Happy Birthday, Dad - repost

[NOTE: I posted this two years ago, but I like it, so here it is again. I always get Dad's birthday mixed up with my h.s. boyfriend's, whose birthday was yesterday, Feb. 3.]


Tomorrow will be the 115th anniversary of the birth of my father, Francis Thomas Dwyer. He was born in Ann Arbor, Michigan, on February 5, 1894, and he died at Shoreham, Minnesota, on January 3, 1968, a night of bitter cold. (It was -41 degrees in Bismarck the following morning when I dropped off the girls with our neighbor Iris and took the train to Detroit Lakes for his funeral. Tom was not yet born.)

Here are some of the photos I have of Dad. There are more, but they're not organized, to put it mildly. These are the framed photos I have in the den.

First is the earliest photo I have (maybe anyone has) of Dad. He's maybe a year to 18 months. Notice his lovely blonde ringlets. Dad's hair was blondish until he was 13, when it turned black. It stayed curly, although he always combed it flat so that it wouldn't curl.

The bright-eyed girl is my Aunt Ellen, who was a year and a half older than Dad.



The next photo shows Dad with Ellen and little Edgar in the middle. Dad was the oldest boy in their family of seven children: Ellen, Francis, Edgar, Rose, Ann, and Mary. The seventh child, Theresa (Susan says "Mary"), died as an infant, and she followed Francis.



Here's a photo of Grandma and Grandpa and their lovely family of teenagers. It's the only photo I have of the whole group, and the only one I have of my grandmother. The two boys, Edgar and Francis, are in the back row. In the middle row are Ellen (soon to become Sister Mary Mark, I.H.M. (Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, Monroe, Michigan), Mary, Ann, and Rose. Grandma was teaching school in Cherokee, Iowa, when Grandpa came back from Iowa Normal School in Cedar Falls with a teaching certificate. His father had wanted him to stay home and work the farm, but he did not want to be a farmer. He ran away from home at age 15 and worked his way through college in Cedar Falls and then Valparaiso College in Valparaiso, Indiana. (Grandma and Grandpa actually met at Valparaiso where they were both students.) Arriving back home, he taught school during the day, studied for the law at night, and presumably courted Grandma at the same time. Soon he applied for admission to the University of Michigan law school, was accepted, married Grandma, the lovely Alicia Hogan, and moved to Ann Arbor. Ellen was born the day Grandpa graduated from the U of M with his law degree.

The following picture is of the St. Thomas Parish baseball team of 1912. My dad is in the middle of the back row wearing his Shaker knit sweater, and my grandfather is on the end at the right. He was now a lawyer in private practice in Ann Arbor and coach of the team. Grandpa at various times also was the city attorney for Ann Arbor and the bishop's lawyer as well. Right after Grandpa's graduation from the U of M, he taught law there, also. The two guys on either side of my dad, Leo and Everett, were his pals growing up, and I remember him talking about their baseball exploits and canoeing trips on the river. Dad played shortstop or second base, I forget which, and shortly after this, he won a baseball scholarship to the University of Michigan.



His graduation photo is next, but I'm not sure which graduation this was taken for, high school or college. I thought I remembered Mom saying this was his U of M graduation photo, but Susan said it's his high school photo. He looks older than high school in this one, and certainly older than he does in the family photo.





The U.S. Army appropriated him after he graduated from the U. of M. with a degree in English, and they stationed him for the duration of WWI in Newport News, Virginia, as a typing clerk. Mom took this photo of him on the farm in Iowa when he was home on furlough. Mom met Dad while he was still in college. Grandpa used to send Dad back to Iowa during his summer vacations to help Grandpa's two old maid sisters, Nora and Ellen, who wound up running the farm after all the boys in the family defected or proved incapable of managing the place. Mom taught school with Aunt Nora, who was eager to introduce her handsome nephew to her bright, bubbly co-worker. Dad wrote home after the introduction, "I've met the liveliest girl in town."



Fast-forward to the 50s....Grandpa is dead, and Dad bought a lake cottage on Lake Sallie with his inheritance. Here he is out back of the cottage by our 1947 green DeSoto, which he bought when I was in 8th grade. It boasted the forerunner of automatic transmission. When you started out, you'd step on the gas until you got to maybe 15-18 mph, then you'd let up on the gas, the car would shift itself--Ka-KLUNK!--and you'd be at driving speed.

Dad always wore khakis from L.L. Bean on the weekends, plus a yellow terry cloth longsleeved t-shirt like he has on in the picture. He carried his Pall Malls in the pocket in front. On his feet, he wore old wingtips that were too scuffed to wear to work. And he usually wore a cap like this.

The smoke from his Pall Malls was deadly, and when we drove to the lake every Friday night after Dad got off work, Mom and I would beg him to open the window a little wider so we could breathe. He always did, but ever afterward, I could tell Pall Mall smoke from any other cigarette's. It was tarry and raw, and it stunk upwind.

The big house behind Dad belonged to Jack and Babe Maloney, parents of my growing-up playmates at the lake, Michael and Marcia. It used to be the main house of a resort, and our cottage was one of the little rental places. It had a living room, a bedroom, and a porch on two sides...the kitchen on the side, and a big round table & chairs plus a big squeaky spring bed in front.

Here are Dad and Gene getting ready to put the dock in for the summer. Dad is pulling something out from under the front porch, where he stored the dock over the winter. Part of the dock is stacked to the right. The trees are not yet in leaf, but the snow is gone, so it must be the end of May. I took these little photos with my 8th grade graduation present camera. I wish I'd taken hundreds more.



Last photo: "Brothers of the Brush" - Fargo's Diamond Jubilee, 1950. Dad, like most other men in town, grew a beard for the Centennial celebration. He sent a copy of this photo to Aunt Mary Barnes, I think, and on the back, though the ink has almost completely faded, he wrote "Is this Pop Hogan or a duke's mixture? With love, Francis"



Love to you, Francis. You were my best pal as a kid. You took me everywhere with you: fishing, hunting, even bowling at night during the winter when the NW Bell team had league bowling--you'd park me at the bar with a glass of 7Up while you rolled up one great game after another. You were a natural athlete and a lover of the outdoors. Your temper scared me to death when I was little, but I learned that yelling back would shut you up good. I only did it once, actually, because I was so appalled to see you silenced like that. Thanks for giving me life and a share of your unique spirit....