Anthony Vallone

While I appreciated the expected platitudes from co-workers and friends, anyone who knew my dad didn’t just say “I’m sorry for your loss” or “Our thoughts are with you.” Everyone has a Tony Vallone story. Cousins telling me how much a part of their childhood memories he is. Aunts and uncles expressing how close they felt to him, lovingly dubbing him an honorary Minnillo. Brothers and sisters reminiscing about ski trips, sports cars and pizza with Frankie Valli. Lisa fondly remembering a decade plus of decadent meals. Taylor and Logan transporting themselves back to cool summer days in the pool with Papa. And Mom. I can’t possibly do 43 years of memories justice here, but I bet if you ask her nicely, she’ll tell you her favorites. When it’s my time for whatever is beyond, I can only hope to have left an impression on half as many people as he has. 

In my almost 42 years on this planet (36 if the kids ask), I’ve learned a lot from my father. Sometimes, that meant knowing to do the opposite, but more often than not, I tried my best to be like him. Unfortunately for Lisa, I didn’t get his palate or fashion sense, but I did learn how important family is. What it means to be a good husband and father. To not take anything, including yourself, too seriously. Most importantly, I learned what it means to be strong. Physically, my dad was always a big guy. All of my friends have stories of being terrified of him when we were too loud upstairs. That’s one of the hardest things about the last few months. For the first time in my life, my dad looked old. He looked frail. But that’s when I learned what strength was. When he got the diagnosis, his first instinct wasn’t to panic or collapse under a list of things undone. He didn’t ask “Why me?” or curse a higher power for something being done to him. He asked how much time he had left with his family. When we were given a glimmer of hope with treatment, he never once thought of giving up and jumped head-first into eight hours of hell. When it was clear the first session wasn’t the lifeline we had hoped, he made the decision to come home with his family for as long as he had left. I can’t imagine the pain he was in, but you’d never know. He’d tell us how comfy the bed was. How he loved to be by the window with the sunlight. Telling us over and over again how much he loved one of his Christmas presents, a framed photo of him, my mom, Taylor and Logan from Thanksgiving. When his kids came for what would be their final visit, he fought through the confusion to reminisce about days past over some espresso-soaked biscotti. He put on a brave face when the grandkids were around so they wouldn’t be scared. One upsetting side effect of the chemo was what it did to his lips and the inside of his mouth, but he was determined to have one last bowl of Lisa’s chicken noodle soup. He couldn’t hide the wince as it went down, but he quickly cracked a wise-guy smile and let her know “It’s good!”. 

The last time I spoke to him was Wednesday. I walked in, and he opened his eyes and said, “Hey bub!” pretending he wasn’t in pain. We talked a bit but he was clearly tired so I let him rest. I went in an hour later to say goodbye and got the same “Hey bub!” in a way that let me know he’d forgotten I was there. I kissed his forehead and told him I’d see him soon. It was hard seeing him that way. In my head he was still covered in oil, tanning on the beach next to Gary. He was still the guy that let me stay up late to watch American Gladiators and Tales From The Crypt while he took a slow drag off a cigarette. He was holding on for us. Because he was strong. But when my mom finally told him it was ok to go, he did, knowing we’d all be ok. Because he showed us how to be strong without him.

He's survived by his incredible wife Kathy, his children Craig, Caren, Anthony and Chase and his grandchildren Brittni, Brandon, Sam, Taylor and Logan. But he also lives in brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, and great-grandchildren. The old accounts that still call him to talk and the local restaurant servers who will wonder where he’s been. Co-workers, friends, doctors, nurses. Everyone has a Tony Vallone story. 

He had a sweatshirt that he loved which proudly proclaimed “Yes, I Am Old, But I saw Andrea Bocelli On Stage” which my mom loved to jokingly remind him wasn’t true. His response was always “I see him on stage on YouTube every day”. We made sure that the sweater will be with him forever. Like many people, this is my favorite Bocelli song. Hopefully, it'll bring us all some comfort as we say goodbye. For now.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4L_yCwFD6Jo

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