Stubenville, Ohio — February 1967. The world knew Dean Martin as a superstar. He crooned for presidents, sold millions of records, and conquered Hollywood. But beneath the tuxedos and spotlights, Dean carried a silent ache—a longing for the approval of the one man who never said the words he needed most: his father, Gaitano Crocheti.

For thirty years, Dean Martin lived with that silence. And when the phone rang at 4 AM, the call that ended a lifetime of waiting, he learned a truth that would shatter him—and, in the end, heal him.

The Call That Ended Everything

Dean Martin’s life was a whirlwind of fame and fortune. He hadn’t been back to his hometown of Stubenville, Ohio, in six months. Vegas shows, movies, and television specials kept him far from the small industrial town on the banks of the Ohio River where he’d grown up as Dino Crocheti, the son of an Italian barber.

But when the phone rang in the early hours of February 3rd, 1967, Dean didn’t need to hear the words to know what had happened.

“Mr. Martin,” the voice said, “This is Stubenville General Hospital. I’m calling about your father, Gano Crocheti.”

Dean’s hand tightened around the receiver. “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. He felt nothing—no sadness, no grief, just emptiness.

“Thank you for calling,” Dean said quietly. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

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, any chance of ever hearing the words Dean had waited his whole life to hear.

Thirty Years of Silence

The flight to Ohio was long and silent. Dean stared out the window, lost in memory. He remembered being seven years old, singing for customers in his father’s barber shop on South Sixth Street. 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 seventeen, 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 Capitol 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 glanced at the contract, then at Dean, then back to the hair. “Good,” he’d said. Nothing else.

Dean stood there holding his contract, feeling like a child who’d brought home a drawing his father couldn’t be bothered to look at.

Over the years, Dean 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.”

Thirty years of “Okay.”

The Barber Shop That Time Forgot

After the funeral was scheduled, Dean spent the first day at his father’s small house on North 7th Street, sorting through belongings with his brother, Bill, and their mother, Angela. The house was exactly as Dean remembered—small, clean, modest. His father had lived alone since Angela moved in with Bill’s family five years earlier.

“We should start packing things up,” Bill said gently. “Decide what to keep, what to donate.”

Dean nodded numbly. They worked in silence until Angela spoke.

“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 twenty 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. His father had paid rent on an empty barber shop for twenty years.

“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 Hidden Drawer

The drive to South 6th Street took ten minutes. The barber shop was in a row of old brick buildings that had seen better days. Most of the other shops were closed, windows dusty and dark, but Crocheti’s Barber Shop still had the old sign hanging above the door.

Dean parked on the street and sat for a moment, staring at the building. He hadn’t been here in fifteen years. He got out, 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 creak.

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 thirty years ago—the barber chairs, the mirrors, the counter where his father mixed 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 motes 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, the chrome dulled with age, but it was still solid.

Dean felt his throat tighten. He moved toward the back of the shop, to his father’s personal station. The counter was still there, covered in a layer of dust. Beneath it, Dean noticed something—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 Capitol Records.”

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.

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. 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. His father had saved everything.

But that wasn’t what broke Dean. What broke him was what his father had written on each piece—on the back of the 1949 clipping, in rough, barely legible handwriting: “Mopilio 1949. My son 1949.” On the Life magazine page: “Dino Mio Raato Fiero—Dino My Boy Proud.” On the Variety article: “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.”

Piece after piece, every single one had a note on the back. 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—documenting, collecting every article, every photo, every mention for thirty 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 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.

The Letter That Changed Everything

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? And why? Why save them if he was never going to show them to Dean?

Then, at the bottom of the drawer, Dean noticed 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 three 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 in it. 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 three weeks too late.

Dean looked around the dusty shop—at the old barber chairs, the mirrors, 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, hoping Dean would find it someday.

But someday came three weeks too late.

The Lesson That Lasts Forever

Dean sat in that barber shop for three 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 barber shop days. When it was time for family to speak, Dean walked slowly to the podium. He looked out at the small crowd, then down at the casket.

“My father, Gaitano Crocheti, 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 twenty 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 three 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 thirty 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.”

The Legacy of Words

When Dean flew back to Los Angeles, he went straight to his office and sat down at his desk. He pulled out a piece of paper and began to write—a letter to his own children, 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 twenty-eight 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, Crocheti’s Barber Shop is a museum in Stubenville, Ohio. In a glass case is the drawer, still full of clippings covered in Gaitano’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 Gaitano Crocheti 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 aren’t “I love you.”
They’re “I should have told.”