Dad Tales and Reflections

By Anthony Buccino

Your snippets of family history need not be formally recorded and typed out on the latest fancy computer. It is not, after all, a history assignment. But some day you'll thank yourself for making the time when you pull out that old videotape and find how cherished those rambling tales have become.

Dad in His Overalls, Me in Mine

How Many Hammers Are Enough

Dad Bought Back His Shoes as I Slept

A Father's Place

Psyching Up for the Carpenter Bowl

Do We Ever Stop Missing Our Folks?

Coal Miner's Kids' Christmas

Grandma's House in the Country

Strangers in Old Photographs

Great-Gramps Was a Pumkin

Twirler's Parents Lose Saturdays

Sometimes I Swear In Italian

Antonio Buccino's collection about growing up Italian American in New Jersey and discovering the roots of his ancestors. 

Sixteen Inches on Center By Anthony Buccino

Sixteen Inches on Center

But these decades later I find
We talk more now
and I have a different view
of him and the twenty few years
we spent together.
I know he was winging it
and I was a whirling dervish


Your Birthday

Old Man

What Pa Didn't Say

War Movies



Burning Leaves

Fixing the Roof

Talk More Now

Seeing a father through a grown son's eyes. The son of a WW2 veteran looks at the 20-plus years they had together, the missteps, the missed opportunities and the things that remain.


Anthony Buccino






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New Jersey author Anthony Buccino's stories of the 1960s, transit coverage and other writings earned four Society of Professional Journalists Excellence in Journalism awards. The Pushcart Prize-nominated writer has been called ' “New Jersey’s ‘Garrison Keillor” or something to that effect.’

Copyright © 1995-2017 By Anthony Buccino. All rights reserved. Permissions & other snail mail: PO Box 110252 Nutley NJ 07110

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Dr. Andrea Buccino
6 Pompton Avenue
Cedar Grove, N.J.

Certified sports chiropractor

'... I wasn't more than five years old the night my father grabbed me with his vise-like hands on his jackhammer arms and swung me over the banister of our second story back porch.

Swinging me side to side 20 feet in the air above the concrete sidewalk, Dad and I were having fun. I was safe, safe from the world in his strong hands. Mother's screams of terror stilled my shrieks of joy.

That night, Dad and I bonded, though neither of us knew the lexicon. The image of that night dangles daily in the bittersweet memories my father left me.

After nearly 30 years, I can still feel the strength with which he safely held me over the precipice. Little did I know then there was more to a father's place.

Now, I have my own daughter, and though I don't tempt fate from a second floor porch, I realize how much there is to this father business. ...'

A Father's Place