The wisdom and humor of an Irish Father
When I was a younger man we lived on 62nd and Talman in Chicago. I remember that I came home one evening after having a few too many beers. Being under the age to drink I tried to enter the house not letting on that I was smashed. That house required that you unlock first the outside door and then the inside door. I of course thought I achieved this with the greatest of ease, wrong. When I entered the front room Dad was sitting in his favorite chair reading his paper. Realizing that I would not be able to make it from the front room all the way to the rear of the house with out falling down I decided to sit on the couch. Dad lowered his paper and looked at me over his Walgreen readers. He asked me if I was ok and what was I doing to which I replied "watching TV" - as he raised his paper I heard him say " might help if you turned it on".
Stories from Mike Nowlan
Dad was a very special Irishman. He never actually saw the auld sod (nor have I for that matter), but in his American Irish way, he was the biggest Mick I ever knew. Dad never had much of a sense of humor and that’s exactly why at times he was so painfully funny. I remember, as if it were yesterday, sitting around the dinner table in those dark days after Mom’s death. It was as silent as a wake; no laughter and only an occasional, “Please pass the potatoes”. The rules of silence at the dinner table were never understood by Sister Mary and she was talking on and on. Dad was getting more fidgety with each passing moment. You could tell because his fingers on his left hand were waving faster and faster. He finally barked, “Mary, will you please shut up?” He bent over to retrieve the napkin he dropped in his agitation. His distress must have elevated his abdominal gas levels for as he bent over the sharpest fart that ever hit plastic covers on a chair echoed in the small kitchen. Gadzooks! Eureka! We all knew God forbade us to dare laugh or we would suffer the rage of Our Father… everyone one of us that is except Mary! Mary shrieked and screamed with laughter. Dad banged his napkin to the table, and with a huff left the kitchen. Bedlam began. None of us could contain the throbbing laughter in our bodies any longer and we all screamed, banged the table and rolled on the floor. Dad retorted from the living room as he straightened his newspaper, “Oh, you’re all silly!” Nothing more was ever said.If I live to be a hundred (and if I follow Dad’s genetic path, I might) I will never forget that evening. I am sure our dear Mother rocked the heavens in laughter that night also. It has been said many times that the Nowlans are a gas. This time it was true!
Saturdays with Dad and Mom Many of my memories began in the apartment that we Nowlan’s occupied on Talman Avenue in Chicago, don’t cha know? The meals we shared and the natural gravitational pull that all Irishmen have towards the kitchen created the stage for many experiences. I recall Saturdays after the usual grocery shopping trip with Dad and Mom to Krogers, eating Dad’s favorite Saturday repast of crackers and cheese, anchovies, sardines and kippered fish, and for Dad a large brandy snifter of a gin martini (Beef Eater gin, Martini and Rossi vermouth around the rim very lightly and an olive with a pimento in it). It was a meal fit for a king and queen. Mom would busy herself in putting away the groceries, Dad and I would munch. Dad would sip his martini. He would pour one for Mom which she took one sip and promptly poured the rest down the sink. Later on he would retire to his rocking chair and mutter, “I don’t know why I am so sleepy, Marion. Maybe I’ll take a wee nap”. Often, I fell asleep at his feet.I have kept this memory of Dad and Mom on many a Saturday as I snack on anchovies, sardines, cheddar cheese and tip a beer. It is an Irish communion that feeds my loss of Dad and Mom and keeps them alive in my memory.
Brother Dan and I have always shared stories together, especially after a big Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. I did learn never to tell true stories to relatives as they came back to haunt me at my dinner table for years thereafter. Here’s a couple;
Visiting the Grave Dan and I agreed that after one brother passed away, the other would visit the grave and pour a bottle of Guinness over the grave with an Our Father being prayed for the fallen. I agreed with the caveat, “Dan, do you mind terribly if I pass the Guinness through me kidneys first?” Dan said he wholeheartedly agreed that it would surely warm his heart too.
Himself
Once I asked “himself” what he thought about me buying a convertible to which he replied, “Michael, that’d sure be silly. You could just stick your head out the window for free!” Dad’s sense of humor was often “strange” to me. Once when I was about seventeen and experiencing a morning bout of hypoglycemia, Dad entered my bedroom and asked was I OK. He got me a glass of orange juice, had me drink it, and with a small smile on his face advised me that he thought me underwear should actually be under my Levis!
Never a tear shed
I never saw my father cry. Mom told me that he did when the doctor advised him and Mom that I was a diabetic at the age of fourteen and would have to take insulin for the rest of my life. I remember very distinctly when Mom passed away; I met Dad at his apartment just before I was to drive his car to Mt. Sterling for the wake. He did not cry. I spent many hours visiting him, especially in the nursing home where he died. I never saw Dad cry for himself. I guess crying was a very private matter for Dad. That drive to Mt. Sterling was a harrowing experience for me. It was that time exactly when I knew that I badly needed glasses. God save us. Dad was an enigma to me. I didn’t know much about his childhood. He never told us stories of his youth in Bevier, Missouri or even much about what he did as a young man in Chicago, living with his Uncle Poke. Most of what I know I overhead on holidays where it was a custom after the meal for the men and children to gather in the living room to listen and tell Irish jokes. During that time Dad would tell his grandchildren stories the likes his own children never heard before.
Sleeping on the floor
There was once I recall Dad laughing. When we were all young our Aunt Margaret, Uncle Dick and cousins (the Young’s) would come and visit. It was always fun. I had a crush on my cousin Patty Sue. As there were so many kids, we all had to stretch out and sleep on the floor. I always slept as close as I could to Patty. I really didn’t understand what was going on as I was only ten years old, but I liked how it felt. Well, during the night, David got up to pee. He had to step over several bodies laid out across the living and dining room. Wouldn’t you know it, when he tried to step across me; he planted his foot right on my stomach. True to the NOWLAN tradition, I promptly farted! That was a time when I heard my father bust out laughing from his and Mom’s bedroom. Everyone else had a good laugh at my embarrassment too. Thank God, not a word was spoken at breakfast.
"Pimp" Nowlan
Pictures in the family album were typically Irish i.e. weddings, wakes, baptisms, communions and Sunday clothes. There is a picture of the NOWLAN kids posing on the stump of the Spaulding apartment we lived at in the south side of Chicago. Boys were dressed in suits, ties and hats; girls in white lacy dresses. Years later as I was showing Kitty (my wife) the pictures, in her own inimitable style, she suggested I looked like a “pimp”. I’m not sure that she knew what a pimp was at that time as she had just emigrated from the Philippines to be my wife, but I am sure, she was correct! Michael Nowlan
Stories from Dan Nowlan
Growing up I remember sitting around and listening to Dad tell stories of Grandpa Lewis when he was living in Bevier Missouri. As the years have passed and regrettable I never recorded the stories before losing Dad I cannot be sure if I remember them as he told them or as I like to remember. Here are a few as I remember them…
The Telegrapher
Before Lewis became Stationmaster he worked as a telegrapher for the railroad. A telegrapher could not leave his post until relived if he did the messages would stop. As the story goes Great- Grandpa James was a railmaster for the railroad. While Lewis was working his position a message came down the line that a train derailed and the railmaster was killed, that railmaster was James, his father. Lewis had to wait for over 30 minutes to be relived and to continue to perform his duties all the time worrying about his father. When he was relieved he used a hand car to go to the site of the derailment, happily by the time he arrive James was alive.
Stories from Bob Nowlan
Memories of the Nowlan Family What I Remember, What I Was Told. Dr. Robert A. Nowlan Rather than tell a story about Mom, Dad, and the rest of the extended Nowlan family, I will related certain incidents that I recall or was later told about by our parents. Sorry if I’m included in most of them, but then much of their history is also my history.
My first recollections of Mom and Dad, must have been sometime during my second or the early part of my third year of life. The first recollection was traveling with Mom and Dad to another town from Mt. Sterling, which I later learned must have been Rushville, Illinois. We drove to an orchard and inside a large barn was a series of large bins attached at one end to a door, which when opened spewed forth large numbers of apples. Each bin had different variety of apples. This is a most vivid memory and I know I was very happy for the experience as we purchased a bushel of apples for the winter.
The trip to the apple orchard I remember. I was told that I attended my first movie at the Brown Theater when I was about a month old. The Brown was air-conditioned, and Mom said I smiled for the first time when I felt the cooling. I don’t know what the film shown was, but it likely was a Western, and apparently I enjoyed it because I didn’t fuss throughout its showing.
Another occasion that I recall was probably the winter during my third year. We had a large snow storm and I remember that Dad shoveled out a path from the house to the street. When Mom sent me out in my snow suit, I recall that I was dwarfed by the walls of snow that Dad had pitched to either side of the path. Talk about a winter wonderland. Yet it was somewhat frightening and perhaps contributed to the fact that I have never been fond of snow.
Speaking of snow, I recall a winter in which it snowed a good deal in Mt. Sterling and I was taken downtown with Mom and Dad. The main street was closed to traffic and everyone was treated to a dog sled ride.
I do not have any recollection of the time sister Suzy was born as a breach baby and did not survive. I learned later that mother clearly heard Dr. McGann tell Dad he didn’t think either mother or child would survive. Fortunately Mom came through.
When Martha and Mary were born three months prematurely, they weren’t expected to survive. Mom had told Dr. McGann that she felt she would have twins. He scoffed at the idea and said if she did he delivered them both for the price of one. Thus the girls each cost $12.50 to be born. They were so small that feeding them was a problem. McGann recommended that they be given drops of whiskey in water, believing it would either hasten their demise or get their organs working. It seemed to work and the fact that they had the length of lives they have is almost a miracle, but it had to have been a traumatic to their systems, in that at only six months development had not been completed. I have been told that while Mom was in one room sleeping with the girls I was in bed with Dad. Apparently the excitement of the day had been too much for me because I vomited all over him and the bed.
Having been the only child after Mom and Dad gave the dog Mickey to Grandmother Nowlan to keep because the mutt growled every time it saw me (we never did get along during the animals 15 years of life), I apparently was not thrilled by the addition of the girls. And especially not so when as mother and I would walked along with them in their baby carriage, passersby’s would make a great fuss over them. Mom told me that when one woman asked me what I though of my sisters, I replied, “I think they are perfect little assholes.”
I recall that some years later, we had a cat and on one day, the animal fell into the outside privy, managed to climb out and then ran around the entire house. Dad captured the cat and put it in a gunny sack and took it out in the country and set it free. If you fell that might have been cruel, it was much more thoughtful than what others might have done, namely through the cat and the tied gunny sack in a lake and let the animal drown. Dad figured the cat would show up at one of the nearby farms and earn its keep as a mouser. But, the cat came back to the scene of its crime. Dad put it in another sack and took it our further in the country before setting it free, but the cat came back again. Dad made a further effort, putting the cat in a sack and taking it almost out of the county before letting it go, but the cat came back. Finally in desperation dad took the cat down to the railroad depot and put the cat in a freight car on a train just leaving for Chicago, and the cat didn’t come back.
On one occasion, Dad asked me to borrow a fifty-cent piece that someone had given me. I think I was about five at the time. I was very reluctant to comply even though Dad said he would pay me back on payday, with I believe an extra nickel as interest. Somehow I decided that money in hand was better than a promise of later riches, so I refused to give up the coin. Dad, said Ok, and went on to work. Then Mom scolded me, saying that because of my selfishness, Dad would not be able to have any lunch that day. I felt terrible about what I have done and I still feel terrible nearly seventy years later.
At some time when the girls two or more and I was five, Mom and dad and our family was featured in a magazine, with pictures of the young couple and their kids. There is a picture of dad drying dishes while Mom washed, something she said he had never done before or since. There is another shot of Dad throwing a large hollow rubber ball over the house to me on the other side and yet another of us listening to our radio, something we did almost every night. I recall quite clearly all of us, including Mike who had joined us, sitting by the radio listening to Jack Benny when the program was interrupted to announce that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. It was December 7, 1941 and we were at war. I don’t believe very many people in Mt. Sterling at the time knew exactly where Pearl Harbor was or how far offshore Hawaii was from the west coast of the U.S. We would learn.
Dad would usually walk to work – it wasn’t all that far and he would leave his car, a Model A. Ford in the driveway. On one occasion I got the girls into the back seat of the automobile and took the wheel. I had no key, but with such a simple vehicle as the Ford, I still was able to turn on the engine and slowly propelled the car forward. I even was able to turn out of the driveway and travel down the street for a stretch. Then apparently the car ran out of gas and it stopped. I learned later, that one of the reasons Dad had not taken the car to work was because it was low on gas and he was low on cash. I had burned up the small amount of fuel he hoped would be enough to get him to a service station on payday. I don’t recall if I got punished.
Dad often told the story of the Model T Ford he had owned. Henry Ford had a plan to produce an automobile so cheaply that his employees could afford one. The car was the Model T. As Ford liked to joke, you could have it painted any color you wanted as long as you wanted black. It was a very simple machine with not so many parts like today’s cars. Dad said that when he used to drive it along the existing bumpy dirt roads, often some part of the engine would fly off. He said he only stopped to pick it up if the car stopped running. If it kept going he figured it wasn’t needed. Dad may have been kidding.
One thing he wasn’t kidding about was telling us that when he was a boy, the happiest and most secure times he could remember were sitting on the porch of his family’s home in the wing, next to his father, during a thunder storm. In our house, like so many other houses, Mom and Dad put up Newspaper pictures of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, which would later be joined by General MacArthur, Admiral Nimitz and Admiral Halsey, as well as maps of the two fronts of the war being fought in Europe and in the Pacific. Dad was very excited when he learned of Jimmy Doolittle’s bombing run on Tokyo, meant to show the Japanese that they too were vulnerable. I believe Dad may have used some racial slurs in telling us that we would win this war.
When Dad was offered a job in the Chicago area, it became necessary to decide what things could be taken with us and what must remain behind. We had an auction and sold a lot of things that we had to get rid of. One item was an almost brand new wagon that I had received the previous Christmas. It was shiny and red – a real beaut. I also had another wagon, which was old and rusty. Dad said I could take both. Being of a sentimental nature, I chose the older wagon. I don’t think I ever regretted the decision.
One thing that had to be left behind that did affect me then and for a long time thereafter was the need to sell my cocker spaniel, Lady. I believe we got five dollars for her and I was given an ice cream cone as the new owners took my pet away. The treat didn’t taste all that good with my tears falling on it. From that time on I could not bring myself to become attached to a dog. This all changed when some eleven years ago Wendy and I picked up Isabel to replace the deceased Annabel, who I had tolerated, but did not feel any real affection for. With Isabel it was love at first sight. She sat there at her farm home and gave me a point. For the next eleven years she was my girl, and I don’t believe I ever received more enthusiastic welcomes when I cam home from work. Last fall we added Jezebel, whom we called Jessie, to the family. The two got along fairly well – even though Jessie could understand why poor old arthritic Isabel didn’t wish to play. Thank God for Jessie, because had she not been already with us, Wendy and I might not have been able to contain our grief when Isabel had a heart attack and died while doing her therapy swimming last April. I realize that this doesn’t have much to do with Mom and Dad, but still it seems relevant to relate it.
Earlier we had another dog, named Duke, a German Shepard. On one occasion I wandered out into the street and my pal grabbed my pants and pulled e out of the way of oncoming traffic – which really couldn’t have been that much in Mt. Sterling. Later, Duke began running with wolves and we had to get rid of him.
When we moved to Chicago we lived at 7214 S. Cornell. For a while some of the neighbors mistook Mom for my older sister. She was delighted, but since no similar mistake was made about Dad, he was less thrilled.
One of the problems with the apartment – and certainly a new, unwanted experience for the small town Nowlans, was that we shared the flat with water bugs. You could always be certain if you went to the bathroom during the night as soon as the lights were turned on, the little varmints would scamper over the floor looking for a place to hide.
At only about five years old, brother Mike was quite a ladies man. There was a little girl who lived down the block in an apartment building. Her father was the manager of a major hotel in the loop and later managed the Fontainebleau in Florida. On day the little girl’s mother showed up at our door to report that Mike had given her daughter a ring that she though Mom would want back. Indeed she did – it was her engagement ring. Naughty Michael!
While we lived in Chicago, almost every Sunday after Church and Dinner, we would all get into Dad’s car and drive from the South side of Chicago to the North side, known as Uptown, where Grandma Nowlan, Her sister Georgie and her brother Daddy Mack lived with his son James “Poke” McGoon. He was called “Poke” as short for slow-poke, which he apparently always was. I hardly remember seeing him any position but that of prone on the couch with the Sunday newspapers over him. I guess he did get up to join us in eating leftovers from his Sunday meal that Aunt Georgie had prepared. One of our obligations when we arrived was to go into a bedroom where John “Daddy Mack” McGoon lay, unable to leave his bed for the last five years of his life.
The room smelled badly and we children had no desire to remain with the sickly man any longer than seemed an appropriate recognition of his sad existence. He had chosen the named “Daddy Mack for himself, as he never wanted to be called Granddad of anything like it by his grandchildren. How many grandchildren he had I don’t recall. I only remember one that was Jimmy McGoon, the son of Poke. His mother had deserted her husband and bay a few weeks after Jimmy was born, saying she wasn’t cut out to be a mother. From that time on, Grandma Nowlan raised Jimmy, who always called her Mom. Jimmy must have been four of five years older than me. Mom thought he was a scream. Later he would often show up and spend some time with us – but we never knew when to expect him. One occasion he called me and asked me to come pick him up at the train station. I did so. I asked him where his car was as he was a traveling salesman. He confessed cheerfully that he had been rolled by a girl in Peoria, who stole most of his money and his car. He said she had been worth it.
Jimmy always told Mom and dad the most outrageous dirty stories, which Mom heartedly enjoyed. On another occasion, Jimmy visited us when we lived in a house across from the Nurse’s dormitory and the Hospital. I often would watch from the vantage point of my bedroom as the girls were brought home by their boyfriends and said goodnight at the entrance. There was some serious necking going on then. At any rate, Jimmy was in the bathroom, when he called out to dad, “Bob, can you come here please?” When Dad arrived he found Jimmy holding his right had which was bleeding profusely. What had happened was this, the sink had a hot and cold faucet, but there also was a third faucet that was not meant to be used. Jimmy turned on this stubborn faucet which really didn’t want to turn. He took to hammering it with his hand, an din the process the porcelain handle broke and stabbed Jimmy in the palm. Jimmy stayed for a lot longer on that visit, but he was confined to the hospital where he found solace in chatting up the pretty young nurses.
The last time Dad, Mom and I ever saw Jimmy was at Grandmother Nowlan’s funeral in Mt. Sterling. At that time Jimmy told Dad he wished to share equally in the expenses for Grandmother – since after all she was his mother as well. Dad said that it wasn’t necessary, but if he wished to contribute it would be appreciated. Jimmy never came through on his promise – causing me to lose respect for him. I know he married a widow with a number of children somewhere in Iowa and I believe died in the 1990s.
We also attended the funeral of Grandma Shields in Mount Sterling. Maggie was in no ways like Catherine Nowlan, who was something of a grand dame, long after she didn’t have the means to pull it off effectively. Grandma Shields had experienced the shock of waking up in bed on one occasion to find her mother lying next to her dead and on another occasion the same thing occurred with the husband. She never had much of anything, but somehow she always found the means to send each grandchild, and she had 15, a card and a dollar for our birthdays. When she died at age 88, her simple possessions were sold, bring in $88, one dollar for each year of her life. There will be more about the grandmothers later.
On many Thanksgivings and Christmas, Grandmother Nowlan would be visiting. Inevitably, she and Dad would have an argument about something that happened many years earlier, such as the color of a room in their house when he was a boy, or the name of a neighbor or how old Dad was when he wore long trousers. The disputes were never settled and because no one else at the table was present at the times in disagreement, we could merely smile at the antics.
During WWII, Dad was a purchasing agent for Pressed Steel Car, and this came with a number of advantages. At every Christmas, gifts from concerns that Dad bought materials from for his company came through with well-received gifts, mostly fruit – but what fruit. Boxes of apples the size of melons came in boxes the size of crates arrived as did candy, cheeses, alcohol, and other items. In addition throughout the year, other gifts came from similar sources. One gift that I was privileged to share with Dad was attendance at baseball games arranged for by sales people. Unfortunately, for me, the games were usually at nights and at Comiskey Park, home of the Chicago White Sox. The ballpark was situated in a rather dangerous part of the city, and when we parked the car on the street, there were always some youngsters hanging around. It was a good investment to give one of these boys some money to “watch the car,” What this really meant that the payment guaranteed that no one in the neighborhood would harm the car while we were at the game. When we came out of the park, the boys weren’t around but the car was safe.
I mention that unfortunate for me, the games I was taken to was on the south side of the city, when I was a devout Chicago Cub fan – and still am, all these many disappointing years. Maybe this year is the time for them to gain the glory that has been missing for so many years. I do recall that in 1945, the last time the Cubs won the national league pennant, I asked Dad to take me to a World Series game. He said we’d go the next time they were in a World Series. That was not to be, but it hasn’t affected by loyalty to the team – although I’ll admit to much frustration.
I used to travel by train to the north side to see the Cubs play – in the daylight, of course, being the only club at the time without lights. I think that dad and I went to a couple of games in Wrigley Field, courtesy of sales people with which he dealt. Later when I was in high school, I tried to get him to accompany me to Mt. Carmel High School football games, but despite the fact that the “Caravan” was City Champs each year when I attended the school, and years beyond as well, I couldn’t convince him to go to the games which were usually held on Sundays. At the time, Chicago had three professional football teams, the Bears, the Cardinals, and the Rockets. He didn’t seem inclined to attend these games either. Maybe it was because nobody sprung for tickets as they did for baseball games.
Often, the twins, Mike and I would accompany Mom on shopping trips – and the best of these from our point of view was when we went to the Loop, especially at Christmas time. During the holiday season, Dad would always load the family into the car and journey downtown, so we could see the marvelous store windows of Marshall Fields, the greatest department store in the world. Each window had delightful mechanical figures involved in some fairy tale or Christmas activity. As I grew older, I would go to the Loop on my own, and I always headed for Marshall Fields. I loved looking up in the main halls to the many stories of the building. On occasion, I would buy lunch at the store’s restaurant. I will never get use to the idea that Marshal Fields is now Macys. What a sacrilege!
One of my fond memories of being with Dad was in the Loop when he took me into Berghoff’s – not the restaurant, but the male-only room, where the fare usually consisted of thuringiers, bratwurst, corned beef, pastrami and the like. I really felt grown-up on the occasions I had one of these delectable sandwiches in the company of my Dad and the other men. On another occasion while in the Loop on my own, I discovered the Forum, the first cafeteria that I had ever seen. I felt it was a wonderful place, where one could select from a great variety, just the foods wanted, at a cost not too dear. I couldn’t wait to take Mom to my discovery – and when she accompanied me, she was appropriately impressed with my favorite dining spot.
Speaking of food, I recall the many times Dad would come home from work and describe his lunch at Phil Schmidt’s restaurant in Blue Island, near where he worked. He described the perch fillets that were flown in form Minnesota or Wisconsin each day, cooked only with butter and spices – but oh, so delicious. On a number of occasions he took Mom there for a similar lunch and she raved about it. Many years later, long after Mom’s death, I was visiting Dad and we went for a ride. He said he would take me to lunch and asked where I’d like to go. I said if it wasn’t too much trouble, I’d like to go to Phil Schmidt’s. We did, and you know how things are never quite as good as you dream they would be over a long period of time. Well, this wasn’t one of them. I ordered the perch and it was as good as advertised – a real treat. I never went back to the restaurant with or without Dad, but it is still a vivid and precious memory.
I wish I could have been as wise about another food experience. For years in Chicago, Dad would bring home fried shrimp. I was a finicky eater in those days, and would have nothing to do with the treat, even though the smell was intoxicating. As I grew older fried shrimp has become one of my favorite foods. What a stubborn idiot I was for not believing Mom and Dad about how good these take-out morsels were.
Dad always would try different foods, but he was the only real adventurous one in the family. Mom, and most of the rest of us wanted our hamburgers and steaks almost incinerated, while Dad asked for medium rare. Once again, Dad was right. There was another case in which Dad gave me an olive [from his martini, I believe] to eat. I took a bite and immediately spit the horrid thing out of my mouth, complaining that I didn’t like it. Dad said, “of course you don’t. Nobody likes olives until they have eaten nine of them.” I’ll guess I’ll never know since I have not yet eaten nine olives. More to Come: Bob Nowlan
When I was a younger man we lived on 62nd and Talman in Chicago. I remember that I came home one evening after having a few too many beers. Being under the age to drink I tried to enter the house not letting on that I was smashed. That house required that you unlock first the outside door and then the inside door. I of course thought I achieved this with the greatest of ease, wrong. When I entered the front room Dad was sitting in his favorite chair reading his paper. Realizing that I would not be able to make it from the front room all the way to the rear of the house with out falling down I decided to sit on the couch. Dad lowered his paper and looked at me over his Walgreen readers. He asked me if I was ok and what was I doing to which I replied "watching TV" - as he raised his paper I heard him say " might help if you turned it on".
Stories from Mike Nowlan
Dad was a very special Irishman. He never actually saw the auld sod (nor have I for that matter), but in his American Irish way, he was the biggest Mick I ever knew. Dad never had much of a sense of humor and that’s exactly why at times he was so painfully funny. I remember, as if it were yesterday, sitting around the dinner table in those dark days after Mom’s death. It was as silent as a wake; no laughter and only an occasional, “Please pass the potatoes”. The rules of silence at the dinner table were never understood by Sister Mary and she was talking on and on. Dad was getting more fidgety with each passing moment. You could tell because his fingers on his left hand were waving faster and faster. He finally barked, “Mary, will you please shut up?” He bent over to retrieve the napkin he dropped in his agitation. His distress must have elevated his abdominal gas levels for as he bent over the sharpest fart that ever hit plastic covers on a chair echoed in the small kitchen. Gadzooks! Eureka! We all knew God forbade us to dare laugh or we would suffer the rage of Our Father… everyone one of us that is except Mary! Mary shrieked and screamed with laughter. Dad banged his napkin to the table, and with a huff left the kitchen. Bedlam began. None of us could contain the throbbing laughter in our bodies any longer and we all screamed, banged the table and rolled on the floor. Dad retorted from the living room as he straightened his newspaper, “Oh, you’re all silly!” Nothing more was ever said.If I live to be a hundred (and if I follow Dad’s genetic path, I might) I will never forget that evening. I am sure our dear Mother rocked the heavens in laughter that night also. It has been said many times that the Nowlans are a gas. This time it was true!
Saturdays with Dad and Mom Many of my memories began in the apartment that we Nowlan’s occupied on Talman Avenue in Chicago, don’t cha know? The meals we shared and the natural gravitational pull that all Irishmen have towards the kitchen created the stage for many experiences. I recall Saturdays after the usual grocery shopping trip with Dad and Mom to Krogers, eating Dad’s favorite Saturday repast of crackers and cheese, anchovies, sardines and kippered fish, and for Dad a large brandy snifter of a gin martini (Beef Eater gin, Martini and Rossi vermouth around the rim very lightly and an olive with a pimento in it). It was a meal fit for a king and queen. Mom would busy herself in putting away the groceries, Dad and I would munch. Dad would sip his martini. He would pour one for Mom which she took one sip and promptly poured the rest down the sink. Later on he would retire to his rocking chair and mutter, “I don’t know why I am so sleepy, Marion. Maybe I’ll take a wee nap”. Often, I fell asleep at his feet.I have kept this memory of Dad and Mom on many a Saturday as I snack on anchovies, sardines, cheddar cheese and tip a beer. It is an Irish communion that feeds my loss of Dad and Mom and keeps them alive in my memory.
Brother Dan and I have always shared stories together, especially after a big Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. I did learn never to tell true stories to relatives as they came back to haunt me at my dinner table for years thereafter. Here’s a couple;
Visiting the Grave Dan and I agreed that after one brother passed away, the other would visit the grave and pour a bottle of Guinness over the grave with an Our Father being prayed for the fallen. I agreed with the caveat, “Dan, do you mind terribly if I pass the Guinness through me kidneys first?” Dan said he wholeheartedly agreed that it would surely warm his heart too.
Himself
Once I asked “himself” what he thought about me buying a convertible to which he replied, “Michael, that’d sure be silly. You could just stick your head out the window for free!” Dad’s sense of humor was often “strange” to me. Once when I was about seventeen and experiencing a morning bout of hypoglycemia, Dad entered my bedroom and asked was I OK. He got me a glass of orange juice, had me drink it, and with a small smile on his face advised me that he thought me underwear should actually be under my Levis!
Never a tear shed
I never saw my father cry. Mom told me that he did when the doctor advised him and Mom that I was a diabetic at the age of fourteen and would have to take insulin for the rest of my life. I remember very distinctly when Mom passed away; I met Dad at his apartment just before I was to drive his car to Mt. Sterling for the wake. He did not cry. I spent many hours visiting him, especially in the nursing home where he died. I never saw Dad cry for himself. I guess crying was a very private matter for Dad. That drive to Mt. Sterling was a harrowing experience for me. It was that time exactly when I knew that I badly needed glasses. God save us. Dad was an enigma to me. I didn’t know much about his childhood. He never told us stories of his youth in Bevier, Missouri or even much about what he did as a young man in Chicago, living with his Uncle Poke. Most of what I know I overhead on holidays where it was a custom after the meal for the men and children to gather in the living room to listen and tell Irish jokes. During that time Dad would tell his grandchildren stories the likes his own children never heard before.
Sleeping on the floor
There was once I recall Dad laughing. When we were all young our Aunt Margaret, Uncle Dick and cousins (the Young’s) would come and visit. It was always fun. I had a crush on my cousin Patty Sue. As there were so many kids, we all had to stretch out and sleep on the floor. I always slept as close as I could to Patty. I really didn’t understand what was going on as I was only ten years old, but I liked how it felt. Well, during the night, David got up to pee. He had to step over several bodies laid out across the living and dining room. Wouldn’t you know it, when he tried to step across me; he planted his foot right on my stomach. True to the NOWLAN tradition, I promptly farted! That was a time when I heard my father bust out laughing from his and Mom’s bedroom. Everyone else had a good laugh at my embarrassment too. Thank God, not a word was spoken at breakfast.
"Pimp" Nowlan
Pictures in the family album were typically Irish i.e. weddings, wakes, baptisms, communions and Sunday clothes. There is a picture of the NOWLAN kids posing on the stump of the Spaulding apartment we lived at in the south side of Chicago. Boys were dressed in suits, ties and hats; girls in white lacy dresses. Years later as I was showing Kitty (my wife) the pictures, in her own inimitable style, she suggested I looked like a “pimp”. I’m not sure that she knew what a pimp was at that time as she had just emigrated from the Philippines to be my wife, but I am sure, she was correct! Michael Nowlan
Stories from Dan Nowlan
Growing up I remember sitting around and listening to Dad tell stories of Grandpa Lewis when he was living in Bevier Missouri. As the years have passed and regrettable I never recorded the stories before losing Dad I cannot be sure if I remember them as he told them or as I like to remember. Here are a few as I remember them…
The Telegrapher
Before Lewis became Stationmaster he worked as a telegrapher for the railroad. A telegrapher could not leave his post until relived if he did the messages would stop. As the story goes Great- Grandpa James was a railmaster for the railroad. While Lewis was working his position a message came down the line that a train derailed and the railmaster was killed, that railmaster was James, his father. Lewis had to wait for over 30 minutes to be relived and to continue to perform his duties all the time worrying about his father. When he was relieved he used a hand car to go to the site of the derailment, happily by the time he arrive James was alive.
Stories from Bob Nowlan
Memories of the Nowlan Family What I Remember, What I Was Told. Dr. Robert A. Nowlan Rather than tell a story about Mom, Dad, and the rest of the extended Nowlan family, I will related certain incidents that I recall or was later told about by our parents. Sorry if I’m included in most of them, but then much of their history is also my history.
My first recollections of Mom and Dad, must have been sometime during my second or the early part of my third year of life. The first recollection was traveling with Mom and Dad to another town from Mt. Sterling, which I later learned must have been Rushville, Illinois. We drove to an orchard and inside a large barn was a series of large bins attached at one end to a door, which when opened spewed forth large numbers of apples. Each bin had different variety of apples. This is a most vivid memory and I know I was very happy for the experience as we purchased a bushel of apples for the winter.
The trip to the apple orchard I remember. I was told that I attended my first movie at the Brown Theater when I was about a month old. The Brown was air-conditioned, and Mom said I smiled for the first time when I felt the cooling. I don’t know what the film shown was, but it likely was a Western, and apparently I enjoyed it because I didn’t fuss throughout its showing.
Another occasion that I recall was probably the winter during my third year. We had a large snow storm and I remember that Dad shoveled out a path from the house to the street. When Mom sent me out in my snow suit, I recall that I was dwarfed by the walls of snow that Dad had pitched to either side of the path. Talk about a winter wonderland. Yet it was somewhat frightening and perhaps contributed to the fact that I have never been fond of snow.
Speaking of snow, I recall a winter in which it snowed a good deal in Mt. Sterling and I was taken downtown with Mom and Dad. The main street was closed to traffic and everyone was treated to a dog sled ride.
I do not have any recollection of the time sister Suzy was born as a breach baby and did not survive. I learned later that mother clearly heard Dr. McGann tell Dad he didn’t think either mother or child would survive. Fortunately Mom came through.
When Martha and Mary were born three months prematurely, they weren’t expected to survive. Mom had told Dr. McGann that she felt she would have twins. He scoffed at the idea and said if she did he delivered them both for the price of one. Thus the girls each cost $12.50 to be born. They were so small that feeding them was a problem. McGann recommended that they be given drops of whiskey in water, believing it would either hasten their demise or get their organs working. It seemed to work and the fact that they had the length of lives they have is almost a miracle, but it had to have been a traumatic to their systems, in that at only six months development had not been completed. I have been told that while Mom was in one room sleeping with the girls I was in bed with Dad. Apparently the excitement of the day had been too much for me because I vomited all over him and the bed.
Having been the only child after Mom and Dad gave the dog Mickey to Grandmother Nowlan to keep because the mutt growled every time it saw me (we never did get along during the animals 15 years of life), I apparently was not thrilled by the addition of the girls. And especially not so when as mother and I would walked along with them in their baby carriage, passersby’s would make a great fuss over them. Mom told me that when one woman asked me what I though of my sisters, I replied, “I think they are perfect little assholes.”
I recall that some years later, we had a cat and on one day, the animal fell into the outside privy, managed to climb out and then ran around the entire house. Dad captured the cat and put it in a gunny sack and took it out in the country and set it free. If you fell that might have been cruel, it was much more thoughtful than what others might have done, namely through the cat and the tied gunny sack in a lake and let the animal drown. Dad figured the cat would show up at one of the nearby farms and earn its keep as a mouser. But, the cat came back to the scene of its crime. Dad put it in another sack and took it our further in the country before setting it free, but the cat came back again. Dad made a further effort, putting the cat in a sack and taking it almost out of the county before letting it go, but the cat came back. Finally in desperation dad took the cat down to the railroad depot and put the cat in a freight car on a train just leaving for Chicago, and the cat didn’t come back.
On one occasion, Dad asked me to borrow a fifty-cent piece that someone had given me. I think I was about five at the time. I was very reluctant to comply even though Dad said he would pay me back on payday, with I believe an extra nickel as interest. Somehow I decided that money in hand was better than a promise of later riches, so I refused to give up the coin. Dad, said Ok, and went on to work. Then Mom scolded me, saying that because of my selfishness, Dad would not be able to have any lunch that day. I felt terrible about what I have done and I still feel terrible nearly seventy years later.
At some time when the girls two or more and I was five, Mom and dad and our family was featured in a magazine, with pictures of the young couple and their kids. There is a picture of dad drying dishes while Mom washed, something she said he had never done before or since. There is another shot of Dad throwing a large hollow rubber ball over the house to me on the other side and yet another of us listening to our radio, something we did almost every night. I recall quite clearly all of us, including Mike who had joined us, sitting by the radio listening to Jack Benny when the program was interrupted to announce that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. It was December 7, 1941 and we were at war. I don’t believe very many people in Mt. Sterling at the time knew exactly where Pearl Harbor was or how far offshore Hawaii was from the west coast of the U.S. We would learn.
Dad would usually walk to work – it wasn’t all that far and he would leave his car, a Model A. Ford in the driveway. On one occasion I got the girls into the back seat of the automobile and took the wheel. I had no key, but with such a simple vehicle as the Ford, I still was able to turn on the engine and slowly propelled the car forward. I even was able to turn out of the driveway and travel down the street for a stretch. Then apparently the car ran out of gas and it stopped. I learned later, that one of the reasons Dad had not taken the car to work was because it was low on gas and he was low on cash. I had burned up the small amount of fuel he hoped would be enough to get him to a service station on payday. I don’t recall if I got punished.
Dad often told the story of the Model T Ford he had owned. Henry Ford had a plan to produce an automobile so cheaply that his employees could afford one. The car was the Model T. As Ford liked to joke, you could have it painted any color you wanted as long as you wanted black. It was a very simple machine with not so many parts like today’s cars. Dad said that when he used to drive it along the existing bumpy dirt roads, often some part of the engine would fly off. He said he only stopped to pick it up if the car stopped running. If it kept going he figured it wasn’t needed. Dad may have been kidding.
One thing he wasn’t kidding about was telling us that when he was a boy, the happiest and most secure times he could remember were sitting on the porch of his family’s home in the wing, next to his father, during a thunder storm. In our house, like so many other houses, Mom and Dad put up Newspaper pictures of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, which would later be joined by General MacArthur, Admiral Nimitz and Admiral Halsey, as well as maps of the two fronts of the war being fought in Europe and in the Pacific. Dad was very excited when he learned of Jimmy Doolittle’s bombing run on Tokyo, meant to show the Japanese that they too were vulnerable. I believe Dad may have used some racial slurs in telling us that we would win this war.
When Dad was offered a job in the Chicago area, it became necessary to decide what things could be taken with us and what must remain behind. We had an auction and sold a lot of things that we had to get rid of. One item was an almost brand new wagon that I had received the previous Christmas. It was shiny and red – a real beaut. I also had another wagon, which was old and rusty. Dad said I could take both. Being of a sentimental nature, I chose the older wagon. I don’t think I ever regretted the decision.
One thing that had to be left behind that did affect me then and for a long time thereafter was the need to sell my cocker spaniel, Lady. I believe we got five dollars for her and I was given an ice cream cone as the new owners took my pet away. The treat didn’t taste all that good with my tears falling on it. From that time on I could not bring myself to become attached to a dog. This all changed when some eleven years ago Wendy and I picked up Isabel to replace the deceased Annabel, who I had tolerated, but did not feel any real affection for. With Isabel it was love at first sight. She sat there at her farm home and gave me a point. For the next eleven years she was my girl, and I don’t believe I ever received more enthusiastic welcomes when I cam home from work. Last fall we added Jezebel, whom we called Jessie, to the family. The two got along fairly well – even though Jessie could understand why poor old arthritic Isabel didn’t wish to play. Thank God for Jessie, because had she not been already with us, Wendy and I might not have been able to contain our grief when Isabel had a heart attack and died while doing her therapy swimming last April. I realize that this doesn’t have much to do with Mom and Dad, but still it seems relevant to relate it.
Earlier we had another dog, named Duke, a German Shepard. On one occasion I wandered out into the street and my pal grabbed my pants and pulled e out of the way of oncoming traffic – which really couldn’t have been that much in Mt. Sterling. Later, Duke began running with wolves and we had to get rid of him.
When we moved to Chicago we lived at 7214 S. Cornell. For a while some of the neighbors mistook Mom for my older sister. She was delighted, but since no similar mistake was made about Dad, he was less thrilled.
One of the problems with the apartment – and certainly a new, unwanted experience for the small town Nowlans, was that we shared the flat with water bugs. You could always be certain if you went to the bathroom during the night as soon as the lights were turned on, the little varmints would scamper over the floor looking for a place to hide.
At only about five years old, brother Mike was quite a ladies man. There was a little girl who lived down the block in an apartment building. Her father was the manager of a major hotel in the loop and later managed the Fontainebleau in Florida. On day the little girl’s mother showed up at our door to report that Mike had given her daughter a ring that she though Mom would want back. Indeed she did – it was her engagement ring. Naughty Michael!
While we lived in Chicago, almost every Sunday after Church and Dinner, we would all get into Dad’s car and drive from the South side of Chicago to the North side, known as Uptown, where Grandma Nowlan, Her sister Georgie and her brother Daddy Mack lived with his son James “Poke” McGoon. He was called “Poke” as short for slow-poke, which he apparently always was. I hardly remember seeing him any position but that of prone on the couch with the Sunday newspapers over him. I guess he did get up to join us in eating leftovers from his Sunday meal that Aunt Georgie had prepared. One of our obligations when we arrived was to go into a bedroom where John “Daddy Mack” McGoon lay, unable to leave his bed for the last five years of his life.
The room smelled badly and we children had no desire to remain with the sickly man any longer than seemed an appropriate recognition of his sad existence. He had chosen the named “Daddy Mack for himself, as he never wanted to be called Granddad of anything like it by his grandchildren. How many grandchildren he had I don’t recall. I only remember one that was Jimmy McGoon, the son of Poke. His mother had deserted her husband and bay a few weeks after Jimmy was born, saying she wasn’t cut out to be a mother. From that time on, Grandma Nowlan raised Jimmy, who always called her Mom. Jimmy must have been four of five years older than me. Mom thought he was a scream. Later he would often show up and spend some time with us – but we never knew when to expect him. One occasion he called me and asked me to come pick him up at the train station. I did so. I asked him where his car was as he was a traveling salesman. He confessed cheerfully that he had been rolled by a girl in Peoria, who stole most of his money and his car. He said she had been worth it.
Jimmy always told Mom and dad the most outrageous dirty stories, which Mom heartedly enjoyed. On another occasion, Jimmy visited us when we lived in a house across from the Nurse’s dormitory and the Hospital. I often would watch from the vantage point of my bedroom as the girls were brought home by their boyfriends and said goodnight at the entrance. There was some serious necking going on then. At any rate, Jimmy was in the bathroom, when he called out to dad, “Bob, can you come here please?” When Dad arrived he found Jimmy holding his right had which was bleeding profusely. What had happened was this, the sink had a hot and cold faucet, but there also was a third faucet that was not meant to be used. Jimmy turned on this stubborn faucet which really didn’t want to turn. He took to hammering it with his hand, an din the process the porcelain handle broke and stabbed Jimmy in the palm. Jimmy stayed for a lot longer on that visit, but he was confined to the hospital where he found solace in chatting up the pretty young nurses.
The last time Dad, Mom and I ever saw Jimmy was at Grandmother Nowlan’s funeral in Mt. Sterling. At that time Jimmy told Dad he wished to share equally in the expenses for Grandmother – since after all she was his mother as well. Dad said that it wasn’t necessary, but if he wished to contribute it would be appreciated. Jimmy never came through on his promise – causing me to lose respect for him. I know he married a widow with a number of children somewhere in Iowa and I believe died in the 1990s.
We also attended the funeral of Grandma Shields in Mount Sterling. Maggie was in no ways like Catherine Nowlan, who was something of a grand dame, long after she didn’t have the means to pull it off effectively. Grandma Shields had experienced the shock of waking up in bed on one occasion to find her mother lying next to her dead and on another occasion the same thing occurred with the husband. She never had much of anything, but somehow she always found the means to send each grandchild, and she had 15, a card and a dollar for our birthdays. When she died at age 88, her simple possessions were sold, bring in $88, one dollar for each year of her life. There will be more about the grandmothers later.
On many Thanksgivings and Christmas, Grandmother Nowlan would be visiting. Inevitably, she and Dad would have an argument about something that happened many years earlier, such as the color of a room in their house when he was a boy, or the name of a neighbor or how old Dad was when he wore long trousers. The disputes were never settled and because no one else at the table was present at the times in disagreement, we could merely smile at the antics.
During WWII, Dad was a purchasing agent for Pressed Steel Car, and this came with a number of advantages. At every Christmas, gifts from concerns that Dad bought materials from for his company came through with well-received gifts, mostly fruit – but what fruit. Boxes of apples the size of melons came in boxes the size of crates arrived as did candy, cheeses, alcohol, and other items. In addition throughout the year, other gifts came from similar sources. One gift that I was privileged to share with Dad was attendance at baseball games arranged for by sales people. Unfortunately, for me, the games were usually at nights and at Comiskey Park, home of the Chicago White Sox. The ballpark was situated in a rather dangerous part of the city, and when we parked the car on the street, there were always some youngsters hanging around. It was a good investment to give one of these boys some money to “watch the car,” What this really meant that the payment guaranteed that no one in the neighborhood would harm the car while we were at the game. When we came out of the park, the boys weren’t around but the car was safe.
I mention that unfortunate for me, the games I was taken to was on the south side of the city, when I was a devout Chicago Cub fan – and still am, all these many disappointing years. Maybe this year is the time for them to gain the glory that has been missing for so many years. I do recall that in 1945, the last time the Cubs won the national league pennant, I asked Dad to take me to a World Series game. He said we’d go the next time they were in a World Series. That was not to be, but it hasn’t affected by loyalty to the team – although I’ll admit to much frustration.
I used to travel by train to the north side to see the Cubs play – in the daylight, of course, being the only club at the time without lights. I think that dad and I went to a couple of games in Wrigley Field, courtesy of sales people with which he dealt. Later when I was in high school, I tried to get him to accompany me to Mt. Carmel High School football games, but despite the fact that the “Caravan” was City Champs each year when I attended the school, and years beyond as well, I couldn’t convince him to go to the games which were usually held on Sundays. At the time, Chicago had three professional football teams, the Bears, the Cardinals, and the Rockets. He didn’t seem inclined to attend these games either. Maybe it was because nobody sprung for tickets as they did for baseball games.
Often, the twins, Mike and I would accompany Mom on shopping trips – and the best of these from our point of view was when we went to the Loop, especially at Christmas time. During the holiday season, Dad would always load the family into the car and journey downtown, so we could see the marvelous store windows of Marshall Fields, the greatest department store in the world. Each window had delightful mechanical figures involved in some fairy tale or Christmas activity. As I grew older, I would go to the Loop on my own, and I always headed for Marshall Fields. I loved looking up in the main halls to the many stories of the building. On occasion, I would buy lunch at the store’s restaurant. I will never get use to the idea that Marshal Fields is now Macys. What a sacrilege!
One of my fond memories of being with Dad was in the Loop when he took me into Berghoff’s – not the restaurant, but the male-only room, where the fare usually consisted of thuringiers, bratwurst, corned beef, pastrami and the like. I really felt grown-up on the occasions I had one of these delectable sandwiches in the company of my Dad and the other men. On another occasion while in the Loop on my own, I discovered the Forum, the first cafeteria that I had ever seen. I felt it was a wonderful place, where one could select from a great variety, just the foods wanted, at a cost not too dear. I couldn’t wait to take Mom to my discovery – and when she accompanied me, she was appropriately impressed with my favorite dining spot.
Speaking of food, I recall the many times Dad would come home from work and describe his lunch at Phil Schmidt’s restaurant in Blue Island, near where he worked. He described the perch fillets that were flown in form Minnesota or Wisconsin each day, cooked only with butter and spices – but oh, so delicious. On a number of occasions he took Mom there for a similar lunch and she raved about it. Many years later, long after Mom’s death, I was visiting Dad and we went for a ride. He said he would take me to lunch and asked where I’d like to go. I said if it wasn’t too much trouble, I’d like to go to Phil Schmidt’s. We did, and you know how things are never quite as good as you dream they would be over a long period of time. Well, this wasn’t one of them. I ordered the perch and it was as good as advertised – a real treat. I never went back to the restaurant with or without Dad, but it is still a vivid and precious memory.
I wish I could have been as wise about another food experience. For years in Chicago, Dad would bring home fried shrimp. I was a finicky eater in those days, and would have nothing to do with the treat, even though the smell was intoxicating. As I grew older fried shrimp has become one of my favorite foods. What a stubborn idiot I was for not believing Mom and Dad about how good these take-out morsels were.
Dad always would try different foods, but he was the only real adventurous one in the family. Mom, and most of the rest of us wanted our hamburgers and steaks almost incinerated, while Dad asked for medium rare. Once again, Dad was right. There was another case in which Dad gave me an olive [from his martini, I believe] to eat. I took a bite and immediately spit the horrid thing out of my mouth, complaining that I didn’t like it. Dad said, “of course you don’t. Nobody likes olives until they have eaten nine of them.” I’ll guess I’ll never know since I have not yet eaten nine olives. More to Come: Bob Nowlan