Domenico Colloraffi, is the oldest and only son of Vincenzo Colloraffi and Maria Modica, who are written about in the previous chapter on the Colloraffis of Sant' Agata Di Militello and also in the Modica chapter of this book. He was born on May 29, 1910 in the Bronx, New York. His birth certificate gives a June birthdate, but that is because his parents missed the one week deadline, given by the city clerk, for registering the birth of infants, and gave him a new birth date in order to comply with the law.

My father was quickly joined by two younger sisters, Josephine, born on February 18, 1912, and Lucille, born on December 18, 1914. His parents continued the naming tradition followed by Sicilians of the time. The oldest son is named for the paternal grandfather, the oldest daughter for the paternal grandmother, the second oldest daughter was named for the maternal grandmother, and if my dad had had a brother, he would have been named for the maternal grandfather. In this case, the paternal grandparents were Domenico Colloraffi and Giuseppa Zingales Botta. The maternal grandparents were Ignazio Modica and Lucia Regalbutto. All four had been born in Sant' Agata Di Militello and had come to live in the United States. It is very probable that they knew each other in Sicilia. Bob and I were able to visit their homes in 2000, and the families lived only a few blocks apart and would have attended the same church. Furthermore, there seemed to be a family tie, already established through Ignazio's mother and Domenico's brother's wife in Sant' Agata Di Militello.

The children attended PS  in the Bronx. My father began school without knowing any English and after that unpleasant experience, insisted on speaking English to his sisters so that they would be better prepared for the world outside of the Sicilian family confines.

My grandparents were so proud that their "American born" son was starting school that they carefully made their five year old son, Domenico, two beautiful outfits of velvet and lace to wear - befitting an Italian prince. After fighting a few battles over these "sissy" clothes, my father was given more appropriate clothes to wear to school.

My father seemd to have grown up among many cousins and relatives. He talked about going to the home of his Aunt Josephine (Giuseppa Colloraffi) and her husband, Pete Galluchio, which was a two family home, previously pictured, which his grandparents also lived in. There, the children would dance in a large vat filled with grapes to make wine. My dad always called the type "Daggo Red". I imagine that the chidren all had "daggo red" toes, too.

Another Sicilian tradition was that both of my father's parents worked outside of the home. As I read the records of our family in the civil records of towns in Sicily, I found that the women in my Colloraffi branch of the family including, my grandmother, my great grandmother and my great great grandmother all worked for a living. In fact, Domenico Colloraffi's mother, Maria Teresa, had 15 children and worked as a seamstress! My father's mother worked as a seamstress in the garment industry, and was able to bring home a pay check even during the Great Depression of the 1930's. My father's father, Viincenzo, through his profession was given as a shoe maker, like his father, Domenico in his record at Ellis Island - worked as a fine tailor. His mother, Giuseppa Zingales Botta was a seamstress, so I am sure that he learned both trades.

(I need to again note here that the Sicilian tradition is that women continue with their birth name, as their legal name, even after their marriage. Of course, our Sicilian families would have to conform to the naming tradition in the United States, that a woman go by her husband's surname at marriage. However, I thought that I should explain why I am referring to my great grandmothers by their birth names.)

I don't doubt that my father was treated like a "little Italian prince" in his home. Though the Arabs were chased out of Sicily around the year 1200 AD by the Normans, I have heard some Italians speak of the Sicilian men as treating and viewing women in the Arab tradition. Daughters were born to be "married off" and often seemed to be more trouble than they were worth. Though my grandmother, Maria Modica, and my grandfather's sisters were literate, many Sicilian girls of the time had never been to school at the turn of the century. Sons were raised to be the future of not only the family, but expected to support their parents in their old age. Because of this, each Sicilian family wanted their sons to marry well and also be well schooled in a trade to be able to support not only their own family of wife and children, but to help with dowrys for the sisters, and provide for the parents.

My father seemed to not only enjoy his education at James Monroe High School, but benefit from it. He was able to attend college and there is more information about his high school and college in the chapter that our son, Robert Anschuetsz wrote about "grandpa's stories". Here it is appropriate to say that my father probably had a genius IQ. He had a wonderful mind for both remembering details and working out problems. He had a certain math genius that allowed him to always remember a number of any sort, and refer to it. At the end of his career, he was in charge of the payroll department of the Chrysler Missle Plant. My father also had a real curiosity about life. He loved history and could recall the smallest details of a book.

Besides these intellectual gifts, he was also a very talented runner and ran track in high school and in college. He liked to sail, too, and there is more information about this in some of the stories that Robert has written down for us in this book. He must have been a good swimmer because he talked about diving into New York Harbor, not far from his home in the Bronx, and swimming among the sailing ships. He always talked about how beautiful they looked as they came into the port, and then, when he saw them up close, the sails would be tattered and dirty. He used to draw pictures of these "tall ships" for me when I was a child.

Our son, Robert, provides us with many of my dad's tales about his college life. This is also referred to in the eulogies that are included in this chapter. My father eventually went to college in Ohio - where his Modica grandparents and uncles and their families had moved to work in construction and the plaster trade, around Cleveland, Ohio. He had started college intending to become a doctor, but instead graduated as a teacher. However, he never taught, until he was in his 50's, when he first starting teaching chemistry in night school, and then, when he retired from Chrysler Corportation as an accountant, became the "Super Sub" for East Detroit School District. Twenty years latter, my sister who works there, says that they still remember my dad!

While in college, my dad went to a hospital in Cleveland to visit a friend and there met Mildred Gertrude Thompson, a beautiful and intelligent nursing student.

They married and moved to Detroit, Michigan, where my father was able to find work in the civil service during the Depression, and eventually ended up employed by Chrysler Corportation. They had four daughters and purchased a nice, brick home in Detroit, where my mother and sister still live. Within ten years, my father's sisters and their families also moved to Detroit.

Their father, Vincenzo, died in New York, around 1947, but their mother, Maria, came to live in Detroit, to be near her children and grandchildren, when she retired from the garment industry.

Mildred and Domenico had four daughters, Patricia, Pamela, Janice and Betty (Elizabeth). Had they had a son to continue on the COLLORAFFI name, I would never have started this research or book. My father was certain that he was the "last of the Colloraffis" of any spelling, and so I started searching for more of his family and five years latter ended up with this book and thousands of Family Members. Sadly, my dad is not here to read it.

When I was a child, my father was away from home at work, a great deal of the time, leaving my mother with most of the responsibility of raising and disciplining us. My mother also made sure that we each went to college. My three sisters became teachers and I worked in schools for 24 years as a school social worker. I always told the children that I came in contact with that the best gift that my parents ever gave me was a love of reading - which has provided me with a lifetime of joy. I remember my father driving me to the library nearly every week before I was old enough to go there on my roller skates or bike.

Mildred and Domenico were able to do a great deal of traveling when he retired at age 60, after a serious heart attack and visited Western States, Florida, Texas, the dessert, and even Hawaii. They learned, read, and traveled until my father's health made it no longer possible to be away from home for any length of time. Each of my parents could (my mom still can at the age of nearly 88) recall the smallest details of each trip that they took. My father never had a desire, however, to go to Europe or to see Sicily.

After a series of strokes, heart problems, and other health set backs, my father died, in an excellent rehabilitation center in Harper Woods, Michigan. Each day two family members, mainly my sisters and mom, would be with dad there, to help him with his meals, chat, and watch TV. He had a Sicilian friend there and they used to joke and tease each other. His friend, Joe's family, was also devoted to their dad.

I think that in my father's last year of life, where he sometimes lost memory due to strokes, he started to slow down a little and really appreciate what life had to offer him. His heart had stopped several times, but had restarted by itself. He sometimes reflected on his life. An interesting conversation that he had with my sister was when he was thinking about his family and wondered about the "rift" (his word) that had happened in the family -with regret. To say that my father was a "Type A" personality would be a mild description. My father was fueled by conflict. He loved to "stir" things up, and then come out on top of the whirlpool that he had created. Robert described him as a "kid that never grew up". This was his best feature and also his worst feature.

He was blessed to have my sainted mother as his wife. My mother was always by his side and always in support of him.

To my children, Grandpa Colloraffi, is a Legend. He loved them and they loved him. I think that some of his child-like qualities immediately endeared him to children. He was impulsive, explosive, fun, funny, had lots of energy, and was always excited about life. My father has given much of this to his children and his grandchildren. We are all very proud to be part of the Colloraffi family!

I will never forget the last time that I saw my father alive. My husband and I went to visit him at his nursing home. As we entered, he greeted us warmly. My husband turned on the football game, and as he was tunning it in, my dad pointed to a picture above the TV and remarked at how much he liked it. His lunch came, and despite the fact that he was having a hard time swallowing it, he said that he liked it. Then there was a "tapping on the window". My sister had brought her dog Beethoven, a wonderful, large shaggy dog, covered with ribbons. He had just been for a shampoo and hair-cut. We all laughed as he looked so cute and funny. My dad really enjoyed this. Three days latter, the call came for me at work, that meant that I would never be able to laugh with my father again.

Dominic Colloraffi was known by many different names - Dominic, Donald, Don, and Cal - to name a few. However, I think most of the people here referred to him as Grandpa.

Grandpa would have said he didn't - quote- want a eulogy- read at his funeral, but he really would have. Grandpa loved being the center of attention. He loved having his picture taken. He loved telling stories to anyone who would listen - his grandchildren, a bank teller, even a person who dialed the wrong number. Grandpa was definitely one of a kind - a legend in his own time.

Grandpa was a kid who never grew up. His college years were definitely his favorites, since 90% of his stories involved his escapades at Ohio University and Ohio State Univsersity. We'll always remember his best friend and track mate, Bill Sher, though we never met him and Grandpa hadn't seen him in decades. We'll also remember the two Larry Schneiders in his life-one the track coach and the other the genetics professor. We'll remember the fraternity stories, the chemistry experiments, and also the track stories.

Grandpa loved sports. He participated in his favorites - golf, track, and sailing - when he was younger. We'll all remember his track stories - the antics on the track and the pranks in the locker room. We'll remember that he was teammates with Jessie Owens at Ohio State, and we'll remember the plaque at Ohio State that bears his engraved name. We'll remember his golf stories, too, like the time that he said he was shooting under par on the golf course with just one hole to go and the person in charge of mowing the course came out so he had to quit. We'll also remember how Grandpa wouldn't let any of his playing partners have a "gimme" - even his boss.

Grandpa loved history. Give him a book about the civil war and he would read it and be able to explain all of the details. He'd also watch historical television programs and remember all of the details. He was always curious to find things out. He loved to travel and learn about the areas he visited.

Grandpa loved causing trouble. There was always a person to blame for his troubles - a doctor, a neighbor, a bank, a polititian, or his favorite target - the President of Chrysler. He enjoyed writing letters and phone calls to make sure that people saw things his way. I tend to think, however, that he stirred up the bee hive more to amuse himself than actually cause grief to anyone, for at heart he was a kind person.

Grandpa's career at Briggs, Chrysler, and teaching in public schools will long be remembered by colleagues and those to whom he told stories. Grandpa was - and still is - known as the supersub in the school system where he taught. Grandpa became a respected accountant at Chrysler and is most proud of the fact that he pared down many complicated forms to just a single sheet of paper.

Grandpa was the typical New York Italian. He both looked and acted the part. He loved being part of a large family - even if the family was often feuding with one another. Grandpa loved and respected his wife of over 60 years, and loved very much each of his four daughters. He especially like children, though, and loved pinching the cheeks of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren while saying "your so cute".
Grandpa will certainly be missed by our family as well as by those who knew him. He was definitely the type of person you could never forget. Somewhere right now Grandpa is smiling his impish grin, happy that we're gathered here to celebrate his life.

We'll miss you Grandpa, but you'll always be in our thoughts.

Grandpa's life began in the Bronx and eneded in Detroit with stops in Athens, and Columbus, Ohio along the way. Through his ife he collected stories of his escapades and shared them with anybody who would listen. I can remember from the time I was a small boy listening on his back porch to stories of Grandpa's Sicilian relatives, his childhood in the Bronx and the great fun that he had in college. The stories of going to James Monroe High School with Hank Greenberg, sneaking home to the dormatories after curfew at Ohio University only to be caught by the Dean, runniing with Jesse Owens at Ohio State, and meeting and eventually marrying a pretty young nursing student from Portsmouth, Ohio, will always remain with me.
We are all going to miss Grandpa a lot. Lulckily for us, Grandpa left a legacy in all of his stories. Grandpa never wrote an autobiography, but we will always remember the best times of his life and what was important to him because of his anecdotes. I remember looking forward to going to Grandma and Grandpa's house and hearing a familiar story from Grandpa or even being surprised by a new one when I thought that I had heard them all.
Since moving to Florida, I have missed being able to talk with Grandpa on a regular basis. But when we did come back for a visit, Grandpa was always waiting with a big smile on his face and his arms opened wide. I'm glad that when Elsa and I visited in August, we were able to bring the two kids to see Grandpa. He seemed very proud of them. When my children get older and ask what kind of person their Great-Grandpa was, I will tell them all about how much he meant to all of us and I will be sure not to let his stories be forgotten. My kids will know all about Grandpa's love for sailiing and golf, his memorable trips out west (especially Las Vegas), the fire at the frat house, his days at Ohio University, Ohio State, and at the Chrysler Missle plant. But most of all, although he will be missed by us, he will always be in our hearts.

As we say goodbye to Cal, it's fitting that we consider some of the ways he made a difference in our lives.
As someone with a bent to books and ideas, the thing I learned from Cal is that the ordinary events of everyday life can have their own appeal for the imagination. Cal was a great storyteller, with a gift for recalling details of events from even decades before. We had many chats over the years on the back porch at home - often with grandkids present. In total, Cal must have described a hundred episodes or omre from his life: as a quarter mile track man in high school; a pre-med college student; an executive at Chrysler; a substitute teacher; and, in retirement, a wide-ranging traveler with his wife.

The thing about these stories was that they were not just recitals of facts. They were shaped as little myths - narratives that captured in minature an essential truth about the world as Cal saw it.

One of my favorites was about the time Cal - then a student at Ohio State was driving back home to New York for Christmas vacation. On the road between Harrisbury, Pennsylvania and New York, with rain and sleet falling in sheets, he spotted a hitchhiker and stopped to pick him up. The hitchhiker proved an ingrate, however, proceeding to stick a gun in Cal's face and hijack a car. That left Cal himself with no choice but to stick out his thumb and hope for a lift.

Suddenly, a car swooshed by and splattered him from head to foot with mud. After assessing the damage to his clothes, he looked up and noticed that the car had come to a stop a short distance away. He ran to it and discovered, to his surprise, that it was none other that the official state car of the governor of Pennsylvania. The driver apologized for the mudbath he had caused and offered to give Cal a lift. As they drove off, he explained that he was the governor's secretary, on his way to New York to pick up prints of photos the governor had taken during a safari in Africa.

I'm a bit fuzzy on the next point - which may have varied from one telling of the story to the next. But I believe the secretary also tald Cal he was taking some of the governor's suits to a dry cleaner in New York. Cal was encouraged to change out of his splattered clothing into one of these suits during the drive. He did so, and then related to the secretary the events that had brought him to his pass. In New York, he accompanied the governor's man to the cleaners and had his own clothes restored at state expense. He then exchanged the governor's clothes for his own and made his way home of Christmas.

Some weeks later, when Cal was back at Ohio State, there was a knock at the door. To Cal's surprise, it was the governor's secretary, and at his side a police sergeant. The sergeant told Cal his car had been recovered and was standing outside. He also reported that the car theif had been apprehended and was already in jail, beginning a fifteen-year sentence for armed robery.

The best news for Cal, however, was that he was personally invited by the governor to pay him a visit at the state capital in Harrisburg. On arriving for this visit, as Cal told it, he had to cool his heels for what seemed like hours as various dignitaries shuttled into and out of the governor's office. Thinking he was spurned, Cal was about to leave, when, finally, the hoped-for summons came. The governor greeted Cal warmly, apologized for the mud splattering, and thanked him for his role in bringing to justice a criminal long sought by the police. After a period of chit-chat, Cal was dismissed with an invitation to drop in again, any time be was back in the area.

Another story I recall also made the point that "justice will out." This one was set at James Monroe High School, Cal's Alma Mater in the Bronx. There, a classmate was Hank Greenberg, who was to become a homerun-hitting hero for the Detroit Tigers. Another classmate was a little Italian kid continually picked on by the class bully. One day, in the hall outside the classroom, Greenberg caught sight of the bully taunting the weakling - pushing him backward with thrusts of his arms. Greenberg bellowed a command to lay off, but it fell on deaf ears. So he grabbed the bully from behind by the neck and, according to Cal, proceeded to beat the expletives out of him.

There was a theme through all these stories - to which facts were no doubt sacrificed at times. You always had a victim, a vindication through a hero, and a final victory for the right, as Cal saw it.

For me, the cavalier treatment of facts was hardly a fault. I viewed Cal's stories as more important than facts. They pointed to ideals - like respect for the underdog - like using authority, or power, for good - like loyalty to those who support you - that the world would be a better place for following. In this respect, the stories were like the parables of Jesus. They showed, too, that, for all of Cal's bluster at times, his heart was in the right place.

The fact was also brought home to me by Cal's unfailing friendliness. The last months, and even years, of his life were unmistakably hard on him. The first setback was that he could no longer drive. That was a major deprivation for someone as curious about the world as Cal. Then, walking became difficult, and, finally, even the control of bodily functions.

Still, I remember with special fondness the months before Cal's final stays in the hospital and then in the nursing home. In that period, when he was still at home and still a great talker, I tried to visit him weekly. He was always sitting on the back porch, sometimes reading, more often watching TV. As I approached, I knew I coul always count on the same enthusiastic freeting. He'd lean forward in his chair, grasp my hand, and utter a heartfelt "Glad you could make it!" I could always tell that greeting was sincere. Instantly, the remote control would click and shut off the TV in my favor. Then, after a brief warmup of small talk, the stories would begin again.

I genuinely enjoyed those visits. I am a listener in life, and Cal was a talker. I had ideas about the world; Cal had stories. We fit in with each other well, and I know I'll really miss him.

I think Call will miss all of us, too. He said kind things at one time or another about of of his chidren and grandchildren. But he saved the kindest words for the one indispensable person in his life - his wife. "That woman is a sain - the only reason I'll still sitting here," he would say in these or similar world when Mom would leave the back porch after spending time with us. "My only worry," Cal said, "is that she'll be finanacially secure when I'm gone."

Cal needn't have worried. His own hard work at Chrysler - which sometimes ran to weeks on end for six or seven 12 hour days - had served to provide for future years. All in all, here was a hardworking man, who meant well and showed it. Throughout his ife, Cal had a keen appreciation of the human comedy and friendly regard for his fellow man. To him we can surely say, "Well done, Cal. A better world stretches out its arms to welcome you. May the ideals embodied in the stories you told now be truly fulfilled in fact."