susan Marie Davniero
I fall upon grief
Dad’s Fishing Escape
I CAN SEE DAD THERE
I CAN SEE DAD THERE
(In Memory of Father Gerard Fischetti)
Published Creations Mags, Write On, Poet's Art
Published Creations Mags, Write On, Poet's Art
I can see Dad there
Handsome with dark wavy hair
He sings the tunes
Ballads and romances he croons
Always the gentlemen
I can remember when
He dressed quite the man
A stylish Dapper Dan
Three daughters had he
Susan, the name he gave me
Caring and giving
He loved living
Poker – deal him in
He played to win
Proud veteran of WWII
Salutes the red, white and blue
With finesse he toils
Gardening in the soil
At his workbench he stands
A master craftsman in demand
Whistles as he skillfully labors
Always ready to help the neighbors
Not a man to roam
A showplace is his home
I always believed it to be
Dad would watch over me
Yet for a man so nice
He had but one deadly vice
The cigarettes he crave
Put him in an early grave
No more was I serenaded
The songs have faded
I can see Dad there
Handsome with dark wavy hair
His photo frame on my night stand
He sits pose with a cigarette in his hand
Susan Marie Davniero
DAD’S CHRISTMAS EVE
(In memory of Dad Gerard Fischetti)
(Pubished Pancakes in Heaven)
(Pubished Pancakes in Heaven)
Christmas Eve tonight
Behold the sight
Scene of celebration
Dad’s rite of tradition
Welcome and greet
Relatives meet
Dad’s the host
For anisette toast
Feast on table spread
For the night ahead
Meal of seven fish
Christmas Eve dish
The family dines
Antipasto and wines
Blessed are we
In Dad’s family
Years passed
The feast didn’t last
This time of year
To shed a tear
From a hospital bed
No more was said
A holiday to grieve
Dad’s Christmas Eve
Written by Susan Marie Davniero
A DAD'S LOVE, ALL IN THE CARDS
Published: Newsday Long Island newspaper
Dialogue about families who play together.
Dialogue about families who play together.
My family played together, but I question whether the game was a typical family activity. My family's game was poker. It began when we were children- my father taught my sisters and me how to play. The version was straight, 5-card poker, draw or 7-card stud poker- nothing wild or childish would do. It was the real deal. Eager to learn, we adapted to the game with ease, soon mastering it and playing with a skill that belied our ages.
Then, the game was played with pennies and we learned the value of the dollar as the pennies added up. If we lost a hand, our father affectionately taunted us, "I have no sympathy for losers," and we learned to lose gracefully, never to be sore losers. If we won, we won with tact as ladies, never to boaster brag. Yet, the real "win" was the time spent with father. He loved poker and he loved us - it was a winning combination for all of us.
On holidays and special occasions, all the relatives played poker. It was the family tradition: After the holiday dinner, the cards were dealt to young and old alike. The bets and stakes at the "children's table" differed from those at the adults' table. We were all winners.
Poker never left me.
On the day of my wedding shower, the men gathered at my father's house for poker as the women attended the bridal shower at my mother-in-law's. As I was "cleaning up with gifts" at my bridal shower, my betrothed, Bob, was "cleaning up at poker" at my father's, as my father would recall of that day. My husband, Bob, was winning me with the deal, and he knew then, he was marrying into the right family.
We have been a "winning couple" ever since.
Written by Susan Marie Davniero
| Dad Playing on Dad's Pool Table |
PLAYING
ON DAD’S POOL TABLE
(In memory
Gerard Fischetti)
Family and friends all came
For records, pool and games
My teenage years at home spent
Hanging out in the family basement
All of us who came were able
To play on Dad’s pool table
It was a party for pool lovers
Until one day the game was over
My beloved Dad
passing disabled
Playing on
Dad’s pool table
Written by Susan Marie Davniero
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| Dad singing with Uncle Gus |
Dad, Sing Me a Song
(In Memory of Dad Gerard Fischetti)
Published Pancakes in Heaven.
Long Story Short, Great South Bay Magazines
Published Pancakes in Heaven.
Long Story Short, Great South Bay Magazines
Dad, sing me a song
Tell me how I belong
To you, as a family
Together in harmony
Dad, sing me a song
Tell me to sing along,
Sing with me now
And teach me how
Dad, sing me a song
Tell me about the days I long
When you were big and strong
before we parted and said so long
before we parted and said so long
Written by Susan Marie Davniero
 |
| Published June Issue Long Story Short - Dad, Sing Me a Song |
ON FATHER’S DAY
Grant that we
His family
Are so glad
To be with Dad
On Father’s Day
To have our say
Every day true
We love you
Susan Marie Davniero
 |
| Susan and Bob with Bob's Father
When Photos Speak
There
sits a father, son and me
Snapshot
picture of us three
To
portray one Sunday visit
On
a couch posing we all sit
Painted
smiles all the same
To
adorn the photo frame
Photographing
a calm stillness
As
we sit there motionless
We
do not move, we do not touch
Sitting
alongside three on the couch
The
photo speaks to asks us why
For
we know pictures do not lie
Written by Susan Marie Davniero
Photo
of my father-in-law Robert Davniero, Sr. Susan (me) in the Middle
and my husband, the son Robert Davniero, Jr.
|
THIS FATHER’S DAY
I fall upon grief
Life can be brief
Prayers I need
My heart bleeds
Deep somber tone
A daughter left alone
Glisten Heaven’s gate
Crossed father’s fate
Father went away
This Father’s Day
Susan Marie Davniero
| Dad Gerard Fischetti on Boat Captree |
Dad’s Fishing Escape
(In
Memory of Gerard Fischetti)
By
Susan Marie Davniero
Published Great South Bay Magazine and Long Story Short
Published Great South Bay Magazine and Long Story Short
The morning dawn
breaks
And
Seagulls call makes
A new day as
beach awakes
For Dad’s
fishing escape
Yet, red sky
this morning
Fishermen take
warning
Rough waters at
bay
The fishes
escape today
by Susan Marie
Davniero
 |
| Fishing for Dad's Love Published Long Story Short |
 |
| Dad with Mom and his Sisters |
EVERY DAY WAS FATHER’S DAY
Published The Pink Chameleon
Every day was Father’s Day having a father like my Dad, Gerard Fischetti. I was thankful he was my father. Dad always made me feel safe, protected me. I admire him for his honesty, caring, bravery, and love. What is owed to the story of a life but love and the everlasting father’s love?
Dad named me Susan - which in turn made my common name seem uncommon and special. He was the best, a true gentleman – handsome, well mannered and charming. Dad lived each day to the fullest, living life as if it was created for him. Father fostered a sense of belonging to his family.
He lived by the Golden Rule; “Do onto to others as you would have them do onto to you” was his mantra (“treat others as you would like to be treated.”) Time wrapped itself around his every word. Yet, he was better than his word.
Father’s Day gave occasion to celebrate. To revisit Father’s Day as special to his family, yet he was often humble and asked no special admiration or tribute. A family baroque with a family poker game was often his choice celebration for the day. It never seemed to be enough.
A father’s legacy is his children. How do you thank a Father who remembered you at every holiday giving you Valentine candy hearts, toys when you were sick, and a Mother’s Day gift when you were children? How do you thank a Father who took you on fishing trips, taught you to play poker and helped you with school projects?
How do you thank a Father who protected you and watched over you? I always felt safe when Daddy was around. How do you thank a Father who sang you to sleep as a little girl and stayed up late waiting for your safe return from dates when you were a big girl? A simple thank you isn’t enough.
My Father told me I would be a “knock out one day” and then made me feel like one when my handsome Father, decked out in a silver tuxedo, walked me down the aisle on my wedding day. On my wedding day, 30 years ago, Father walked me down the aisle and gave me away. He stepped aside so Bob, my husband, could take his place. Yet, no one could ever really take the place of my Dad, Gerard Fischetti.
Time fades away yet love last forever. The echoing footsteps of the years drew fast to an end. After Father passed away, Father’s Day was never the same again.
Susan Marie Davniero (Fischetti)
That was then this is now. Today when I attend Sunday mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Lindenhurst with my husband Bob my faith grows stronger and I leave the church feeling better than I did before I entered.
And That's All She Wrote...
FATHER’S DAY LESSONS - “GO BACK TO CHURCH”
(Published Our Lady of Perpetual Church Bulletin, Lindy Gazette Newspaper
and The Long Island Catholic Magazine)
and The Long Island Catholic Magazine)
When I was in my teens growing up at home in Massapequa
with Dad and Mom,
My dad, Gerard Fischetti, always told me “Go back to church…”
My dad, Gerard Fischetti, always told me “Go back to church…”
Back when I was growing up at home I was finding my own
way. Alas, my way was leading me away from the church. I can still hear my
Dad's plea; “Go back to church” as if
it was an answer to all my teenage problems.
That was then this is now. Today when I attend Sunday mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Lindenhurst with my husband Bob my faith grows stronger and I leave the church feeling better than I did before I entered.
At church singing a hymn loud is nearly as important as
singing in tune as I join in. I try to sing better than last week as we all
sing "Alleluia! Alleluia!"
The Lord is divinely hospitable. We had a blessed time at the House of God.
As I sit at church my mind wanders back to another time at my parent's home when I was growing up. I whisper, as if my beloved deceased Dad, Gerard Fischetti, can hear me; "Dad, I am back." The answer is here. Dad was right.
As I sit at church my mind wanders back to another time at my parent's home when I was growing up. I whisper, as if my beloved deceased Dad, Gerard Fischetti, can hear me; "Dad, I am back." The answer is here. Dad was right.
The church welcomes everyone back. The door is always open.
Regardless of attire, wealth, or creed - all are invited for a visit at the
House of God. Come home to the church. You will find your answers there. My Dad
was right after all.
You can go home again. Sometimes Fathers know best
You can go home again. Sometimes Fathers know best
Written by - Susan Marie Davniero
Susan and Robert Davniero
Susan and Robert Davniero
Our Lady at Perpetual Help Church Parishners
Dear Susan,
Very nice. With
your permission I would like to use this for the June Ministry of Praise
insert in the Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church Bulletin.
Peace of Jesus,
OLPH
Deacon Frank
A CARPENTER’S DAUGHTER
(In memory
Gerard Fischetti)
Following my Dad as he
work
I listened when he taught
How to bang nails with a hammer
And tighten with a
screwdriver
My Dad was a master
craftsman
Yet, I was not your
handyman
Sorry Dad, I didn’t
have a brother
I was just a
carpenter’s daughter
Yet at my own home
today
I still follow Dad’s
way
To hammer, screw and
the rest
For I inherited Dad’s
Tool Chest
Written by Susan Marie Davniero
|
Photo in Hollis, NY First Home
Susan and Laura sawing w/neighbor Dad took photo
Coffee, Dad, and Me
(In memory of
Gerard Fischetti)
Published Long Story Short
I was only five that Christmas morn
When I woke at the crack of dawn
I dash to look under the Christmas tree
To find a Christmas present just for me
It was Tea Cup set in blue plastic
Packaging read toy Wedgewood replica
With tea cup and saucer in my hand
To the kitchen in slippers scurrying I
ran
I went to pour coffee for Dad and me
He preferred coffee to a pot of tea
Drinking from my cup to my lip
Plastic bitter taste with every sip
Although just the same
Daddy didn’t want to complain
He had good taste and was polite
Even if the coffee he didn’t like
I knew he did it because he loved me
More than he loved any cup of coffee
That one Christmas season
My Dad taught me a lesson
Sometimes good taste would
Not always taste good
Written by Susan
Marie Davniero
“Coffee, Dad and Me ” Christmas
Story
(In memory of Dad, Gerard
Fischetti)
Published Newsday
I recall it was a Christmas morning. I was just 5. Under the tree,
I saw it - the blue tea cup set, pattern with white florets surrounding the trim
that was on my Santa’s list. The red and green gift tag read: “To Susan from
Santa.” It wasn’t china, just simply a plastic toy replica of the English style
Waterford china, but I loved it as if it was the real thing. Knowing how much
Daddy loved his coffee, I wanted the tea set so I could have coffee with Dad. I
always wanted to be near my Dad, he was a special Dad, a handsome gentleman who
sang to me, and always there to protect me.
That
Christmas morning I thought I surprise him serving him a cup of coffee with my
new tea cup set. With tea cups in hand for Dad and me, I dash off to the kitchen
smelling the Savarin brand ground coffee brewing. Dad only drank the Savarin
coffee brand. Back when we grew up in the 1960’s, I remember how my sisters and
I all called Dad the “El Exigente,” connoisseur of coffee the demanding one for
Savarin ground coffee, our take off mimicking the television commercial.
As I enter the kitchen I break the rules reaching for the coffee pot. At 5 I
wasn’t allowed to touch anything hot on the stove. I carefully pour the coffee
adding a bit of milk and sugar the way Daddy liked it. I poured myself a drop of
coffee (I was told I was too young to drink coffee) with a lot of milk, so Daddy
and I could have a “tea party”, although it was with coffee, Dad didn’t drink
tea.
Sprinting
cautiously carrying the tray with our tea cups and saucers to the living room
finding Dad relaxing in his favorite soft brown chair smoking a cigarette. I
proudly serve him his coffee “Daddy your coffee is serve…” I announce thinking I
sound like an English butler. Dad glances up at his little daughter holding a
tray with plastic tea cups. Always the gentleman Dad thanks me; “How nice young
lady. Thank you,” reaching for his coffee tea cup. I notice the tea cup seem too
small for my Dad’s grip, but the tea cup was just the right size for me as I
joined him for our tea party.
I
drank my milk with coffee as Dad sipped his coffee. Although I wasn’t an “El
Exigente”*connoisseur of coffee, even I could tell the plastic tea cup had a
bitter plastic taste as I sipped from the rim. But Dad didn’t seem to mind – he
just continued drinking his coffee to the last drop. He smiles as he places the
empty cup on tray saying; “That hit the spot.” But adding “One cup is plenty…I’m
full…” as he tactfully turns down a second cup. I didn’t finish my “plastic
tasting” cut.
I
knew that Dad never had just one cup of coffee and even at 5 I realized he was
just being nice drinking the bitter tasting coffee because he didn’t want to
hurt my feelings. That morning I learned because of Dad’s politeness that
sometimes we need to be nice and act in good taste even if it didn’t really
taste good.
My Dad, Gerard Fischetti, a true gentleman always raised me in
good taste. I like to think that my Dad influence me to always act like a lady
with good taste for the rest of my life. I remember Dad. I learned a Christmas
lesson from Dad - that sometimes good taste doesn't always taste good.
written by,
Susan
Marie Davniero
Dad’s Green Thumb
It was where the green grass grew
Growing up in the home I knew
Memories I remember from long ago
Dad gardening and trimming shrubs
Framing the emerald manicure lawn
A summer labor of love escaping
Outdoors gardening and landscaping
All day from the crack of dawn
Weeding crabgrass on the lawn
Sunshine and blue sky surrounds
When Dad was working the grounds
Property of a Long Island Colonial Cape
The land and Dad were both in great shape
Dad would celebrate his own way
Gardening even on Father’s Day
by Susan Marie Davniero
Savarin Coffee TV Commercials
Years ago, there was a commercial for Savarin coffee featuring a character known only as El Exigente … the demanding one … Oh, sure, it was great to be able to record TV shows to watch at our convenience. But remember the first time the power failed?
It makes his debut today in the New York as a TV spokesman for Savarin instant coffee. In the commercial by Smith/Greenland, the white-hatted and suited coffee connoisseur arrives by cab at a supermarket to check the ”incredible” report that some instant …
Expressway: Coffee, dad and me on Christmas morning – I could smell Savarin-brand coffee brewing. It was the only kind my dad drank. When we grew up in the 1960s, my sisters and I called our dad the "El Exigente," the demanding character in Savarin’s TV commercials … Susan Marie Davniero lives in Lindenhurst.
Coffee,Dad
and Me
December
25, 2014 By SUSAN MARIE DAVNIERO
Published NEWSDAY OPINION:
Coffee,Dad
and Me Christmas Morning
December
25, 2014 By SUSAN MARIE DAVNIERO
It was Christmas morning and I was just 5 years old. Under the
tree, I saw it - the blue tea set with the white florets around the trim that
was on my list for Santa! It was just a plastic replica of English-style
Waterford china, but I loved it as if it were real. Knowing Daddy loved coffee,
I wanted the set so I could have coffee with him.
That morning I thought
I'd surprise him. With teacups in hand, I dashed to the kitchen. I could smell
Savarin-brand coffee brewing. It was the only kind my dad drank. When we grew
up in the 1960s, my sisters and I called our dad the "El Exigente,"
the demanding character in Savarin's TV commercials.
I carefully poured the coffee, and added a bit of milk and sugar
the way Daddy liked it. Then I poured myself a drop of coffee (since I was told
I was too young to drink coffee) and added a lot of milk, so Daddy and I could
have a "tea party." (Dad didn't drink tea.)
I cautiously carried a tray with our cups and saucers to the
living room, where Dad relaxed in his favorite soft brown chair smoking a
cigarette. I remember announcing, "Daddy your coffee is served," as
if I were an English butler. Always the gentleman, Dad thanked me; How nice, young lady,
thank you," he said reaching for his cup. The cup was way too small for
Dad's hand, but just the right for mine.
We sipped our drinks.
Unfortunately, the cups gave our drinks a bitter plastic taste, but Dad didn't
seem to mind. He finished his, smiled, and placed the cup on tray. "That
hit the spot," he said, quickly adding, "One cup is plenty, I'm
full." He never drank just one cup of coffee, but this was his way of
tactfully turning down a second without hurting my feelings. I didn't even
finish my cup because of that plastic taste.
That morning I learned from Dad that sometimes we need to be
nice and act in good taste - even if it just doesn't really taste good.
By
Reader Susan Marie Davniero
It was Christmas morning and I was just 5 years old. Under the
tree, I saw it - the blue tea set with the white florets around the trim that
was on my list for Santa! It was just a plastic replica of English-style
Waterford china, but I loved it as if it were real. Knowing Daddy loved coffee,
I wanted the set so I could have coffee with him.
That morning I thought
I'd surprise him. With teacups in hand, I dashed to the kitchen. I could smell
Savarin-brand coffee brewing. It was the only kind my dad drank. When we grew
up in the 1960s, my sisters and I called our dad the "El Exigente,"
the demanding character in Savarin's TV commercials.
I carefully poured the coffee, and added a bit of milk and sugar
the way Daddy liked it. Then I poured myself a drop of coffee (since I was told
I was too young to drink coffee) and added a lot of milk, so Daddy and I could
have a "tea party." (Dad didn't drink tea.)
I cautiously carried a tray with our cups and saucers to the
living room, where Dad relaxed in his favorite soft brown chair smoking a
cigarette. I remember announcing, "Daddy your coffee is served," as
if I were an English butler. Always the gentleman, Dad thanked me; How nice, young lady,
thank you," he said reaching for his cup. The cup was way too small for
Dad's hand, but just the right for mine.
We sipped our drinks.
Unfortunately, the cups gave our drinks a bitter plastic taste, but Dad didn't
seem to mind. He finished his, smiled, and placed the cup on tray. "That
hit the spot," he said, quickly adding, "One cup is plenty, I'm
full." He never drank just one cup of coffee, but this was his way of
tactfully turning down a second without hurting my feelings. I didn't even
finish my cup because of that plastic taste.
That morning I learned from Dad that sometimes we need to be
nice and act in good taste - even if it just doesn't really taste good.
By
Reader Susan Marie Davniero
|
|
| Dad, Mr. Gerard Fischetti |
And That's All She Wrote...
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