Category Archives: The Story of ‘A Bridge Between’

In memoriam

peg-and-carlo-loving-touch

I had the privilege of delivering the eulogy at my mother’s celebration of life that took place at St. John’s church in Sandwich on April 19, 2017. Perhaps you’ve read the memoir that spurred this website… perhaps not (available here on Amazon).  If you have, you already know the essence of my mother, Peggy Pola, as well as my father Carlo. If you haven’t read the memoir, I hope you’ll get to know her just a bit from the text that follows.

Margaret (Peggy) Pola

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Across the last bridge

My parents were builders of bridges in so many ways. My father’s original poem merely laid the planks on top of what was already a solid foundation– and from there, the path stretched on and on. As my mother’s surviving sister reminded the family, the bridge still stands, it just now crosses a wider divide. Below you’ll read a little bit about my mother, Peggy, and perhaps understand why she stood as a shining example to us all. What appears below is the text of her published obituary.

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In celebration: Happy 100th, Daddy

I can just imagine it: the way his usually rigid jaw and tight lips would soften in a half-smile. When told, he would query quietly, “Am I?” His blue eyes would twinkle and he’d pause just a second then say, “Well, I guess I am,” and chuckle softly. He was not a man to wallow in his accomplishments but this is something he wanted for so long. He would have turned 100.

You would have never guessed his age. His appearance, like the rest of him, was both an open book and an enigma. Stripes and plaids, a copper bracelet, a belt of twisted cable, the watch he wore upside-down.  Though he offered no pretense, you never knew him well until you read between the lines. He did not waste words but neither did he mince them. A single glance spoke volumes. He did not lavish praise but conveyed his love unfailingly.

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My daddy’s holiday

My mother likes to explain that, when her brood was young (long before Monday holidays rearranged our calendars), many of us thought that Washington’s birthday was a holiday only because is was my father’s birthday–and therefore a holiday just for him. If it were up to me, we’d still be celebrating my father’s birthday every year as a national holiday. As a matter of fact, we’d celebrate in grand style. There would be pageantry: dancing girls and horses with plumes, in the way  he once requested. He’d get quite a kick out of it, I know. Particularly those dancing girls.

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In a very timely visit, my sister Jan has been touring Yellowstone National Park this week. The park was one of the more spectacular venues my family visited on our 11,000-mile cross-country adventure in 1963. For me, seeing it when I was only six years old, Yellowstone left an indelible impression. I have also revisited the park in the past and hope to go again someday. For now, I will enjoy it through my sister’s recent pictures and this except from A Bridge Between which may help explain why both the park and my father hold a special place in my heart.

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