Introduction
Dean Martin became one of the biggest stars in the world. He sang for presidents, sold millions of records, conquered Hollywood. But there was one thing he never had. One thing that haunted him every single day. His father’s approval. Gaitano Crocheti was a quiet, tough Italian immigrant who never showed emotion, never said he was proud, never told Dean he believed in him.
For 30 years, Dean lived with that silence until 1967 when Gaitano died. And what Dean found hidden in his father’s barber shop revealed a truth that destroyed him. It was February 3rd, 1967. Stubenville, Ohio, a small industrial town along the Ohio River, where Dean Martin had grown up as Dino Crocheti, the son of an Italian barber who spoke broken English and worked 16-hour days to feed his family.
Dean hadn’t been back to Stubenville in 6 months. He’d been busy. Vegas shows, movies, television specials, the life of a superstar left little time for the past. But when the phone call came at 4:00 a.m., Dean knew immediately. Mr. Martin, the voice on the other end said, “This is Stubenville General Hospital. I’m calling about your father, Gano Crochet.
” Dean’s hand tightened around the phone. Is he? I’m sorry, sir. He passed away about an hour ago. Heart attack. It was quick. Dean sat on the edge of his bed in his Beverly Hills mansion. The phone pressed to his ear and felt absolutely nothing. Not sadness, not grief, just emptiness. Thank you for calling, Dean said quietly. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
When he hung up, his wife, Jean, came into the room. Dean, what happened? My father died, Dean said flatly. What was there to say? His father was gone and with him when any chance of ever hearing the words Dean had waited his whole life to hear. The flight to Ohio was long and silent.
Dean stared out the window, watching the clouds pass. remembering. He remembered being 7 years old, standing in his father’s barber shop on South Sixth Street, singing for the customers while his father cut hair. The men would clap and laugh, dropping coins into a jar for little Dino. But his father never smiled. Never said, “Good job, son. Just go help your mother.
” in his thick Italian accent. He remembered being 17, telling his father he wanted to be a singer instead of a barber. His father had looked at him with those hard, dark eyes and said, “Singers don’t eat. Barbers eat.” Then he’d turned back to his customer and never mentioned it again.
He remembered 1946 when he’d gotten his first record deal with Capital Records. Dean had driven all night from New York to Stubenville, walked into his father’s barber shop with a contract in his hand, so proud, so excited. Papa, look, I got a record deal, a real one. They’re going to pay me to sing. His father had looked up from the customer whose hair he was cutting.
He glanced at the contract, then at Dean, then back to the hair. “Good,” he’d said. “Nothing else, just good.” Dean had stood there holding his contract, feeling like a child who’d brought home a drawing that his father couldn’t be bothered to look at. Over the years, Dean had sent his father money, bought him a house, made sure he had everything he needed.
But his father never asked for the money, and Dean never asked for acknowledgement. They had an unspoken arrangement. Dean provided. Gaitano accepted. Neither acknowledged what it meant. Dean would visit once or twice a year. The conversations were always the same. How are you, papa? Fine. Do you need anything? No.
Okay, I’ll call you next month. Okay, that was it. 30 years of Okay. The funeral was scheduled for 2 days later. Dean spent the first day at his father’s small house on North 7th Street, going through his belongings with his brother, Bill, and their mother, Angela. The house was exactly as Dean remembered it, small, clean, modest.
His father had lived alone here since Dean’s mother moved in with Bill’s family 5 years ago. We should start packing things up, Bill said gently. Decide what to keep, what to donate. Dean nodded numbly, and they worked in silence for a while. Then his mother said something that made Dean stop. Dino, you should go to the barber shop. Your father kept it all these years.
Maybe there’s something there you want. Dean looked up. The barber shop? I thought he closed it 20 years ago. He did, Angela said, but he never sold it. He’d still pay the rent every month. He’d go there sometimes just to sit. Dean felt something twist in his chest. He kept paying rent on an empty barber shop for 20 years. His mother nodded.
He said it was his place where he started where he raised you boys. He couldn’t let it go. Dean stood slowly. I’m going there now. The drive to South 6th Street took 10 minutes. The barber shop was in a row of old brick buildings that had seen better days. Most of the other shops were closed now.
windows dusty and dark, but his father’s barber shop still had the old sign hanging above the door. Crocetti’s Barberh Shop. Dean parked onthe street and sat for a moment, staring at the building. He hadn’t been here in 15 years. He got out of the car, walked to the door, and used the key his mother had given him.
The lock was stiff, but it turned. The door opened with a creek. Dean stepped inside and flipped the light switch. A single overhead bulb flickered to life, casting yellow light over the dusty interior. It was like stepping into a time capsule. Everything was exactly as it had been 30 years ago. The barber chairs, three of them, still stood in a row.
The mirrors were dusty but intact. The counter where his father used to mix shaving cream. The old radio on the shelf. Even the smell was the same. A mix of hair, tonic, leather, and old wood. Dean walked slowly into the room. His footsteps echoing on the tile floor. Dust moes floated in the air, illuminated by the weak overhead light.
He ran his hand along the back of the first barber chair, his father’s chair. The leather was cracked now, the chrome dulled with age, but it was still solid, still there. Dean felt his throat tighten. He moved toward the back of the shop where his father’s personal station had been.
The counter where he kept his scissors, his combs, his straight razors. The counter was still there, covered in a layer of dust. And beneath it, Dean noticed something he’d forgotten about. A large wooden drawer. He pulled on the handle. It was stuck. He pulled harder and with a groan, the drawer slid open. Dean expected it to be empty or maybe filled with old barber tools, but what he saw made him freeze.
The drawer was full of paper, newspaper clippings, magazine pages, programs, flyers, hundreds of them. Dean reached in and pulled out the first piece. It was a newspaper clipping from the Stubenville Herald and Star dated 1949. The headline read, “Local boy Dino Crocetti, now Dean Martin, signs with Capital Records.” Dean stared at it.
His father had kept this. He pulled out another. A magazine page from Life, 1951. A photo of Dean performing at the Copa Room. Someone had carefully cut it out and saved it. Another, a variety article from 1954. Martin and Lewis break box office records. Another, a TV guide cover from 1957 with Dean’s face on it.
Another a concert program from 1960, The Sands Hotel, Las Vegas. Dean Martin and the Rat Pack. Dean’s hands were shaking now. He pulled out more and more and more. Every single piece of paper was about him. Articles about his movies, reviews of his albums, photos from his TV show, concert posters, award announcements, everything.
His father had saved everything. But that wasn’t what broke Dean. What broke Dean was what his father had written on each piece on the back of the 1949 newspaper clipping in his father’s rough barely legible handwriting. Mopilio 1949. My son 1949. On the life magazine page from 1951, Dino Mio Raato Fiero Dino My Boy Proud on the Variety article from 1954.
Louis Aunastella. He is a star on the TV guide. Prey 1957. The king on the Sands Hotel program. Modino confr with Frank. The greatest Dean pulled out piece after piece after piece and every single one had a note on the back. Every single one. Mopilio, my son, Fiero, proud. Il Mio Raato, my boy. Unastella, a star. Il pre the king.
His father had been following his career. Not just following it, documenting it, collecting every article, every photo, every mention for 30 years. And he’d written notes on all of them. notes he’d never shown anyone. Notes that proved he’d been proud, that he’d been paying attention, that he’d cared. Dean sank into his father’s old barber chair, still holding the stack of clippings, and began to sob.
Deep, wrenching sobs that seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul. “Why didn’t you show me?” Dean cried out to the empty shop. “Why didn’t you tell me? I was right here. All those times I visited, all those phone calls, you could have just shown me this drawer. But his father couldn’t answer. Would never answer.
Dean looked down at the clippings in his lap. There were so many, hundreds. How many hours had his father spent cutting these out, organizing them, writing notes on them? And why? Why save them if he was never going to show them to Dean? Then Dean noticed something at the bottom of the drawer. A larger piece of paper folded.
He reached for it. It was a letter written in his father’s handwriting dated January 15th, 1967, less than 3 weeks ago. Dean’s hands trembled as he unfolded it. The letter was in English, his father’s broken, heavily accented English, but English nonetheless. Dino, if you find this, it mean I am gone. I write this because I am old now and the doctors say my heart is no good.
I need to tell you something I never say. I am proud. Every day I am proud when I cut hair in this shop for 40 years. Every customer I tell them my son is Dean Martin. You hear him on radio? That is my son. Every night I listen to your show on the television. Every morning I read the newspaper to see if you are init. But I never tell you this.
Why? Because I am stupid. Because Italian father from old country. We don’t say this thing. We think the boy will become soft if we say I love you or I am proud. We think the boy need to be tough. So we stay tough. But you were never soft, Dino. You were always strong. You didn’t need me to be tough.
You needed me to tell you I love you. And I didn’t do it. That is my biggest regret. I want you to know everything you do. I am proud. When you sing, I cry. When I see you on the television with Frank and Sammy, my heart is so full. I think it will break. You are the king, Dino. You are better than me, better than I ever dream.
I am sorry I never tell you. I am sorry I make you think I don’t care. I care so much it hurt. But I am old Italian man and I don’t know how to say the word. Maybe you never find this letter. Maybe you sell the shop and never come here. But if you do find it, I want you to know I love you. I always love you.
From the first day you sing in this shop when you are little boy, I know you will be special. You are my son. You are my pride. You are my everything. I am sorry I wait too long to tell you your papa. Dean read the letter three times, then four, then five. Each time the words hit him harder. His father had known.
He’d known he should have said it. He’d known Dean needed to hear it, and he’d tried. He’d written this letter, but he’d left it hidden in a drawer in an abandoned barber shop, hoping Dean would find it someday. But someday came 3 weeks too late. Dean looked around the dusty shop, at the old barber chairs, at the mirrors, at the drawer full of clippings.
This was where his father had come to be with Dean. not to his shows, not to his house in California, but here in this empty shop, surrounded by newspaper clippings and memories. This was where his father had kept his pride, hidden, secret, safe. I became everything you said I would, Dean said through tears, looking at the empty chair.
I became a king, and all I wanted was for you to say you were proud. He looked at the letter again at his father’s shaky handwriting. I should have told him. Those five words broke Dean completely because they meant his father knew. He knew he should have said it. He knew Dean needed to hear it. And he tried. He’d written this letter, but he left it hidden in a drawer in an abandoned barberh shop, hoping Dean would find it someday.
But someday came 3 weeks too late. Dean sat in that barber shop for 3 hours. He read every single piece of paper, every single note. And by the time he was finished, he understood. His father hadn’t been ashamed of him. His father had been so overwhelmed with pride that he didn’t know what to do with it. So he collected it, documented it, saved it, kept it close.
But he’d never been able to give it to Dean. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how. The funeral was the next day. It was a small service. family, some old friends from the neighborhood, a few guys from the barberhop days. When it was time for family to speak, Dean stood and walked slowly to the podium.
He looked out at the small crowd, then down at the casket. My father, Guyatano Crocheri, was not a man of many words, Dean began, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. Yesterday, I went to my father’s old barber shop, the one he closed 20 years ago, but never sold. And I found something that changed everything I thought I knew.
He held up the letter. I found this letter written 3 weeks before he died. And I found a drawer full of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, concert programs, hundreds of them, all about me, all saved carefully, all with notes written on the back in my father’s handwriting. Dean’s voice cracked. Notes that said I’m proud. Notes that said my son.
Notes that said the king. Notes that I never saw until yesterday. He looked at the casket. For 30 years, I thought my father didn’t approve of me. I thought he was disappointed that I became a singer instead of a barber. I thought he didn’t care about my success. But I was wrong.
He cared so much that he couldn’t find the words to tell me. So he wrote them on the backs of newspaper clippings and hid them in a drawer where no one would ever see them. Dean wiped his eyes. My father loved me. He was proud of me. He believed in me from the very beginning. I just didn’t know it until it was too late.
I’m telling you this because I don’t want anyone else to make the same mistake. If you love someone, tell them. If you’re proud of someone, say it. Don’t assume they know. Don’t hide your feelings in a drawer and hope they find them after you’re gone. Dean looked at the casket one last time. Papa, I found your letter.
I found your drawer. I found your pride and I forgive you. I understand now. You did love me. You just didn’t know how to say it. He placed his hand on the casket. I love you, Papa. And I’m proud to be your son. When Dean flew back to Los Angeles, hewent straight to his office and sat down at his desk.
He pulled out a piece of paper and began to write. It was a letter to his own children. A letter telling them that he loved them, that he was proud of them, that they should never doubt it. A letter with all the words his father never said to him. But Dean didn’t hide his letter. He gave copies to each of his children that week.
He sat down with each one and said the words out loud. I love you. I’m proud of you. I believe in you. From that day forward, Dean Martin changed. He became more expressive, more open with his emotions. He started telling his children he loved them every time they spoke. He started saying, “I’m proud of you.” to his friends and colleagues.
Dean had the barber shop preserved exactly as it was. He paid the rent for the next 28 years until he died. Once a year on his father’s birthday, Dean would fly to Stubenville, go to that barber shop, sit in his father’s old chair, and read through the clippings and cry and forgive and remember. In 1995, when Dean Martin died on Christmas morning, his children found something in his wallet.
It was his father’s letter, worn, folded, and refolded a thousand times, but still there. And attached to it was a note Dean had written. “Papa, I found your drawer. I found your love. I forgive you. Thank you for being proud of me. I love you and I’m coming to see you soon. This time we’ll both say the words. Your son, Dino.
At Dean’s funeral, his daughter Deanna shared the story. She held up some of the clippings and read her grandfather’s notes. She shared both letters. “My father learned a hard lesson,” she said. “He learned that love isn’t just about being present. It’s about speaking. It’s about saying the words even when it’s uncomfortable. Today, Crochet’s Barberh Shop is a museum in Stubenville, Ohio.
In a glass case, is the drawer, still full of clippings covered in Guyatano’s handwritten notes. Next to it, framed on the wall, is his letter to Dean and Dean’s letter back to him. Visitors stand in front of that case and cry because they understand. They think of their own fathers, their own children, their own words left unsaid.
And sometimes they leave the museum and make a phone call. They say the words they’ve been holding back. Because Dean Martin and Guyatano Crochet taught us all. Don’t hide your love in a drawer. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Say the words. Say them now. Say them while there’s still time.
Because the saddest words in any language are not, “I love you.” There. I should have told