My mom, Marie Ann (Spadone) Ferrera passed away on October 15. Mom was a strong willed woman, mother and grandmother who would do anything for her family. She gave me so much and I loved her dearly.

Thank you for teaching me how to ride a bicycle. You took me to the dead end part of Dodd Rd. that day. It was probably the spring or summer of 1964 so I was seven years old. This watershed event in my life and a key moment in our relationship happened 60 years ago, yet there are pieces of this memory that are still so clear to me. I don’t remember what my bike looked like or what kind of day it was but I do remember this: I got on my bike and began pedaling, you were behind me holding onto the back of the seat, jogging along as I headed down the road. I knew the moment that you’d let go because it instantly felt different. Once I sensed this, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw you standing in the middle of Dodd Rd., receding into the distance as I pedaled forward. You had let me go. I was on my own, wings spread wide and moving into the future.

Thank you for instilling the love of reading in me. You took me regularly to the library, specifically the Julia Potwin Memorial Library. The library was housed inside a quaint old building built around the turn of the twentieth century. The building is still standing but the library is long gone. You’d park in the small lot at the rear of the building and we’d enter into the bottom floor which housed the children’s section. I recall this being a warm, quiet and welcoming place. There were so many books! We’d sit at one of the small round tables and I’d just read, read, read. As an emergent reader who was just discovering the magic of books, this place was heavenly. I glommed onto a series of books featuring a young boy named Danny Dunn. In each book, Danny got involved in a series of exciting science/nature based adventures. I couldn’t get enough of these books and hungrily devoured each and every one. I’ve been a life long reader ever since then mom and I have you to thank for getting me started. Oh, your granddaughter Denali is an even more avid reader than I am.

Thank you for teaching me the importance of persistence, or as you used to say: “Sticking to your guns.” You and I were always very strong willed so it’s no wonder that we’d often butt heads. Once you locked onto something mom, you wouldn’t let go. That wasn’t always easy for me but I admired you for the way you’d go for what you wanted. Case in point: You began your career in movie theaters behind the glass in the ticket booth and ended it as the manager of a prestigious theater in our town. What makes this accomplishment even more impressive is the fact that you achieved this level of success as a woman in an industry dominated by men…in the 1970s! You eventually quit to spend more time with your family, otherwise you probably would have made district manager. I took a page from your playbook when I turned 40. I quit my job, went back to school and became an elementary school teacher. That took focus and drive, both of which you had in spades. I had a goal in sight and was not going to stop until I achieved it.

Thank you for instilling the love of music in me. Music filled our house when we were growing up. It was either you singing, or the radio and records playing. Like a sponge my young mind soaked up every note, every lyric, every vocal nuance from the masters of American popular music who you idolized: Ella Fitzgerald, Dean Martin, Barbara Streisand, Tony Bennett and of course your main man Frank Sinatra. I play the guitar, sing and write songs. I have you to thank for starting me on the road as a musician. You once told me that when you listen to music, you feel it deep down inside of you. That’s me too, a part of you that lives on.

Thank you mom for bringing me into this world. Thank you for loving me so fiercely. Thank you for always worrying about me. Thank you for the single autumn leaf wrapped in plastic that you sent me every year for the first ten years or so after I moved west.

Love always,

Butch

ps

Just so you know, I never liked that nickname grandma gave me, but I was afraid if I signed this letter “Louie” you wouldn’t know who it was from.