Legend has it that when I was born my dad said “Another girl??,” promptly got up, and went to the racetrack. Or maybe he was at the racetrack WHILE I was born. That actually seems more likely. At any rate, the story continues that while there, he bet on a horse named Salamantha. The horse won and I was consequently named Samantha, with the nickname Sal. In fact, Sal was the only thing my dad ever called me. It’s not often I admit that I was named after a horse.

My dad also made a bunch of stuff up so who really knows if this is even true. He was a great storyteller. An embellisher. He had a quick, biting, wit. Usually at the expense of others. (And yes, I am not immune to the obvious.)

He was funny. Once, while he was taking an experimental cancer treatment drug made from shark cartilage, he started telling everyone he could suddenly breathe underwater. When he had his gall stones removed he had them made into a paperweight. He would eat hot peppers and force you to feel his bald spot to see if it was sweaty.

He had an incredibly deep voice. The kind of voice that would scare my friends who came over for a sleepover when he asked them if they had a quarter to take the bus home.

He was also scary. The kind of scary where, let’s say you were hiding around a corner to scare your brother but when you jumped out and yelled “ROAR” and it was him instead, you might run for your life out of fear.

And if I’m being honest, for many years, he was pretty uninvolved. He would come home from work, watch tv, eat dinner without conversing much, and go to bed. There was an unspoken tension and anxiety when he was around. He was not what you would consider approachable to his kids.

And then my mom died. And he rose to the occasion. He changed. He softened. He became affectionate. Involved. Interested. If you needed him he would stop what he was doing and really listen. It was the opposite side of the coin to her death. There was an opportunity to get close to us. A responsibility.

Yesterday marked 20 years he has been gone. I hardly remember any of those early years when he was stiff and distant. When I think of him I see him laughing with us. At Chris coming over fresh from her visit to Target, showing him all the deals she got. At me when I’m dancing in front of the television trying to get a reaction from him. All five of us together reminiscing and telling stories about my mom.

The day before he died he told me he wished he would have been able to see the babies I was going to have someday. When I think of that it still shatters me. So I make sure to share with Teddy and Franny memories about their Papou, and hope they will know him through pictures and stories. Because even if he can’t know my babies, they will know him.