The day these words are posted is March 6, 2019, my father’s birthday. He would have been 122. Not hard to figure he was born in 1897, a mere 32 years after the end of the Civil War. He died of a heart attack at the young age of 55, just a few months shy of my 18th birthday and even a smaller time from my departure for college.
In those self-centered days of youth, I wasn’t aware of how amazing a man he was, but the older I get the more I realize how lucky I am he was 50% responsible for me. So, Dad, this is for you, with heartfelt thanks and love.
He was brave. In the navy during World War I, he was associated with communications and in Haiti climbed a 100-foot swaying pole to attach equipment to its peak. I’ve seen a photo of it. He stoically faced his death surrounded by an oxygen tent, the treatment of the day for heart problems.
He enjoyed a good time. His name was Cyril and he had a twin Cecil. Guess their heritage! When young they were indistinguishable. I heard many a story regarding tricks pulled, such as one making a date with a girl and the other carrying it out. Or if one had detention in school but had something he wanted to do, the other would fill in. He and my mother loved giving parties. Everyone always dressed to the nines for them. He had a cocktail shaker and proudly mingled with guests as he mixed Manhattans.
He played the piano when younger. He and Cecil gave concerts on dual pianos that received rave reviews from the Boston Globe.
He was kind. I cannot recall a single instance where he raised his voice at my mother, at me, or at anyone else. Goodness knows, he had plenty of opportunities. When I was 17, we had one car, a Plymouth. It was new. My mother’s father, whom I never knew, had died and left her $1500 which was enough for the big purchase. I remember rolling down the back window as we passed through town and shouting we had a new car. When I got my driver’s license, my dad had a chat with me, told me if something happened to the car we couldn’t afford another, and he expected me to be extremely careful. It wasn’t long before I backed into a tree. The damage was slight, but it did exist. I waited in dread for my father to return from work. He said, “I’ve already had my say. Do better in the future.”
He was smart and a hard worker. He never received a college degree, but he took many courses both in traditional classrooms and by mail. He was a pioneer in the field of radio communications and had a good friend who worked with Edwin Armstrong, the inventor of FM. He was employed at several places, but by the time I came on the scene he had settled at Bell Telephone Laboratories in New York City and later moved to the newer building in Murray Hill, New Jersey. He was an MTS, the designation given to a Member of the Technical Staff, the title assigned to engineers and one I was to hold many years later. He was the only MTS in the Labs history to not have a formal degree. Shortly after he died my mother learned he was slated to be given a significant responsibility on a new project.
He was a father. And I don’t mean just the automatic designation following an act of love. He was “there” in every sense. He dealt with me kindly when I did stupid things like back the car into a tree. He encouraged the use of our back yard as a baseball diamond, football stadium, and golf course. When a ball passed through a neighbor’s closed window, he laughed and repaired it himself. When in that innocent age my married sister became pregnant, I asked how babies came about, assuming there was something magical about being married. I didn’t see it, but I bet my parents exchanged a glance. What I know happened is that the next Saturday my father suggested going for a walk. On it I learned some pretty interesting stuff.
For decades I’ve wished I could have known Dad when I was an adult, allowing me to convey my feelings of love and respect to a wonderful man. I’m sorry my children couldn’t have had him in their lives.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
In those self-centered days of youth, I wasn’t aware of how amazing a man he was, but the older I get the more I realize how lucky I am he was 50% responsible for me. So, Dad, this is for you, with heartfelt thanks and love.
He was brave. In the navy during World War I, he was associated with communications and in Haiti climbed a 100-foot swaying pole to attach equipment to its peak. I’ve seen a photo of it. He stoically faced his death surrounded by an oxygen tent, the treatment of the day for heart problems.
He enjoyed a good time. His name was Cyril and he had a twin Cecil. Guess their heritage! When young they were indistinguishable. I heard many a story regarding tricks pulled, such as one making a date with a girl and the other carrying it out. Or if one had detention in school but had something he wanted to do, the other would fill in. He and my mother loved giving parties. Everyone always dressed to the nines for them. He had a cocktail shaker and proudly mingled with guests as he mixed Manhattans.
He played the piano when younger. He and Cecil gave concerts on dual pianos that received rave reviews from the Boston Globe.
He was kind. I cannot recall a single instance where he raised his voice at my mother, at me, or at anyone else. Goodness knows, he had plenty of opportunities. When I was 17, we had one car, a Plymouth. It was new. My mother’s father, whom I never knew, had died and left her $1500 which was enough for the big purchase. I remember rolling down the back window as we passed through town and shouting we had a new car. When I got my driver’s license, my dad had a chat with me, told me if something happened to the car we couldn’t afford another, and he expected me to be extremely careful. It wasn’t long before I backed into a tree. The damage was slight, but it did exist. I waited in dread for my father to return from work. He said, “I’ve already had my say. Do better in the future.”
He was smart and a hard worker. He never received a college degree, but he took many courses both in traditional classrooms and by mail. He was a pioneer in the field of radio communications and had a good friend who worked with Edwin Armstrong, the inventor of FM. He was employed at several places, but by the time I came on the scene he had settled at Bell Telephone Laboratories in New York City and later moved to the newer building in Murray Hill, New Jersey. He was an MTS, the designation given to a Member of the Technical Staff, the title assigned to engineers and one I was to hold many years later. He was the only MTS in the Labs history to not have a formal degree. Shortly after he died my mother learned he was slated to be given a significant responsibility on a new project.
He was a father. And I don’t mean just the automatic designation following an act of love. He was “there” in every sense. He dealt with me kindly when I did stupid things like back the car into a tree. He encouraged the use of our back yard as a baseball diamond, football stadium, and golf course. When a ball passed through a neighbor’s closed window, he laughed and repaired it himself. When in that innocent age my married sister became pregnant, I asked how babies came about, assuming there was something magical about being married. I didn’t see it, but I bet my parents exchanged a glance. What I know happened is that the next Saturday my father suggested going for a walk. On it I learned some pretty interesting stuff.
For decades I’ve wished I could have known Dad when I was an adult, allowing me to convey my feelings of love and respect to a wonderful man. I’m sorry my children couldn’t have had him in their lives.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
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