Aristotle wrote that memory is the scribe of the soul. My recollections of John P. Smullen hold him as being his family's rebel. For that reason, alone, I enjoyed his company more than all my other relatives. Also, my family members would definitely label me as being its number one nonconformist.
Uncle John and I shared other characteristics. We were number three in order of birth. We loved to hear new jokes and then quickly revise them slightly, telling them to friends and family as if they had come from a great storage place of individual creativity. In the military, we were its backbone, both enlisted non-commissioned officers, and proud of it. Besides all that, neither of us took ourselves too seriously.
John would raise a make believe glass in his hand and offer the following toast: "Here's to those who wish me well." Downing the make believe drink, he quickly finished his tribute with, "And those who don't can go to hell."
In many ways, he had a devil may care exterior. Yet, in those things that count in life, he was loyal to his wife, Margaret, a nurse, whom he lovingly called, "Marge." Devoted to their daughters, Florence and Mary Pat, John bragged endlessly about them.
He joined the Army in 1942 when he was 28 years old. A sergeant, he was in charge of a platoon of women, or so he said. I still believe that to be the truth but since he was All-Irish-all-the-way, John could tell stories with the best of them and have everyone in earshot swearing to be utmost believers.
In 1943, he married the former Margaret Edith Furness whom he had known since he was fifteen years old. Not long after the end of WWII, John traveled with Mother, my sister, Annette, and me on the Hiawatha to Wisconsin Rapids. Apparently, he and Dad had decided that John would build a bedroom in our attic with the help of my older brothers, James and Bill. I was too young to help.
John did most of the measuring and planning and all the beer drinking. James and Bill followed orders and worked hard. My uncle's waist expanded at least a couple inches during the remodeling, which occurred in the midst of an extremely hot summer. Sawing and pounding nails into the new-fangled drywall, John and my brothers eventually got the job done. Quite a few times, he took us three boys to see a movie at one of our city's theaters.
After John returned to Chicago, James and Bill took over the new upstairs bedroom, which allowed Annette and me to have individual bedrooms, but not for long. My youngest brother, Peter, would soon be born.
The day after Dad died, John accompanied Grandfather Smullen to our home. I've never seen my uncle so distraught. He could hardly talk. I didn't want to go to the funeral home for the wake, but it was he who talked me into attending. I never forgave him for that, but that's another story.
During one of my Summer Racine visits, John and his family also visited Uncle George and Aunt Marie. We kids listened endlessly to John's tall tales. As individuals, we’d say, "Awww, I don't believe that."
"It's the truth," claimed John, who was always fun to be with. Whenever he told stories about his youth, there was that Irish gleam in his eyes.
Years later, during my second liberty from Boot Camp at the Great Lakes Naval station, I telephoned John. "Come on over," he said. "We'll do something together." I headed to his and Marge's apartment at 3618 West Belmont in Chicago. I don't know why but I've never forgotten that address, among others. I just had to show him the new tattoo on my left forearm. I was certain all my other relatives would have said, "Why'd you get that thing?"
Not John. "Now, you're a sailor," he said with a smile. "I'm proud of you." At that time, John and Marge's apartment was little over a mile from Chicago's Riverview Amusement Park. Asking me if I'd like to go to the park and accompany him on some rides, I promptly and enthusiastically said, "Yes."
On the roller coasters, John laughed as I yelled, "Oh, Lord." We rode on every roller coaster ride at the park, including Bobs, followed by harrowing up and down and curvaceous trips on the Comet, Silver Flash, Fireball, and Jetstream. Not only did John not look scared, he enjoyed the rides immensely mainly, I believe, because I invariably tensed up while my eyes grew as large as coffee cup saucers as I hung on for dear life.
After I finished my hitch in the Navy, I was between my sophomore and junior years of college during summer break. I had lost my road construction job because of problems with sunstroke. I thus contacted Uncle John who advised me to apply for a job at Chicago's O'Hare Airport. I drove to Chicago and was promptly offered a job by United Airlines as a ramp serviceman—an employee who handles luggage not carried on the plane by passengers. Initially, I was hired to stuff bags and suitcases into planes' bellies before takeoff and unload them after planes landed.
Uncle John and Aunt Marge told me I could stay with them in their Streamwood, IL, home. Streamwood's a northwest suburb of Chicago. I took over one daughter's bedroom. I forget which cousin I ousted. Nevertheless, both young ladies welcomed me in their home. Teenager Florence had a steady beau, a kid named Jerry Urban. They've been married forever and now live in Lexington, KY. Both are retired. Mary Pat was going to be a nun but instead married and had a couple of daughters. Her husband died recently.
Before I could start work as a ramp serviceman, I had to spend a week attending classes, for which I was paid. After that one-week period, not only did United Airlines give me three sets of grey work clothes, they subsequently laundered and ironed them, as well—free of charge.
The pay was great. If I reported 15 minutes before the shift began and left 15 minutes after the shift ended, that half hour counted as two hours of United Airlines' "EZ overtime." I couldn't believe the many Chicago employees who wouldn't volunteer for EZ overtime. Because I was from Wisconsin, the airline's administrators assumed I knew something about farms. Thus, I was assigned to operate a tractor that hauled luggage wagons between the planes and the terminal.
On weekends, I was assigned to the Air Freight building in order to provide security. Alone, I was totally bored. Many veterans' corpses inside coffins were being air-shipped to Washington, D.C. Each casket had a tag with the individual's name written on it. One weekend, I added the following to the tags. "Hello, my name is:________. What's yours?"
My supervisor told me to quit doing that, which I did. One weekend, the air freight building housed leopards, lions, and cheetahs. Their howls and growls were unbelievable. Thankfully, I didn't have to feed them. On more than a few weekends, we received pallets of strawberries from California. I gorged myself until I was warned not to do so. On another weekend, the building housed a number of expensive race horses shipped from California.
John, a chemist, was Streamwood's health inspector. I accompanied him on trips to a few restaurants he intended to close down due to unsanitary conditions. When I wasn't working at O'Hare, I helped lay floor tile in his and Marge's home. After summer was up and I was supposed to return to school, United Airlines offered me a job in their administration. Sorely tempted, I however returned to school and to our mobile home in Stevens Point, WI.
In 1967, while I was in graduate school in Kent, Ohio, Uncle John died, due to complications of cancer. He was only 54. I swear sometimes I can still hear him laugh after he says, "Here's to those who wish me well. And those who don't can go to hell."
I'm still with you on that one, Uncle John.
Uncle John and I shared other characteristics. We were number three in order of birth. We loved to hear new jokes and then quickly revise them slightly, telling them to friends and family as if they had come from a great storage place of individual creativity. In the military, we were its backbone, both enlisted non-commissioned officers, and proud of it. Besides all that, neither of us took ourselves too seriously.
John would raise a make believe glass in his hand and offer the following toast: "Here's to those who wish me well." Downing the make believe drink, he quickly finished his tribute with, "And those who don't can go to hell."
In many ways, he had a devil may care exterior. Yet, in those things that count in life, he was loyal to his wife, Margaret, a nurse, whom he lovingly called, "Marge." Devoted to their daughters, Florence and Mary Pat, John bragged endlessly about them.
He joined the Army in 1942 when he was 28 years old. A sergeant, he was in charge of a platoon of women, or so he said. I still believe that to be the truth but since he was All-Irish-all-the-way, John could tell stories with the best of them and have everyone in earshot swearing to be utmost believers.
In 1943, he married the former Margaret Edith Furness whom he had known since he was fifteen years old. Not long after the end of WWII, John traveled with Mother, my sister, Annette, and me on the Hiawatha to Wisconsin Rapids. Apparently, he and Dad had decided that John would build a bedroom in our attic with the help of my older brothers, James and Bill. I was too young to help.
John did most of the measuring and planning and all the beer drinking. James and Bill followed orders and worked hard. My uncle's waist expanded at least a couple inches during the remodeling, which occurred in the midst of an extremely hot summer. Sawing and pounding nails into the new-fangled drywall, John and my brothers eventually got the job done. Quite a few times, he took us three boys to see a movie at one of our city's theaters.
After John returned to Chicago, James and Bill took over the new upstairs bedroom, which allowed Annette and me to have individual bedrooms, but not for long. My youngest brother, Peter, would soon be born.
The day after Dad died, John accompanied Grandfather Smullen to our home. I've never seen my uncle so distraught. He could hardly talk. I didn't want to go to the funeral home for the wake, but it was he who talked me into attending. I never forgave him for that, but that's another story.
During one of my Summer Racine visits, John and his family also visited Uncle George and Aunt Marie. We kids listened endlessly to John's tall tales. As individuals, we’d say, "Awww, I don't believe that."
"It's the truth," claimed John, who was always fun to be with. Whenever he told stories about his youth, there was that Irish gleam in his eyes.
Years later, during my second liberty from Boot Camp at the Great Lakes Naval station, I telephoned John. "Come on over," he said. "We'll do something together." I headed to his and Marge's apartment at 3618 West Belmont in Chicago. I don't know why but I've never forgotten that address, among others. I just had to show him the new tattoo on my left forearm. I was certain all my other relatives would have said, "Why'd you get that thing?"
Not John. "Now, you're a sailor," he said with a smile. "I'm proud of you." At that time, John and Marge's apartment was little over a mile from Chicago's Riverview Amusement Park. Asking me if I'd like to go to the park and accompany him on some rides, I promptly and enthusiastically said, "Yes."
On the roller coasters, John laughed as I yelled, "Oh, Lord." We rode on every roller coaster ride at the park, including Bobs, followed by harrowing up and down and curvaceous trips on the Comet, Silver Flash, Fireball, and Jetstream. Not only did John not look scared, he enjoyed the rides immensely mainly, I believe, because I invariably tensed up while my eyes grew as large as coffee cup saucers as I hung on for dear life.
After I finished my hitch in the Navy, I was between my sophomore and junior years of college during summer break. I had lost my road construction job because of problems with sunstroke. I thus contacted Uncle John who advised me to apply for a job at Chicago's O'Hare Airport. I drove to Chicago and was promptly offered a job by United Airlines as a ramp serviceman—an employee who handles luggage not carried on the plane by passengers. Initially, I was hired to stuff bags and suitcases into planes' bellies before takeoff and unload them after planes landed.
Uncle John and Aunt Marge told me I could stay with them in their Streamwood, IL, home. Streamwood's a northwest suburb of Chicago. I took over one daughter's bedroom. I forget which cousin I ousted. Nevertheless, both young ladies welcomed me in their home. Teenager Florence had a steady beau, a kid named Jerry Urban. They've been married forever and now live in Lexington, KY. Both are retired. Mary Pat was going to be a nun but instead married and had a couple of daughters. Her husband died recently.
Before I could start work as a ramp serviceman, I had to spend a week attending classes, for which I was paid. After that one-week period, not only did United Airlines give me three sets of grey work clothes, they subsequently laundered and ironed them, as well—free of charge.
The pay was great. If I reported 15 minutes before the shift began and left 15 minutes after the shift ended, that half hour counted as two hours of United Airlines' "EZ overtime." I couldn't believe the many Chicago employees who wouldn't volunteer for EZ overtime. Because I was from Wisconsin, the airline's administrators assumed I knew something about farms. Thus, I was assigned to operate a tractor that hauled luggage wagons between the planes and the terminal.
On weekends, I was assigned to the Air Freight building in order to provide security. Alone, I was totally bored. Many veterans' corpses inside coffins were being air-shipped to Washington, D.C. Each casket had a tag with the individual's name written on it. One weekend, I added the following to the tags. "Hello, my name is:________. What's yours?"
My supervisor told me to quit doing that, which I did. One weekend, the air freight building housed leopards, lions, and cheetahs. Their howls and growls were unbelievable. Thankfully, I didn't have to feed them. On more than a few weekends, we received pallets of strawberries from California. I gorged myself until I was warned not to do so. On another weekend, the building housed a number of expensive race horses shipped from California.
John, a chemist, was Streamwood's health inspector. I accompanied him on trips to a few restaurants he intended to close down due to unsanitary conditions. When I wasn't working at O'Hare, I helped lay floor tile in his and Marge's home. After summer was up and I was supposed to return to school, United Airlines offered me a job in their administration. Sorely tempted, I however returned to school and to our mobile home in Stevens Point, WI.
In 1967, while I was in graduate school in Kent, Ohio, Uncle John died, due to complications of cancer. He was only 54. I swear sometimes I can still hear him laugh after he says, "Here's to those who wish me well. And those who don't can go to hell."
I'm still with you on that one, Uncle John.
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