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By Lt. Col. Hank Brandli, U.S. Air Force (ret).
"POP"
The “Bulletin”
West Roxbury / Roslindale, Massachusetts
Published originally in the West Roxbury/ Roslindale Ma “Bulletin” December 14, 2006
My mother, Helen, died on July 6, 2006, in a nursing home in Needham, Massachusetts. She was 97 years old. Her passing brought back many memories from my childhood, not just of her, but of “Pop”, her father, my grandfather.
I realized that many of my mother’s ways and habits were inherited from her father and then passed on to me. When I spoke to Mom on the phone before she developed dementia, I would always question her on why I was the way I was. I wondered why I was so frantic and compulsive and never left a job unfinished. Everything had to be done immediately, filed or put away properly, etc.
I asked her hundreds of times, “Mom, Why am I like this-so compulsive?” “Did I get this from you?”My mother reminded me that she would never leave something out of place; she always put things back. As kids, if we left something lying around, it wouldn’t be long before Mom would pick it up and put it where it belonged. She never said anything about it. I quickly learned to do things so Mom didn’t have to do extra work.
“Pop”, Michael James Shea, was born in 1864. He came to the USA from Ireland and lived with us the last two places he resided. The first was at a rental place on Walworth St. until I was nine. The second was at 504 Beech St., my father’s family home, which was built in 1905.
Everyone called him “Pop”. He had left Ireland in the late 1880s from County Killarney with his wife and children. He had been a valet to the mayor. I don’t know how many children he had at that time, but eventually there were six.My mother, Helen ,was the youngest of his children. She was born in 1908 in the Brighton section of the City of Boston. I always wondered if Pop had left Ireland because of the potato famine, but I never asked. I remember the first time I got involved with Pop. I was six and my little sister, Donna, was three. Our family lived in a two-bedroom first floor apartment at 170 Walworth St. in Roslindale; the rent was $25.00 a month. My uncle Mike (Pop’s son) and his wife, my Aunt Esther, lived with their two daughters, Dorothy and Lorraine, who were five and two, on the second floor apartment. Pop lived in a small attic apartment above them.While there, Pop introduced me to many aspects of life: gardening, digging, weeding, fertilizing, hoeing, building, organizing, cleaning, hedge cutting, and chicken maintenance. He always extolled the value of these marvelous creatures. Every part was used ,even their feet (as puppets making movements by my sister and me pulling their tendons). I would also help Pop with the garden and the care of his chickens. I enjoyed feeding them and gathering their eggs, but I found it rather gory to watch as he killed the chickens. He would hang them by their legs on a pipe in the cellar to drain their blood, and then he would pluck them. I was only about 7 or 8 at the time I remember his putting things away in the proper place in the cellar and especially his love for animals, particularly birds. He had raised pigeons when he was a young man so he got me interested in birds by giving me a canary. It was a little black and yellow canary , and I named it Herman. Pop taught me to feed and water Herman and how to clean out the cage. He taught me to talk and whistle to him. During this time, Herman was doing his thing in the cage and my grandfather came down from the attic to look at him because I told him the canary looked “kinda” funny. I’ll never forget what he said to me.“Don’t blame me for all this compulsion. Yes, I was this way, but it comes from your grandfather -- Pop.”
“Henry, that little bird is going to die tomorrow.”
“Really Pop, how can you tell?” I asked.“Look in his eyes, you can see them jumping and they are glazed”, answered Pop.Sure enough, I woke the next morning, and Herman was lying dead in the bottom of the cage. I was thankful that Pop had prepared me for this. Then he instructed me to get some newspaper to wrap the dead canary in -- it was probably the Boston Post. He told me to get a box, put Herman in it so we could have a proper burial. He showed me how to make a little gravestone with a little flat rock on which I lettered H-e-r-m-a-n.
Then he took me around the porch in the back of the house to dig a grave next to the support post. We put Herman’s cardboard casket in the small hole, buried him, said a little prayer and then laid the headstone on the grave. This event took place in 1945-48, but I still remember it so distinctly that I tease my sister that I could go right to that spot in that hidden place under the overhang and find Herman’s headstone on his little grave. Pop also got me interested in weather. Whenever my father and I were getting ready to fly kites, Pop would brief us on which way the wind was blowing. He always taught me to look up in the sky to see what kinds of clouds were overhead. He never had any formal education in meteorology, but he always seemed to know when it was going to rain. Somewhat ironically, I studied meteorology and eventually became a meteorologist. I remember the time my father bought the family home on Beech Street from his step mother. He returned from the bank with his $6,000 loan and placed the cash on the bed. He called me and Mom to come and look at the cash before he gave it to his step mother, Peggy.The house had a cellar, first floor, second floor and an attic – an Archie Bunker type house. It had a beautiful yard, but best of all Pop came to live in it with us.
I never knew all the ramifications, but I remember hearing stories that my uncles, Pop’s sons, used to complain about how expensive it was to feed Pop. He had no pension and no social security, so my father told my mother that Pop could come and live with us. He had his own room on the second floor, my brother and I shared a room, my sister had her own room and my parents had the large bedroom at the top of the stairs.
I remember those years that he lived with us fondly. He was there when we got our first television set -- a black and white Philco -- although he preferred listening to the radio (the Rosary and Irish music).Pop was a fanatic about equipment and taking care of things. I was never allowed to leave my Columbia bicycle outside at night. I had to put it in the cellar. He instructed me to oil and wipe down the chain and the spokes and the rims, so that it glistened every time I mounted the beautiful seat to ride.
My favorite aunt Mil, against my parents’ wishes, bought me a Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun when I was in the new house. I used the gun mostly for target practice in the cellar and in the backyard with my close friend Davey.
One day, I was walking in the front of the yard with the BB gun and a bunch of starlings were in the mullberry tree eating the fruit. I don’t know what it is about boys and guns, but my mind set made me shoot at one of the birds in the air not thinking I would hit him, but I did.He fluttered to the lawn in front of the house. Just then, Pop came around the corner and saw it. He grabbed my forearm with his powerful hands. He called me a terrible, naughty boy, and then he dragged me over to the grass and picked up the still alive bird.
He said to me, “Henry, I’ve got to put this poor creature out of his misery and suffering.”And, with a quick motion and the flapping bird in his hand, he crushed the bird’s skull on the stairs edge leading up to the front porch. Sixty years later, I can still hear the noise of the bird’s head crushing mercy killing. I never shot at another bird in my life. A few months later Davey was over the house shooting my BB gun in the cellar. We went outside and Davey spotted some birds on the next door garage roof. He proceeded to stand on our lawn chair’s arms, took the BB gun and shot a bird whose head was sticking up on the roof. Davey was a crack shot and killed the bird. Our next door neighbor, Mrs. Bradley, was looking at this from her porch and yelled at us that she was going to call the police. Davey gave me back my gun and took off and went home. I went in the house scared stiff and started to look out the window, hoping nothing would happen. Sure enough, about 15 minutes later, a Boston Police car with two patrolmen came down the street. My mother and father were in the kitchen so I ran upstairs and hid under my bed. The police came to the door, rang the bell and my father answered the door. Then, Dad started yelling for me. I didn’t respond, so he ran upstairs yelling my name and looking in all the rooms. When he came into my room, he looked under the bed and couldn’t see me. This was because I had learned a trick playing hide and go seek where I used my toes and my fingers to lift myself up on the underneath bed rail so no one could see me when they looked under the bed. It worked perfectly. Dad finally left the house. That night Dad confronted me with what happened. He asked me where the BB gun was, and I got it for him. He took me by the arm and brought me and the BB gun out in the back. While yelling at me, he smashed the gun against the huge apple tree and threw it in the rubbish barrel and sent me to my room. We never said anything about the BB gun again. Several months later, Dad and Pop took me outside. They told me they had found out I did not shoot the bird. Pop had fixed the BB gun like brand new, and they gave it back to me and told me to never let the BB gun be used by anyone to shoot live creatures. Pop obviously was behind this whole matter. Pop loved to watch boxing on TV with dad and me. His favorite fighter was light heavy weight “Irish Bob” Murphy.
One fight I remember vividly is the second Rocky Marciano-“Jersey Joe” Walcott fight. The first one was in 1952 and was for the heavyweight crown. It went 13 rounds, and Rocky won by a knockout.
We were all excited about the rematch in the next year. It was on a Friday night, the Calvacade of Sports, a TV event from Madison Sq. Garden. Just as the fighters were being introduced, my Dad said to Pop, “Pop, would you like a ball (whiskey shot) and a beer?” Pop said, “An, sure ‘n Henry, I’d love it.” So Dad went to get it.The bell sounded, and the fighters came to the center of the ring. Suddenly and shockingly, Rocky knocked out Walcott with one punch in 13 seconds. My father came back into the room with the drinks on a tray and looked at the TV with the commotion on the screen. He said, “What the hell happened?” Pop said, “And, sure ‘n Henry the fights all over, Rocky knocked him out.” My father never saw it. There were no replays in those days. Needless to say Dad was “bull….”. To this day, I still laugh when I think about it. In the fifties, we all would watch the Ed Sullivan Toast of the Town show on Sunday night at 8 to 9 on CBS. Varied acts of all sorts were the fare. Every once in a while, he would have a Chinese act or two. One of these was a girl or group with long skinny sticks and twirling plates on top. More and more plates/sticks would be added as the act progressed. It was unbelievable!
Finally, after a short time, Pop stood up and said to my mom in his Irish brogue, “Helen,an’ sure ti’s a fake, and I’m going to bed.” Pop always kept his large Waltham silver pocket watch with a chain in his watch pocket and always buttoned his shirt up to the top. He had a nice clean smell, white hair and the biggest hands I ever saw. He was as strong as a bull well into his eighties. There were some minor problems because Pop liked to get up early and sometimes he interfered with my sister and me getting ready for school. We would have a talk with Mom, and she would explain the problem and then it would be OK.In the yard, Pop took care of our big garden where we grew carrots, lettuce, radishes, and tomatoes. He also tended to all the fruit trees: plum, apple,mulberry, peach and cherry. These had been planted by my other grandfather, “Grosspa” aka Gottlieb, who died when I was nine. I used to love help Pop with the garden. He would even let me play in the manure before we would spread it out. I loved playing basketball. And Pop knew nothing about the game. After asking a few questions and me showing him pictures, he built me a beautiful basketball setup: backboard, rim, and net (all regulation) next to the shed in backyard. I once helped him build a huge brick wall and we painted each brick white. My uncle Frank (Pop’s oldest son) gave his used 1939 Cadillac to his nephew and Pop’s grandson, my favorite cousin John Wrenn. John hung out at the Pleasant Café and parked the car on Walworth St. Every week Pop trudged down the hills and dales across Washington St. to clean the car of rubbish, bottles, cans and junk. He then would wash and clean all the windows. When he got home, he would say to Mom, “an’ sure, John should take better care of that car, Helen”.
One night in 1952, Pop and I were watching television. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen. He looked at me funny, and he started to cough. Then he started to hemorrhage from his mouth, coughing up huge chunks of flesh and blood. Mom heard him immediately and came into the living room. We all helped him to bed in his room. Mom called Dr. Sacco, and he was there in an hour. Dr. Sacco operated on Pop at the Faulkner Hospital. Pop came home. Dr.Sacco told my Mom that Pop had stomach cancer.Pop lived on doing his stuff for years-working his usual jobs, some strenuous. He was tough. He evenutally ran out of steam and was too old, tired and dying. He went to bed for good with what my sister and old-timers called the “dwindles”.Mom took care of Pop, her dad, cleaning him every day from head to toe, soothing and giving him solace, praying over and with him, doing whatever she could to make him comfortable. Dr. Sacco would visit frequently. I would go in to Pop’s room when no one was there just to see him. My little brother Paul never went in because he was too scared. One late night, Mom suddenly gasped, and left the room. Then I heard Mom talking quietly to Dad in their room. She went downstairs and made a telephone call and I could guess from these conversations that Pop was probably dead. I snuck into his room and looked at Pop lying in his bed, so peaceful. I said goodbye. It was Thanksgiving morning, 1955. Pop was 91. “Pop, thanks for everything you taught and gave to me .”
THE END Thanks to Wilk
