My father, Mario Pecora had impeccable handwriting. He left his home in Calabria, Italy in 1952 bound for Canada. His wife Teresa and new-born daughter Adriana would join him in the following years.

Getting off the boat at Pier 21 in Halifax, there was much work to be done in building Canada. He went from east to west with his brother, Uncle Cich, working on the railway in British Columbia. He told me that when they pumped down the line on the carts, he would fake it and let the other guy do all the work.

This story and others like it about World War II are fond memories of my father. Like surrendering to the Germans because he heard the food was better on the other side. When the Germans asked what your trade was, the soldiers before him were handed a shovel when they responded, none. Mario quickly decided to become a secretary. He typed very fast with two fingers.

He also became an accomplished barber in the war, and would cut hair for friends and family when he returned. Once, he asked me to cut his hair. He couldn't understand why I was so "stupid" because I was clumsy at my attempt. After that experience, I never tried again.

Not only was there work to be done building Canada, but you had to eat, drink, dress well, and have a beautiful home. My mother became a seamstress when the family settled in Sarnia, Ontario, and sewed many of our clothes. My father built our home on Lakeshore Road, close to the shore of Lake Huron, with some help from relatives who arrived after him. I still see him leaving the house for work at 6:00 A.M., in the cold, cold Canadian winter, still dark out, carrying his gray lunch box my mom had prepared for him.