I recall, not long after I was stationed at Dow Air Force Base in Bangor, Maine, my commanding officer asking me what branch of the service I had been in prior to enlisting in the USAF in 1951. Major Reginald L. Hayes, a formidable, rather large fighter pilot from Texas, called me to his office to tell me that he was pleased to award me my third stripe because he was impressed with my work ethic and high degree of responsibility in the few months that I had been in his squadron. “But, Sir,” I protested, “I was never in another branch of service—I came into the Air Force directly from my freshman year in junior college.” “Well, hell, Vaccaro,” drawled Major Hayes. “That’s hard for me to believe!” He then began to quiz me on my hometown, my family, parents and my home life. As I began describing my early years, dwelling extensively on my father’s influence in my life and his demanding authoritarian personality, Major Hayes, who was never one to spare the cuss words he undoubtedly picked up during his formative years in Texas, blurted, “Well, I’ll be damned, Vaccaro, sounds to me as though you received your basic training from one tough hombre!” And looking back on those years, especially the daily work details and projects that Papa meted out without letting up, I guess Major Hayes was 100 percent correct—Papa was indeed one tough hombre. As I have told countless people, family and friends alike, Papa’s influence shaped me in ways that I was totally unaware of during those years of demanding work assignments—always tinged with a high degree of tension, respect and fear. The lessons I learned: the value of work, respect, responsibility, fidelity to family and the proper way to approach work and life were drilled into my psyche from my earliest years and remain with me to this day. Because I did a maximum of listening and observing and a minimum of talking, my verbal skills were lacking. In fact, from day one in kindergarten until I was on my own in the Air Force, I was plagued with a speech impediment—stuttering. It was while in the service, being interviewed for pilots’ candidate school that I realized the root cause of my stuttering was the result of my apprehensive and fearful response I had to my father’s overpowering personality. Once away from his influence, and following months of self-analysis, I realized I could speak in a normal cadence without stuttering. My habit of listening and observing served me well in other areas as well. I learned my father was a great storyteller with dozens of humorous and comic stories that he undoubtedly picked up in the East Liberty section of Pittsburgh from his Italian immigrant pals and chums: “Cowboy” DeLuca, “Frankie” Bove, “Kelly” Napilitano and “Sandwich” Palumbo. The East Liberty section in Pittsburgh was 100 percent Italian, sectioned off from the Polish, Irish and Negro sections of the Steel City. Each year, Papa and Uncle Edward would make 400 gallons of wine—seven barrels of red for the men and one barrel of white for the ladies. The wine often served as a focal point for scores of friends and relatives who would stop by and be entertained by Papa’s stories of bygone days. Of course, the Vaccaro children weren’t allowed to drink—but we learned quite a bit of Italian folklore and great, hilarious stories of Papa’s growing up Italian in Pittsburgh prior to his move to California for health reasons. Papa, Mama and my sister, Virgie, moved from Pittsburgh to Los Angeles in 1929, mainly on the advice of my father’s physician. He was suffering from severe back pain, due primarily to hard physical work as a plumber. While tall and muscular, Papa’s health required that he move to a sunnier and healthier locale. And because he could not immediately practice his plumbing trade in California, Papa’s first job was driving a taxicab in Los Angeles. Later, he got work as a truck driver with Johnson’s Trucking Company and later with the L.A. Times. Later, Papa convinced his sisters, Angeline, Nelly and eventually Jeanette to move to California from Pittsburgh. Papa also persuaded his parents—Big Nonno Giuseppe Vaccaro and Little Nonna Virginia Pergola Vaccaro to sell their modest home in East Liberty and join the growing Vaccaro clan in Los Angeles. This mass migration of family was the basis of my formative years, first on 20th Street and later on Dana Street in Los Angeles. The motto in our family was “Chi non lavora non mangia----chi lavora mangia!.” In English, “Who does not work does not eat – Who works, eats!” Thus, we all worked—it was the Italian way and Papa certainly saw to it that we understood the need to work if we were to survive during the Great Depression.
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