I spoke on the phone with my Dad today. I speak with him twice a week every week. I like keeping a finger on the pulse with him. He’s been a widower for over 5 years now and he lives alone. He’s got a bad "ticker", a fierce independence, a stubborn nature that equals his need for independence, and a heart of gold. He’ll turn 76 this coming Monday, July 9th.
Being his only child, with only a few distant relatives remaining aside from myself and my family, our bi-weekly conversations have come to mean a lot to the both of us over these last 5 years, since his beloved wife passed away. We discuss current events; the weather (a big part of his life at nearly 76); the government, which under this current administration Dad considers a disaster and being run by a bunch of schmoes; what’s currently going on with his friends at his church, which has come to mean the world to him since the passing of his wife; and what’s currently going on with my family.
Today he seemed a little quieter than usual and I knew it was because today is the anniversary of his father’s death. Fifty-eight years ago today on July 4, 1949, at age 50, my grandfather drowned. My father was just five days shy of his 18th birthday.
I know little about this man I never met, only the stories that my father’s shared with me over the years and those are few. I think it hurts him to talk about it too much, so I ask very little, but listen intently when he chooses to share.
My grandfather was born on May 28, 1899, in Hungary. He came to America at age 17, in 1916, with his widowed mother. The story is sketchy about how the chain of events occurred after that. I understand that his mother, my great-grandmother, "Mashik Grandma" (great grandma, in Hungarian), met and married her second husband, a man of Czechoslovakian descent.
My grandfather met and married my grandmother and they settled in the small, coal-mining town of Smock, PA, where my grandfather went to work in the coal mines. My Dad’s older sister was born there as was my Dad.
Grandpap worked as a coal miner until my Dad was about 6 months old. Then, my grandparents moved to southwestern PA, just outside of Pittsburgh. U.S. Steel had set up several steel mills in the area and job opportunities and the outlook for a better life looked promising.
Grandpap went to work in one of the steel mills as a self-taught and self-trained electrician and loved what he did. He also worked as an electrician "on the side," doing wiring work on houses of friends and family. As a youngster, my Dad would tag along as Grandpap’s helper. My Dad loved spending time with his Dad and it gave him a feeling of importance and belonging helping his Dad. I asked my Dad why he didn’t follow in his Dad’s footsteps in becoming an electrician and he replied that electricity scared him. He just couldn’t see himself working with electricity as a living.
The only other thing that I know of my grandfather is that he played clarinet in the city’s band. I’ve seen a picture of him in full uniform prior to a city parade, clarinet at the ready.
In the months just prior to July, 1949, after working many years in the steel mill, my grandparents had finally paid off their house. Quite the accomplishment and Grandpap was proud. Two friends, said, "Mike, why don’t you take a break? You’ve paid off your house, why don’t you give yourself a break and come fishing with us on the 4th? We’re going fly fishing at French Creek, near Pymatuning Lake."
"I don’t know anything about fly fishing!" replied my Grandpap. "I’ve never even been fly fishing." "That’s okay," replied his friends, "we’ll show you how and we’ll have a great time."
And so, Grandpap went to enjoy the first "break" of his life with his friends, doing something he knew nothing about.
Dad had plans of his own prior to the 4th. He’d spent a few days with 2 friends at Geneva-on-the-Lake, OH.
Early, the morning of the 4th, he’d dropped off his friends at their homes and pulled his car into the driveway to find the house ablaze in lights. He said he thought this strange because it seemed that every light in the house was on. His older sister’s husband came out and said, "I’ll put the car away for you, Will, you should go inside now." And Dad instantly knew something was severely wrong.
He walked into the house to find Grandma sobbing and his sister screaming. Grandpap was dead.
The way Dad tells the story, it seems that Grandpap and his friends were fly fishing from around the large rocks in French Creek.
Grandpap’s two friends said that they were going to go upstream to see if they’d have better luck. Grandpap said that he was going to continue fishing from the spot they’d been fishing. The rocks were mossy and Grandpap slipped, hitting his head on one of the rocks. He’d attached his hip boots to his belt, the boots filled with water and the quick current carried him downstream. His friends found his body about an hour after he went down and there was nothing they could do; he was already gone.
My father lost his Dad at age 17, five days shy of his 18th birthday and I lost a grandfather I’d never know.
This diary is for you, Grandpap, that you and what little I know of your life not be forgotten. ©