40 Years Ago, I lost My Father. Our Family Lost a Legend.

My mom loved her 1976 boxy little orange 2002 BMW. She rarely let my dad drive it, which was fine with him. He loved his new Pontiac Grand Prix. It was big, American, luxurious and smooth. Mom’s car was German with a stick shift. They each loved their ride.

It was October 8, 1977 and my parents had their minds set on going to the Los Angeles County Fair. Mom, me, my aunt and grandmother wanted to see the fair, dad wanted to go to the racetrack, and for a few weeks in the early fall in Los Angeles both events would be at the same place. Mom offered to drive us but it would be a tight squeeze in the BMW, so dad agreed to drive her car and she would take his.

Dad had a stop to make and we had to pick up my Southern granny and my aunt, who usually made us late “putting on her face.” I was getting impatient anticipating the tilt-a-whirl in my future. So mom and dad playfully revved up their engines down the street side by side as my mother jokingly yelled at my father to “take care of her baby.” And off he went.

That was the last time I ever saw my father alive.

We made the turn down Olive Avenue in Burbank and headed to the freeway. We didn’t get far when we saw an ambulance and a firetruck in front of the Burbank Court House. My mom casually complained about the “damn looky-loos” and glanced over about the same time I did when we saw it — her BMW parked in front of the fountain of the courthouse.

In the pit of my stomach, I knew something was wrong. My father, like all of his brothers, had succumbed to heart disease.

Dad was a powerhouse. He was built like a brick wall. When someone has that many muscles and that much strength, you somehow think they are stronger than death. But they are not.

A couple of years after moving to Burbank from Miami Beach, my father would have his first heart attack. It was a big one and it took him down fast and hard. It was that first feeling, as a little girl, where my father didn’t seem invincible. After he came home from the hospital, he slowed down a bit and it was then that he and I would grow closer. Before his heart attack, we seemed to live separate lives, but afterward, for a short while, I was his sidekick. I don’t think my mother realized the escapades I would find myself in with dad. As he quickly got back into doing his thing of hustling, deal making, and gambling, I would be right there with him. These became our adventures and those are the memories that have stuck with me the strongest.

After his second heart attack, he would have some tests to see what kind of damage was done. The tests would reveal that three of his arteries were blocked and a fourth one was compromised. I remember many years later when David Letterman received a similar diagnosis. He had celebrity guests host his show for a while, but after quintuple bypass surgery, he missed only a month of shows and that was that. But in 1977, there was really not much to be done. Dad was a walking time bomb.

During the first part of 1977, Dad became a first time grandfather to his namesake. He, with all his strength and power, would melt into a blob of happiness around this tiny little baby boy. He would open up to my sister that once he was gone, our mother would marry a doctor or someone much different than him. It was eerie to see him show a vulnerable side, but he knew how charismatic mom was and saw the writing on the wall. But he was wrong. Our mother had fallen hard for this man of muscles who would be her protector until the day he died. She never had an interest in dating and never wanted to be involved with another man after his death. She did, however, have a pretty big crush on Tony Soprano.

So that morning, we parked my Dad’s car next to the firetruck and made our way through the crowd to see if our fears were correct. I first saw his shoes, perfectly polished and purposely laid on the sidewalk. Next to them was one of his favorite ties, cut and placed near his shoes. All I could think was that he was going to kill whoever cut that expensive tie.

I stood there frozen and felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my aunt. She pulled me back and took me to the car. We drove away and left my mother there with her husband lying on the street surrounded by paramedics and bystanders and her orange shiny car, right there next to him.

I waited at my grandmother’s house to hear the news. My mother came up the stairs, her face wet from tears. Dad had picked up some alterations at a little suit shop on the Burbank Golden Mall, was carrying them back to the car, and as he put the keys into the door, clutched his heart and collapsed.

There were stupid rumors that would surface after his death. Some mob informer would say that there was a hit put on my dad from Sinatra because he was writing a book about his time as his bodyguard, but it wouldn’t be that glamorous. Just heart disease and maybe one too many meatballs.

There are so many people who, after they die, are rarely talked about. Often, the stories die right along with them and are soon forgotten. But not our parents. It’s been 40 years today since our father died and my sister and I talk about him and my mother almost every day.

He might have been an unconventional father, but never for one moment of one day did we ever question if we were loved. It’s probably why we’re not too fucked up. It was a wild and crazy life being Banjo’s daughters and we wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.