UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN

I do know that William and Margaret had three sons and two daughters. One of the sons was named John Francis. He was born on February 25, 1925. They raised their children in a small row house on 2nd Street in South Philly. They got through the Great Depression. William worked for Atlantic Refining Company in South Phila. John was an athletic boy. He was 5-11 and 180 pounds. He played Semi-Pro football in his youth. The day he turned 18 in 1943, he rushed down to the enlistment office to fight for his country. Luckily for me and the rest of my siblings he was turned down because of his very poor eyesight, a gift he passed down to all of us. His nickname among his buddies was “The General”. We have no idea why. He never told us.

I assume that his old man pulled some strings to get him hired by Atlantic Refining in 1945. His brother Billy also got a job at Atlantic. His entire working life was spent working for Atlantic, retiring in 1985 at the age of 59. Driving an 18 wheel gas truck for decades will wear a strong man out. He would go to work at 5:30 every day and put in a 10 hour shift. He would have his 40 hours in by Thursday. We would wait for the phone to ring on Thursday night asking him to work on Friday. He always said yes. He had friends killed on the job. He had friends badly injured. Working with gasoline, climbing ladders, lugging heavy hoses, and driving an 18 wheel bomb would make anyone a little nervous. One spark or even static electricity could end in disaster. Somehow he managed to do this dangerous job for 40 years without incident. He had a perfect record for safety. He was proud of that. After 40 years, they gave him a gold watch. Later in his life, he gave that watch to me.

Those are the facts. But, that isn’t what defined my Dad. He was a man of few words and didn’t talk much about his youth or his adventures during his 20s. He met my mother in the early 1950s. Their first date was seeing Tony Bennett at the Bolero in Wildwood, NJ. This began a lifelong love affair with Wildwood. I took my mom to the Bolero a few months ago for dinner. They married in 1955 and had my brother Jack shortly thereafter while living in a small apartment in South Philly. They realized the American dream in 1957 when they bought a brand new 900 square foot 3 bedroom, 1 bath row home for $10,000 in Collingdale, the new suburb 10 miles outside of Philadelphia. They paid off their 30 year mortgage in 1987 and had a party to celebrate.

They joined St. Joseph’s Parish. They never missed Sunday Mass. They always made their weekly donation. I was born in 1963 and my sister Maureen arrived in 1967. There were miscarriages between my brother and myself, but they were not spoken about. Irish Catholic families are good at not speaking about certain things. We are also good at holding grudges, drinking and laughing when we should cry. My recollections of my childhood are all positive. My Dad went to work. My mom stayed home and raised us. He would come home from work and sit in his chair to read the Evening Bulletin. My mom would bring him a beer. We’d eat dinner as a family. He’d have another beer and usually drift off while reading the paper. One of our dogs (Ginger, Snoopy, or Boots) would always be next to him. We joked that he liked his dogs more than us. They never talked back.

We were not coddled. I rode my bike to school. The kids in the neighborhood organized our own fun. There were baseball fields and basketball courts within walking distance. We played hockey in the middle of the street. We weren’t shuttled around to activities because we only had one car.  Somehow, on the salary of one blue collar parent, they put us through 12 years of Catholic school and sent us to college at Villanova, Drexel and Scranton. We learned to be self-sufficient. My parents were there to help, but it was up to us to succeed or fail. I learned my work ethic from my Dad. I don’t remember a lot of specifics from my early childhood, but I do remember my Dad pulling his Mack Truck up in front of our house when I was 4 years old. He had just made a delivery to an ARCO station near our house. He lifted me into the cab and took me for a ride around the block. It became a highlight of my childhood and sticks with me today.

My Dad was a child of the Depression. He was frugal and risk averse his entire life. He bought used cars during my entire youth. He bought whatever beer that was on sale (Red White & Blue, Tiger’s Head Ale, Schlitz). No foreign beers for him. He never trusted credit cards. Even ATMs were suspect in his view. The only debt he ever had was the mortgage. In his last year of work in 1985 he made $32,000, the highest earnings of his lifetime. He took a lump sum payout of $200,000 for his pension. He made it last for the next 25 years. We never lived above our means. We went to Wildwood for 2 weeks every year. My Mom and Dad’s brothers and sisters would bring their families for the same two weeks. It was a party. The kids were free to roam and the parents were free to drink and play poker.

I am who I am because of my Dad. We shared many of the same interests. He liked history, fishing, sports and funny TV shows. I had the patience to be a good fisherman and I didn’t throw up when I went on a boat, like my brother. He would take me deep sea fishing, fishing off the dock at Dad’s Place, and fishing off the beach in North Wildwood. He would take us to Franklin D Roosevelt Park in South Philly to fish for sunnies in the lakes. We would go to Phillies games on the weekend, sitting in the yellow seats up top. It was 50 cents for a kid and $2 for an adult. I inherited his hate for traffic. We always parked on the street, about a half mile from the stadium. He wanted to beat the traffic. It has been a running joke in our family that we never saw a 9th inning at a Phillies game. Dad would make us leave in the 8th to beat the traffic. I remember leaving a Monday night Eagles game and hearing the crowd cheer as we walked down the street. An Eagle had run a kickoff back 102 yards to win the game. I also remember leaving a 76ers game when they were down by 30 points. They staged one of the greatest comebacks in history to win the game. But, we didn’t get caught in the traffic.

My Dad had a dry sense of humor. He was not politically correct. He loved the sitcom All in the Family. Of course, he agreed with most of what Archie Bunker said. When we asked him how he got that scar on his knee, he said that he was stabbed by a Jap midget in WWII. He influenced my deep skepticism of most things. I would read hundreds of books about WWII, the Civil War, and other times in history. After finishing a book, I’d be bursting to tell him what I learned. I’d tell him what I learned and he’d look up from his newspaper and say, “Don’t believe everything you read.” That would make me so mad. But, he was right. The lesson was that I had to think for myself.

The last week has been emotional and difficult. One of my main tasks was to produce a slide show that we could show at the funeral luncheon to celebrate the life of my Father. We rummaged through five decades worth of pictures and picked out 60 pictures that told the story of his life. I spent hours scanning these pictures and creating a power point slide show. What I realized while performing this task was that my Dad and Mom had provided the foundation and the bridge to future generations. They gave myself and my brother and sister the opportunity to move up and have a better life than they did. They were rewarded with 8 grandchildren (Sean, Megan, Erin, Brynn, Ethan, Kevin, Jimmy, Mike), and I have to say that there is not a bad one in the bunch. My Dad came up a few months short of seeing twin great grandchildren. My parents did not live for today. They lived to help make the future better.

My brother made two comments during his Eulogy yesterday that really hit home for me. Everyone liked my Dad. He had no enemies. He smiled easily and was slow to anger. He spent the last 3 years of his life in the St. Francis Country Home. Seeing the compassion, love and care shown to my Dad and my Mom from the nurses, orderlies, and administration at St. Francis has renewed my faith in the American people. These people do not do it for the great pay or glory. They do it because they care about less fortunate human beings. As we waited out my Dad’s final hours, workers from the Home would arrive to pay their respects and give him a kiss. Some stayed for hours with us. These people loved him. They became my Mom’s best friends. I’m truly thankful that he spent his final days in this loving place.

The other thing that my brother said was that history would not remember my Dad, but everyone whose lives he touched would remember him. It is people like my Dad that made this country. They did the hard work. They lived life the right way. He wasn’t famous. He wasn’t ambitious. He was a good man – a role model for his children and grandchildren. If we had more men like John Quinn this country would be a better place. He was a generational bridge that allowed his kids and grandkids to cross over to a better future. We laughed and cried in equal doses in the last week. I loved my Dad. I’ll miss him for the rest of my life. As I was putting ties around the necks of Jimmy and Michael on the morning of the funeral, I realized they still need me. They won’t need me to put their ties on in a few years, but hopefully they will always remember the love of family they have learned from their parents and grandparents. As I type these words tears are falling on the keyboard. Goodbye Dad. I’ll see you in Heaven, if I make the list.