IN MEMORY OF GEORGE LEO FRAWLEY

In Memory of George Leo Frawley

February 3, 1895 - September 26, 1957

Although I wrote about my grandfather a few times in my journal, For The Heart Cries,  I wanted to write more about the man. I wrote this in January 2017 and submitted it to the Cape Cod Times in September - it was published on September 30, 2017 under the title, After All These Years, Still My Grandfathers Boy. This is a longer version of that article.

"All men live in suffering, I know as few can know."

                                  William Butler Yeats

George Frawley was a rough, tough and gruff man, cocky, confident, fearless and street smart. He could be as blunt as a sledgehammer and as abrasive as course sandpaper, but he also had a soft touch and the tenderness and gentleness of a butterfly. He was a fiery and opinionated Democrat and as Irish as a pint of Guinness and a shot of Jameson.

In his youth he was a fair athlete but as a young man he was an excellent amateur boxer - well known in the Brockton and Boston areas. He worked at the Fore River Shipyard and was a bookie - and probably used his boxing skills whenever necessary.

He married Catherine McDonnell in 1924 and they had two daughters. Living in an all women household must have been, at times, challenging and frustrating for him. As his daughters matured into young women, their behavior probably left him flabbergasted and speechless more often than not.

A year after his oldest daughter married, she gave birth to a boy. George, beaming and proud, had a grandson and I had a grandfather unaware of the adventures ahead - on that day a bond of unconditional friendship and a love story began, a magical and mystical journey of a grandfather and a grandson.

From the day I was born until he died almost 12 years later, I saw him every day. His home was just two houses away from mine. By the time I was five, I was his partner, companion and sidekick. We would ride the subways and walk the street of Boston, going to Fenway, the Garden, Suffolk Downs and to boxing matches. We would spend time at Jake Wirth's, Durgin Park, the Union Oyster House and various bars throughout the city particularly the old Pennant Grille that was next to Fenway Park and the Iron Horse that was in the old Boston Garden/North Station.

Every Friday night I would have dinner with him and my grandmother and stay overnight. Around 9:00pm we would go to the Amvets for pizza. While we waited I would have a Coke and he would have a few beers. When the pizza was ready we would go back home and watch the Gillette Friday Night Fights on TV. On Saturday morning we would go out for breakfast - this was our ritual every weekend, year after year.

He woulds read me stories and Yeats' poetry, tell me charming and enchanting tales of Ireland and with sadness in his eyes and spite in his voice, he told me of the atrocities the British committed against the Irish.

Almost daily he would challenge me to spell new words and stress the importance of reading. He encouraged me to take risks, to be brave, independent and adventurous - that failure was just a chance to try again. Being a bookie, he taught me how to gamble and read odds. Whenever I lost a bet to him, he always demanded the money - no excuses.

Two memories of many: The sun is shining down on Fenway Park and my grandfather and I are watching the Red Sox get slaughtered by the A's. By the 5th or 6th inning my grandfather is telling me it's time to go, the game is all but over. I beg him to stay until I see my hero, Ted Williams, bat one more time. So, we stay.

A few innings later Ted comes up to bat with a runner on first. As was our customer when Ted came up late in a game, we would bet whether he got a hit (me) or make a out (him). I pull two dimes from my pocket and the bet is on. My hero grounded into a double play and we left the game.

When we got to Kenmore Square my grandfather grabbed me by the collar and said, "You owe me twenty cents." I took the two dimes from my pocket, looked him in the eye and shouted, "If you want them, go get them!" - as I threw them as far as I could into the street. After the dimes disappeared, he put his arm around me and we laughed all the way home.

A couple of years later, it's August 1957 and I'm 11 years old. My parents are away for the day and I'm having dinner with my grandparents - sitting across from my grandfather. I drop my fork and blurt out, "Fuck!" My grandfather shouts, "Don't say that word! Never say that word!" I defiantly look at him and say, "You say it all the time! Fuck the Red Sox! Fuck the shipyard!"

With the quickness of his boxing skills, he reaches across the table to slap me but misses. We both jump up, I fake left and run right - through the den, out the back door, to my parents house. The door is locked, I don't have my key and must sit on the stoop of the breezeway.

A few minutes later his car comes around the corner and slowly up the street. It's fight or flight and I freeze. He pulls into the driveway and we stare at each other. Finally he says, "Let's go get some ice cream." I don't believe him but reply, "Really?" He smiles and says, "Cross my heart." I get in the car, he tousles my hair and off we drove.

* * * * *

A Day In The Life - September 26, 1957

"I heard the news today...the news was rather sad."

                                     Lennon/McCartney

As the sun was rising on what was to become a bright blue beautiful day, I put my hands around the handle bars on my bike, jumped on the seat and pedaled off to Saint Mary's church to serve as the altar boy for the 7:00am Mass. 

When Mass started my grandfather was sitting in the front row as he was  every time I was an altar boy. Whether it was a Little League or youth basketball game, a band concert or other school event, my grandfather was there - even for most practices. But as he knelt there I was unaware of the inner turmoil and demon raging within him.

After Mass I was in a rush to get home because I had to catch the bus to school. I passed my grandfather as he was walking home and yelled, "I'll see you after school!" He waved and shouted, "Ammonia and pneumonia!" Two words I needed to spell when I saw him again. But that was the last time I would see him or hear his voice - and I have wondered to this day, if he knew at that moment, his wave was a final wave goodbye?

When I got home from school, I stopped at my grandparents but no one was home. I walked to my house and there was a note from my mother saying she went shopping with my grandmother. I changed my clothes, went back to my grandparents, sat on the front porch doing my homework and waited for my grandfather.

While I was on the porch my grandfather was in the woods across the street. He was alone, sitting on a crumbling stonewall beneath a large oak tree. A rope was in his hands and he made a noose. He tied an end of the rope over a thick branch above his head, slipped the noose around his neck and tightened it.

As he stood on the stonewall, he probably saw squirrels leaping from branch to branch and heard birds chirping and singing autumn tunes. Knowing my grandfather, he paused and said a prayer - and for a moment all was still, peaceful. Then he stepped silently off the stonewall. His body swayed like a pendulum counting down the final seconds of his life.

When I woke the next morning, my parents sat me down, put their arms around me and told me that my best friend, my sidekick, my hero, the man I called grampa, was dead - and my life changed forever, heart shattered, dreams broken.

* * * * *

On that day 60 years ago as I rode my bike by my grandfather, I had dreams of that afternoon with him - and of the days and years ahead. When I waited for him that day I was full of joy and happiness, I even knew how to spell ammonia and pneumonia. But he never came home and my dreams were broken.

Yeats ends his poem, Broken Dreams, with these words, "vague memories, nothing but memories." My memories of my grandfather are both vague and vivid, but what most remains is the beautiful loving bond between a grandson and his grandfather.

And six decades later I'm still waiting for him to come home.

Contact: fortheheartcries@gmail.com