Primo Voice: In Remembrance of Primo Fiore

My Uncle Primo was not a very tall man. And yet, I struggle to name any other man except for his brother-in-law, my Dad, Sal Balbi, who I looked up to more.

If for nothing else, being married to my Aunt Sue gave Primo Fiore a golden ticket to my heart. My poem, “An Age of Angels” and its introductory material reveals my feelings about that wonderful woman.

However, I do not mean to imply that my Uncle Primo lived under her shadow. Not at all. Indeed, he was bigger than life, and like most men of his generation, he was a character. Please note that’s meant as a compliment in this bland age where everyone tries to blend in or copy the crowd.

Uncle Primo was broad-chested but his smile was broader still. Speaking of his smile, it was impressively wide and genuinely heartfelt as his eyes attested whenever they smiled at yours. He was strong with muscular arms. But for family and friends, those arms seemed made more for hugs than wrestling.

My Uncle Primo had an incredible instrument — which sounds like the beginning of one of those jokes he and my Dad would often enjoy telling each other when their wives and little ones weren’t around.

The instrument I speak of, of course, was Uncle Primo’s magnificent voice.

There are voices made to sing. There are gentle, calming voices made to soothe the ear and slow the heart using the right words with just the right rhythm to caress the listener from shallow-breath agitation to deep-breath relaxation.

And then there are those voices that are made to be heard and given all your attention. That was my Uncle Primo’s voice. It was stentorian.

I’m a word guy so I looked up stentorian’s origin to check out this seemingly perfect match for that man’s voice which I would dare say could almost double for The Voice that spoke creation into existence.

Anyway, back to stentorian. After all, I did not put pen to paper just to praise my Uncle Primo to the very limits of what some might consider blasphemy but to reveal how much I cared for that remarkable man.

To have a stentorian voice means that one has a powerful voice. The word has its origins in Greek. In Homer’s The Illiad, there is an Achaean warrior named Stentor who fought against the Trojans. His voice is described as having “the voice of fifty other men.” Predating this, the root of the word appears in Sanskrit as “stanati” meaning “he thunders.”

Oh, how I wish I had known all this and shared it with him years ago. I just know he would have gotten a kick out of it. He would have listened intently to me share the story of stentorian — for Uncle Primo was always a great listener. Then when I was done, he would have smiled and given me an approving nod. I would have mirrored his smile. Then we would have clinked our wine glasses together. We would have swallowed many mouthfuls of red before needing to say anything. Silence scares some but not those who understand each other.

What Uncle Primo did throughout his long life, those lives he touched as a teacher, inspired as a coach, entertained as a great square dance caller, and being a devoted husband, a dedicated father, a proud grandfather are not my stories to tell. But I hope in my remaining years to eventually hear some of those stories from the chorus of voices of all those who also loved him.

I am sad his voice is silent now. I already miss hearing that voice. So many loved ones have left me and this mortal world behind. I hope they will all greet me when I join them in whatever afterlife awaits. But there is only one voice at the gates that I want to hear announce, “Make way for my nephew, Louis!” And that stentorian voice belongs to my Uncle Primo.