If I was stewing about something when I was a kid, my Dad would say, "It won't matter 100 years from now." When I was afraid of dying, Dad would say, "As long as someone remembers you, you don't really die." And when I was moping, he'd say, "Enjoy life, once your dead, you're going to be dead for a very long time." These are not very cheery bits of advice, but they seemed to work for me. Even now, one of the three will come to mind, I'll think of Dad, and realize he knew what he was talking about. I came across a poem the other day by Ezra Pound.
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass
Ezra was right. So, here are some memories of Dad ... so he will never die. You can read more about him in my story "Kilroy Was Here." That's when he threw his peanut butter and cranberry sauce sandwich at the Battleship Massachusetts.
Dad grew up as a Congregationalist from Freeport, Maine. The Congregationalists were the original Puritans. Dad's line goes all the way back to Trisrtam Coffin of Nantucket, but our family's accomplishments were modest except for Dionis Coffin. I have a special affection for my 11th great grandmother who was dragged into court for charging too much money for her ale. Dionis won her case. She proved that she added more malt than her competitors and , therefore, made a better brew. The court agreed.
Stanley Gilbert (Jerome Joseph) Irwin
December 24, 1916-June 28, 1995
Mum refused to become a Protestant, so Dad had to become a Roman Catholic. He took Jerome as his baptismal name and Joseph as his confirmation name. The priest who gave Dad his religious instruction later ran off with the organist from the Protestant church down the road. Her dad was the minister. Life has lots of surprises in store.
When Dad was just 11 years old (1927), Charles Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic, and airplanes became my father's lifelong passion. In the late 1940s he was proud to escort Orville Wright to his seat on a Northeast Airlines passenger plane. The flight left from Logan Airport. They didn't have "first class" seats then, but I'll bet Orville got "first class" service.
In 1932, Dad managed to get a job at age 15 at an airfield. He worked for free in exchange for flying lessons, but during the depths of The Depression, my grandfather (Grampy) couldn't find work anywhere. He went to Boston City Hall each day with the other day laborers. Every morning a man in a business suit and necktie came out on the steps, "Sorry Boys, no work today!" he'd shout to the crowd, and they'd disperse only to reassemble the next day. But Grampy wasn't a boy ... he was 48 years old.
My grandparents had to give up their apartment, and Dad and my grandmother took a tiny room above Mr. Riley's grocery store. My grandmother made a little money as a domestic for wealthy families on Beacon Hill, and Grampy took a room in a flop house. Dad couldn't afford to keep up with his lessons, so he quit his flying job and got a job at a gas station (that's where he was when he first saw Mum on her way the the beach). The rest, as they say, is history and I'm part of it.
Riley eventually extended credit in the store to my grandmother because she had no food, and then he simply gave my grandmother and my father food. Finally, my grandmother divorced Grampy to marry Riley. Dad was sad about that for the rest of his life.
My poor grandmother didn't have much time to be happy in her second marriage. She didn't have long to live dying at age 43 of the same horrific infection that killed Jim Henson, the Muppet creator. My grandmother died long before my birth, but I do know she was opposed to Dad's infatuation with my mother, who was the daughter of Irish immigrants. Dad took his mother to a jewelry store to buy Mum a diamond, and my grandmother suggested a garnet. I know that my father loved his mother very much. He confided in me that when she died, one of the worst things he felt was that since he was an only child no one in the whole world would ever be able to feel the same sense of pain he felt. He'd have given anything to have a brother or sister because they'd know.
I was born after her death, and Dad wanted to name me after his mother -- Mabel Lou. Thank God, Mum stepped up to the plate. They settled on Elizabeth Louise. I still cringe at my childhood nickname, Betty Lou, but it's better than the alternative.
Here's a photo I saw of my parents for the first time today. They are so young and so much in love. I guess it was taken in 1938.