Thursday, February 10, 2022
Big Nick, Nick Pickle, born in Brooklyn, my father, I can only describe best, despite the disdain he would have for this label, as a folk artist. Not of any particular medium, such as painting, but simply of his own life. Anyone who knew him understands there doesn’t exist a single term to define him with his big heart and even bigger personality. A man born into an alien time to most of us, tough streets, raised by a large pollock, Big Joe, who fought to survive the Great Depression, amongst hardened, sharp people. The unforgiving harshness of these times brought out the best in men, but also sides most would rather forget. I never met “Big Joe”, who stood over 6 foot 5, wide as a grizzly bear, my grandfather, but I came to know him in the way century old mammoths of the sea carry stories in their flesh, battle wounds, scars, even musket balls from the civil war. “Big Joe’s” impact was as deep as the ocean. My father and his three brothers were born in Big Joe’s image and they grew up quickly like weeds in the August sun. It was Big Joe’s way or “go fuck yourself,” little time for fluff and pleasantries that define the parlance of our time. Big Nick would often express joy and nostalgia for summers he spent living on his Uncle’s farm in upstate NY. Sure the chores were taxing, but their was adventure for him on the country side. In short, the pace and peacefulness offered a landscape to relax and just be a kid. His early life could best be described as a pickle, adversity from multiple sides and, no choice but to figure a way out. Life was his teacher, authority stood as pillars to navigate amongst. It wasn’t until “Big Joe” passed that my father had space to reflect, he was an unpolished gemstone, but all the more, and humbled by life, my father as folk artist of his own life, without formal training, would come to shine like a diamond. This is what embodies the spirit of my father, he demanded respect, he made his views known, and he followed his curiosity and thirst for truth and honor, because he knew a life where it was all on yourself to shape it. In his presence you knew he was cutting to the core of your soul, sizing you up, he wanted to know the real you, just in the way he offered himself without contrivance. Growing up under the perceptive eye of my father, overbearing at times and full of repeated phrases, often critical and judgmental and peppered with his fears and dreams, it was more the example he set than the actual words he said that shaped me as his only son. It wasn’t until his passing that the most important lesson he taught me struck upon my soul like a lightning bolt. What real love means, what the love of a father means. It is not a feeling, thought, or state of affairs, it is beyond category, invisible yet it is what binds the tree of life. Though my father was in no explicit way a man of faith or religion, I cannot escape the relevance of this passage from John 2:15: “Do not love the world or the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him.” It’s safe to say my father did not love the world, a chaotic world that beat him up, yet he was able to bear fruit from it through his hard work ethic, business acumen, and relentless protection of what he built. Why did he push forward with courage and humility? Love. It wasn’t about him telling my sister and I he loved us, he rarely did in words, he simply lived that love. The love of the Father above shined through my father. His life was a masterpiece and I am honored that his legacy and light will shine through me. Everyone here gathered to honor my father knows exactly this truth as self evident. Big Nick, Nick Pickle, in one word: “Yo!” And you felt his love and presence blanket you. In that one word All disagreements and difficulties of his personality would dissipate and there he was, present in that perfect love.
