The late Joe Bambera during his World War II service in the Army Air Corps. His son is the
Roman Catholic bishop of Scranton. (COURTESY OF BISHOP JOSEPH C. BAMBERA)
Rabbi Yitzchok Raskin of Leningrad was killed in the Soviet Union. (COURTESY OF RABBI BENNY RAPOPORT)
Wayne J. Pisanchyn of Dalton was photographed with a grandchild several years ago. (COURTESY OF PHILIP A. PISANCHYN)
Jonah Cahn as a child, with his grandfather, the late Howard Platt. (COURTESY OF JONAH CAHN)
Gregory Arnone of Olyphant, with his son Ethan. (COURTESY OF GREGORY ARNONE)
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The late Joe Bambera during his World War II service in the Army Air Corps. His son is the
Roman Catholic bishop of Scranton. (COURTESY OF BISHOP JOSEPH C. BAMBERA)
Father’s Day is a celebration of both the universal and the particular — because everyone has a father, but every father is different.
The stories we collected this year are about fathers, stepfathers and grandfathers. They are told by a famous musician, a musician who just graduated from high school, and Catholic and Jewish clergy. Read about a legacy stamped on the sidewalks of Scranton, travel tips and, of course, driving instructions.
An Italian immigrant carves a legacy
My dear and most loving Papa came from San Cataldo in the province of Caltanissetta, Italy, in 1913. He was 18 years old and was traveling alone. He left his mother, father, five brothers and four sisters. Papa didn’t speak English.
He landed on Ellis Island. Papa made a life in America, became a United States citizen and a masonry contractor. If you take a walk through the Dunmore and Scranton area, you’ll see his name stamped on the sidewalks. I took a walk through the Hill Section and was thrilled to see his name and most of the sidewalks had no cracks!
He married in 1925 to Maria Antoinette Barrese of Dunmore. They had nine children. We are thankful for our father. Happy Father’s Day, Papa!
— Chris Arcangelo, of Clarks Green, is the daughter of the late Joseph Pinto of Dunmore
Nationally known musician Tom May learned to “Guess the Song”
When I think of my earliest musical memories, I’m brought back to my grandparents’ house in Moosic, where my grandfather, Mike Abdalla, played the Irish whistle, and the booming voices of my Uncle Mike and Aunt Janie filled the room. But my most vivid memory, and my favorite, is of my dad drumming on the steering wheel. From Rock 107 and KRZ to Genesis and Billy Joel tapes, every car ride was a party for my three siblings and me.
He coached our teams, showed us the power of community through volunteering, and seemed to be involved in every church festival, sports league and neighborhood picnic. “Hey, are you Tom May’s kid?” followed me from childhood into adulthood, and I was always proud to say yes. He taught us to face hard things head-on and all the values you’d expect from a great man.
But he taught us something else, too. How to be curious.
We played “Guess the Song” on the radio and in the living room. At the dinner table, he hosted family “Jeopardy,” asking each of us trivia questions tailored to our age and interests. He had us thinking, laughing and competing in the best kind of low-stakes way. More than anything, he wanted us paying attention.
That curiosity has followed all four of us throughout our lives. It helped make us self-reliant, capable adults who still appreciate the wonder of the world. I’ve been fortunate enough to follow my dreams as a professional musician, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence.
He still inspires us today. We love him very much, and I’m grateful every day that I get to be his son. Love you, Dad.
— Tom May Jr., of Philadelphia, a member of the band The Menzingers and son of Thomas May of Lake Ariel
The bishop’s father knew how to travel
My father, Joe Bambera, passed in 2004 at the age of 80, when I was 48 years old. It’s difficult to single out one or two things that my father entrusted to me in the almost five decades that I was blessed by his presence in my life. He was a man of deep faith, who worked hard, cherished his family, loved his country and taught us to appreciate and respect the many different lives that were woven into our own. In short, my father loved people!
I recall a trip that my dad, mother and I had taken to Europe on one occasion. We were in Warsaw, Poland, and were planning to spend the afternoon touring the Royal Palace in the heart of the old town. As the tour guide gave us a time frame for the tour, my father assessed the entrance to the palace, looked at his watch and proceeded to inform us that he was forgoing the tour and would meet us when it was over. My mother and I dragged through room after room, looking at paintings, carriages and all sorts of regalia, hardly waiting to finish the tour. When we met my father, however, he was having a grand time in the square outside of the palace, communicating with vendors despite his lack of familiarity with their language, engaging children and relishing an ice cream cone.
That day reminded me of something my father always taught us, less by his words and more by his example. The best things in life are rarely found in things, no matter how splendid they may be, but in people, from all different places, backgrounds and experiences, who desire the same blessings of life and peace that we all seek.
— The Most Rev. Joseph C. Bambera, bishop of Scranton, son of the late Joe Bambera of Carbondale
“You can’t put an old head on young shoulders”
Many people find the story of my dad to be extraordinary. He was born in Scranton, the last of six children. Two siblings died in infancy, but he grew up with two brothers and a sister. Dad lost his father to cancer just one month shy of his 14th birthday. His mom would die 14 years later.
Dad and the youngest of his two older brothers, Edwin, were seven years apart but very close for life. They enlisted in the Army on the same day together, in response to Pearl Harbor. The two brothers died the same exact day in 1990, just hours apart.
My parents had 10 pregnancies from 1946 to 1964. Only three of us survived to birth, and I am the last one alive today.
After the war, Dad returned to driving tractor-trailers. An accident in the 1960s in which a young man died haunted him until he died, but Dad was a provider, and provide he did.
Dad had many sayings and was well known in Hyde Park in his time. One saying that always stuck with me was, “You can’t put an old head on young shoulders.” In other words, I can’t show you what I have learned or been through.
Another saying was when anybody parted from spending time with us to head to their destination, he would say, “Take 10 minutes longer and make it.”
He wasn’t perfect, but he was my dad, and I am richer, and grateful, for that fact.
— Thomas Morgan, son of the late Benjamin J. Morgan, both of Scranton
The father my bubbe never had
My bubbe (grandma) Sima Raskin was 10 years old in Leningrad, Russia, when her father, Yitzchok Raskin, was abducted by Stalin’s henchmen and executed a short time later. His crime? Keeping Jewish observance in secret.
My great-grandfather had three young daughters; my grandmother was the middle child. As the Russian police took him from his beloved family, he turned to his girls and said, “I’m being arrested for keeping Jewish observance. … You should continue to do the same!” They never saw him again.
Today, I reflect on the resilience of a great-grandfather I never knew. Rabbi Yitzchok Raskin was a quiet but fierce defender of Jewish practice. He performed the sacred rite of Bris Milah (circumcision) in secret, hiding from an evil communist government that tried to eradicate religion. Today, his sacrifice has borne generations of proud Jews, with hundreds actively involved in Jewish community outreach and education in many countries across the globe, including Australia, France, Israel, Canada and here in the United States, including at our very own Jewish Discovery Center in Clarks Summit.
My bubbe lost her dad at a young age; my mom never had the grandpa she deserved. On this Father’s Day, let’s be thankful for the fathers and grandfathers we do have. Let’s hug them back and love them back as hard as we can, and open our hearts to the wisdom they carry, a bright light in a world that sorely needs it.
— Rabbi Benny Rapoport, of Clarks Summit, is the great-grandson of Rabbi Yitzchok Raskin of Leningrad, and is named after his father, Rabbi Bentzion Raskin
Father of seven builds a business and a family
My dad has always been the hardest-working person I know. Thirty-five years ago, he started our family business with his own hands, his own name, and a determination to provide for the people he loved. He was building a company and a livelihood, but more than that, he was building our family’s story.
At the same time, he was raising seven kids, including me. Now that I have kids of my own, I realize more and more how much that required from him. I remember the long days, late nights, missed moments, heavy responsibilities, trucks that didn’t start, middle-of-the-night emergencies, and sacrifices that we did not fully understand when we were younger. But he kept showing up. He worked, provided, fixed, helped, taught and carried more than most people ever saw.
What I admire most is that my dad did not just talk about responsibility, family, faith or hard work. He lived those things every day. His example shaped all of us. He showed us that love is sometimes a quiet sacrifice, steady effort and doing what needs to be done because your family is counting on you.
I remember one particular moment when someone called my dad and offered him money to give a decidedly untruthful statement in a court case. He indignantly refused. His integrity in that moment, and every moment since, has driven my own in every aspect of my life.
This Father’s Day, I want him to know how grateful I am. I am proud of what he built, proud of the name he gave us, and proud to be his son. His work, his sacrifices and his love have left a legacy that will stay with our family forever.
— Philip Pisanchyn, of Clarks Summit, son of Wayne J. Pisanchyn of Dalton
Grandfather inspires musical group that entertains senior citizens
“Choose a record to play,” my grandfather would say after another marathon game of hide-and-seek. I’d always hide in the same spot, and no matter how obvious it was, he would pretend not to find me, even as my grandmother offered increasingly obvious hints.
This time, I chose the album “Blue Hawaii” by Elvis Presley, a favorite record of his. The needle hissed for exactly two seconds before the music spilled out — the opening notes filling the room.
Years later, at his funeral, I had this scene in my mind, of the afternoons we spent together, whether listening to records, sitting by the piano, playing a game of bridge or simply enjoying each other’s company. These memories are special to me because they remind me of him and how he always made time for me.
My grandfather was patient, gentle, intelligent and unfailingly kind. I can remember in detail the laugh he had on his face when he finally gave up during a game of hide-and-seek, or his content demeanor when we shared a moment together listening to music. Those small moments revealed the larger truth of who he was.
To the world, he was a devoted husband, loving father and loyal friend. To me, he was my first best friend. The person who taught me to be present in the moment, to enjoy each other’s company, to be curious about the world and to give it everything I had.
After he passed away, I founded the Vivace Project, a string quartet that performs for seniors in local care facilities to honor his memory. As our encore, we play “Can’t Help Falling in Love” from “Blue Hawaii.”
In those moments, I imagine him smiling in the front row, singing with me as I carry forward the joy we once shared together.
— Jonah Cahn, of Clarks Summit, grandson of the late Howard Platt
Values to pass on
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate not only everything he did for our family but also the sacrifices he made that often went unnoticed. His encouragement gave me the confidence to believe I could accomplish anything if I was willing to work for it. I now instill these values (with a modern update) into my son.
— Gregory Arnone, son of Stephen Arnone, both of Olyphant