Connecticut Defense Council Auxiliary Police ID, probably WWII era
(I found this among some of the things
I had written and though it has been out there on the web previously I felt it
needed a little edit. So I fixed the writing faux pas’, added a little and thought
it was worth re-posting in honor of Father’s Day)
Yesterday, April 5th, was my dad's birthday, he would have been
107. I've wondered more than a few times what he would have thought of the
changes the world's been through in the 40+ years since he passed and the
discussions we would have had about them. I’m sure his analytical mind would
love the idea of the Internet but the endless posts about where I’m eating a
sandwich or the myriads of bathroom selfies would be lost on such a private
person as he. I bet he sure would love the animal videos though.
He left home at 14 and hooked on at a number of shipyards up and down the
east coast. I still have a piece of paper written in his spare efficient block
printing of his "resume', which is just a list of the places and the
hourly rates he worked for from 1922 onward.
He used to tell a story of living in New York during those years. He lived
in a 3rd floor walk-up and to help pay his room and board he made horseradish
for the landlord. His telling of the story of having to stand by the window and having to grate this gnarly root by hand never failed to produce a laugh from those in attendance. He
always told this story with a bit of a grin, as he knew that good times and bad times often
overlap and the differences weren’t always discernible in the moment. Onions
apparently have nothing on grating fresh horseradish when it comes to making
tears. He said you couldn't wipe your eyes because that made it worse, so he'd
have to stop periodically to throw water on his face. Sometimes he'd shred his
fingers instead of the root and be just a total mess with tears running down
his face and bloody fingers that stung like hell from the horseradish juices. Needless
to say he found other accommodations quickly.
He managed to keep working pretty much all through the Depression, which was
an uncommon feat in those days. I worked for a while at the same place he and my Mom met and it was also the last job he had right up until he passed. I heard a few good stories about him from some of the guys that were still around from the time he worked
there.
The guys in the shop gave him the nickname “The Gray Ghost” because he had an
uncanny knack for walking around the corner just as a group of guys would decide
it was goof off time for a few minutes. They said he was a good boss and always
fair, though you didn't fuck with him or any of his crew. One day a guy from
another department was giving one of his crew a real hard time and preventing
him from getting his job done in their mutual work area. When my Dad
went down to find out what was going on the guy got pushy and mouthy. One punch
later he was on his back, lights out. I still grin when I picture Jonesy
telling me that story just shaking his head with his big bugged out eyes, his
battered hard hat reversed on his head. "Nope, no sir no one fucked with
the guys on Bill Mark's crew ". He was also not without his moments. One
day he happened upon Little Charlie B_____ hammering away at something on a
workbench, his hand choked up on the handle near the head of the hammer. Dad
stopped and said to Charlie, “Don’t you know how to swing a hammer by now,
doing it that way will take forever. Give me that.” My Dad took the hammer,
gripping it at the end of the handle like one should and took a swing with it.
The hammer head flew back over his shoulder and skidded under another bench
about 10’ away. My Dad’s face got beet red, he turned to Charlie and handed him
the empty handle and told him it was time get a new hammer then walked out of
the shop. Hilarity ensued among the witnesses though it took Charlie a couple
of minutes to stop shaking.
I wonder sometimes what my Dad would think of the pussification of America,
where you can't tell someone, "You're an idiot for doing that" but
it's okay to be rude as hell to someone you've asked for help in a customer
service position. He always had a good word for the waitress or the checkout
person. He always took our cars to the same mechanic, even though he could fix them;
he used to say, "Those guys need to make a buck too." I feel
fortunate to have put my wrenching days behind me since I found a good honest
mechanic too.
The house I grew up in was the first stick built house he'd ever owned. He
had always lived in apartments or trailer homes. That house was a bit of a
fixer upper and he put a lot of time into improvements after we moved in. I
remember him wrestling big rocks out of the ground with a long pry bar on the hilltop in our
backyard. Then he'd roll them down the hill where he would
split them with a hammer and chisel to add to the stone wall he built to keep
the back hill from washing on to the red brick patio he laid. He had most of it
done but never was able to finish the wall before he passed.
He didn't know a lot about playing sports, though he did play golf and do some
caddying for a while when he was younger; well before golf became more
mainstream. I guess he gave up golf and pipe smoking when he married my Mom. He
coached my little league team when I was 12. We spent a lot of time practicing my
pitching in the driveway. His shins were always black and blue that summer due
to bouncing balls that hit the dirt from what passed as my fastball in those
days. We got to share the first ever season of Monday Night Football, though I
never got to see the end of games since they ended at midnight on the East
Coast. He would stay up to watch the end and leave me the scoring that happened
after I went to bed written on small piece of paper on the kitchen table.
Family Friend's backyard 1960's.
My uncle used to tell me frequently that he was the smartest man he had
ever known, they did a lot of projects together at my uncles house. He also
told me after Dad’s funeral that he'd never seen so many people at a funeral
before. Dad's was the first funeral I ever attended and for years after it didn't
matter who passed I refused to go. I remember sitting next to my Mom and shook
so many sweaty dead fish-like hands that to this day I always look sideways at
anyone who shakes my hand that way. That experience really threw up a lot of
walls in my young mind and I never wanted to attend another funeral; that
attitude changed as I got older, though that is a story for another day.
He left me a tough legacy to follow to be respected by so many. I wonder
sometimes what he'd think about what I've done with my life, both the successes and failures and the hope I'd done well in his eyes just to keep on keepin' on.
Like most things I write I don't know where this came from, I guess I just fell
through the hole in the paper.
Thank you for taking the time to (re)read this and to all the Dads out
there, Happy Father’s Day.
