If you knew daddy at all, you knew he was kind. He would greet you with a warm smile and would genuinely be happy to see you and chat for a few minutes. “So, what’s good?” he’d say. Kindness is a constant in so many memories.
He was an intelligent man and could speak with you on a great number of topics. Years of doing crossword puzzles kept his mind sharp and his vocabulary broad. He believed that the Latin he was forced to take in college gave him knowledge of the English language that he drew from all the time.
Loving-yes. He loved mom very much. 52 years they were married on the day Jesus called him home. “Lea,” he’d say, “You make my heart soar like an eagle.”
And corny. Oh, so corny! He certainly had the gift of cheesy witticism. There was no shortage of dad jokes. (Daddy, did you get a haircut? Nope. I got them all cut.) His humor made some roll their eyes but he made me laugh out loud.
He loved me and my two sisters and two brothers. We have been shaped by his influence in countless ways. He just wanted us to be happy. Our happiness brought him happiness. Our struggles truly saddened him. And the same can be said for his 17 grandchildren, each of whom he had nicknames for. There’s Mako and Sharky, Zsa Zsa, Cookie, Tiger, Ohno, and Squeaker to name a few. He tried to instill in them, as he did with us, that it’s important to work hard in life and treat people well- a life lesson taught by example. We quickly learned the number one Italian rule- Respect.
Honesty was a biggie too. When daddy was a small boy in Brooklyn, he once stole a coconut. He got caught and he never stole again and he never ate coconut again.
My daddy was without a doubt a family man. He loved to be surrounded by family and friends. Saturday lunches (outside of the fishing season) brought him great pleasure.
The office closed at 3 on Saturdays and he’d stop to pick up the cold cut spread on his way home. Italian cold cuts. American cold cuts. 6 or more loaves of Italian bread. Seeded rye for mom. Olives stuffed with garlic or provolone. Pickles, the sour kind. Fresh mozzarella ball still warm because they just made it. And wine. He loved a nice port or Amarone. “Jacqueline, get yourself a glass. Did you taste the capicola? Look how lean and rare the roast before is,” he’d say. He just loved to share the meal with different guests. If you’ve broken bread with us at Saturday lunch then you have seen the joy it brought him. It wasn’t so much about the food as it was about who he shared it with. He was proud to show off his children and grandchildren and proud to welcome people into his home. The home, as he put it, “he worked his whole life to create.”
Work. His work. You can hardly call it work when you do something you love, and daddy loved his dental practice. He said dentistry is exciting, not the routine fillings or root canals but the technology. The evolving technology amazed and intrigued him. He treated his patients like family. Just look at how many patients came to honor daddy. That same moral compass that guided his personal life was present in his professional life as well. The longevity of his staff and the four-generation families he had as patients are a testament to that.
Something else he loved? Family, yes. Work, yes. And the Open Wide. As with most boats, the Open Wide was a source of tremendous joy for daddy as well as agonizing frustration. It was a piece of who he was. Captain. Deep sea fisherman. The Open Wide is synonymous with summer in the Scelfo household. Boaters, fisherman, beachgoers are who WE are. It’s in our BLOOD because of daddy.
You know daddy was a dentist and a fisherman. Some of you may know him as a hunter. Some may remember him as a bowler. You may know his DVR playlist contains every James Bond movie.
You may know he’s a Star Wars fan and an X Files fan and a Harry Potter fan and that he would stop to watch Jaws anytime it aired on tv. Maybe you’ve sat at the kitchen table with him and had the satisfaction of placing a piece in the current 1000-piece puzzle he’d been working on.
To me and my siblings he’s daddy.
To mom he’s Petie or Hon, depending on the day.
To his grandchildren he’s Grandpa Doc.
To you he may be Uncle Pete or Pete, Dr. Scelfo or just Doc.
But to ALL he will be missed.
I will end by saying what he so often said to me to send me in my way,
May the force be with you, Daddy.
COMPARTA UN OBITUARIO
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