A Grandfather's Love

I love this photo of my two year old son. It was taken in 1967. He's holding on to a little tree my dad planted the day he was born.

My son was only a couple hours old when my dad announced to my mom he had to leave the hospital. He had something very important to take care of. My mom wasn't very happy about my dad taking off and expressed her displeasure when she came in to visit me.

We both wondered what could be so important that he would leave. He had already seen the baby and was told that my son would be named after him. He seemed very emotional when he was given the news that his first grandson would carry his name. We assumed he had just wanted to go home for awhile. When my dad didn't return to the hospital after several hours my mom decided she better go home and check on him.

A little while later my mom returned to the hospital to tell me my dad was at home, and the reason for his departure. My dad left the hospital to go to the store and buy my son a brand new red tricycle and to plant a tree in the yard to commemorate the day my son was born. When my mom got home there was my dad, busy putting together the tricycle, and planting a tree.

My mom informed my dad that my son was only a few hours old and it would be awhile before he needed a tricycle. My dad didn't care. He wanted that shiny red tricycle there at the house waiting for his grandson when he was old enough to go for a ride.

When I brought my son home from the hospital the first thing my dad did was show him the tricycle. My dad was so proud of his grandson. He couldn't wait for the day he would be riding that little red tricycle up and down the street in front of their house. It seemed like in a blink of an eye that day arrived.

I recently saw a photograph of my parents home and the little tree that dad had planted is gone. I don't know why the new owners removed the tree, it had grown quite large and was a beautiful tree. I had hoped that tree would be there forever. The tree may be gone, but a grandparent's love is forever.

Coming to America

When I was a child growing up in Pennsylvania I remember my dad telling me the story of how my great grandparents emigrated from Germany to the United States. He would tell me about their struggles in Germany and how they had to save money in order to secure passage aboard a ship that was less than seaworthy and make the long arduous journey across the Atlantic Ocean.

When my great grandparents left Germany they were traveling with their three children. Martha was nine years old, Adam (my grandfather) was seven years old and baby Johann was just eleven months old. During the long journey, baby Johann died and was buried at sea.

The family arrived in New York Harbor in February of 1880, during a fierce snowstorm. From New York they traveled to Scranton, Pennsylvania, where they had relatives and they would begin their new life.

My great grandfather was a coal miner as were his brothers and several of his sons. Coal mining in the anthracite region of Northeastern Pennsylvania was and always has been a very dangerous profession. One of the few occupations in which a person could face a very real risk of death everyday from all four elements, earth, air, fire and water.

I remember hearing about my great grandparents struggles growing up and while I thought it was interesting; it wasn’t until later years that I realized what these people must have gone through. They had to leave their family and friends in Germany, travel across the Atlantic Ocean in the middle of winter, and they lost their infant son along the way.

I think of the struggles I’ve had in my own life and it’s nothing compared to the hardship my great grandparents must have endured. They not only lost their infant son at sea, but they also lost three of their daughters in the 1918 flu epidemic. It’s hard to imagine what not only my ancestors, but a lot of our ancestors had to go through a hundred years ago.

We take so much for granted today: airplanes, computers, cell phone, nice cars, air conditioning, medicine, good medical care, just to name a few, that I am humbled by what my great grandparents were able to achieve. Seven of their surviving twelve children went on to have good productive lives. Their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren continue to grow, go to college and lead good lives thanks to their sacrifice.

For many years I took for granted the life I had, but in recent years thinking about the stories my father told me about my great grandparents, I am humbled and greatly appreciate what they did to have a better life.

Brodhead Avenue

Looking at this photograph of the house I lived in from 1961 to 1965 brings back so many memories. We moved into this house shortly after I graduated from 8th grade. The upstairs window on the left was my bedroom, there was also a master bedroom and one bathroom upstairs.

The front door led directly into the living room. Downstairs there was a huge kitchen and great room and another bath. There was a large picture window in the front of the house that you can't see because of all the bushes. Lots of sunlight would come in during the day and make the house warm and cozy.

The property that was adjacent to ours has an old stone house that is really beautiful but rather spooky. On that property there used to be a fort and it was there that the last Indian uprising occurred in our area. Several of the area settlers were killed by the Indians. I think their spirits must roam around the area as I never felt comfortable there at night.

After my son was born in May of 1965 he spent a lot of time with his grandparents at this house. To the left of the house there used to be a tree that my dad planted on the day my son was born. The tree is gone, this saddens me greatly. I wonder why the tree was removed? I had hoped that tree would be there forever.

I remember sitting on the front porch with my mom and our little dog Chico. It was a nice neighborhood when I was growing up. Now all the houses are neglected and falling apart. Mom and dad would be so upset if they saw it now. Dad took great pride in this little house. He put in a nice patio in the back and an above ground pool with a redwood deck. The yard was always mowed and there were flowers everywhere.

We had a lot of picnics in that back yard. Family and friends would come and dad would cook on the grill.

The house has been sold, new people live there now. I wish I could go back home and sit on the porch and visit with mom and dad one more time.   Mom and dad are gone now, but a little house on Brodhead Avenue still remains.

First Trip to Florida - 1956

The call came early in the morning, Bonma was very ill and in the hospital. She needed surgery right away and it was too early to tell if she would survive. A trip to Florida was inevitable. Dad arranged time off from work, mom called my school and explained why I would be absent. Our dog Midnight was taken to the vet's office to be boarded. Suitcases were packed, snacks and soda were purchased at Wiggin's Grocery Store, and off we went.

I seem to remember it being sometime in March, prior to Easter. The ride was long and tedious. There were no interstates then. I think we took Route 41 all the way to Florida. I'll have to check, I could be wrong. Dad liked to get as many miles in as he could before dark so we drove and we drove and we drove. I remember mom and I wanting to stop to use the rest rooms, but we kept on driving until dad was ready to stop.

Our first stop on the trip was a little place in Wilson, SC. It wasn't so much a motel as a group of small cabins. We checked in and then went to look for a place to eat. There was a place across the street so we went there. I ordered my usual (cheese sandwich). I only ate half of it and saved the rest for later. Mom and dad got into an argument about something and mom refused to order anything to eat. Later I gave her my half of the cheese sandwich.

Early the next morning, we were on the road again. When we crossed the state line into Florida, the first thing we did was stop for fresh orange juice. I don't think anything ever tasted as good as that orange juice. Cold and fresh, a gift from the gods.

Eventually we arrived in Tampa and made our way to Bonma's house on Sitka Street, in Sulfur Springs. Sulfer Springs is located about six miles north of downtown Tampa.

The house was closed up and we had to knock on the front door and all the windows to get Charlie and Bonpa's attention. Eventually they opened the door and looked surprised to see us. Didn't they know we were coming? We had just driven almost 1200 miles and were tired and hungry. After a tense conversation we left to go check into The Suflur Springs Hotel, just down the street from where the folks lived.

The Sulfer Springs Hotel was built at the turn of the century and had changed very little by 1956. The hotel covered an entire block with an arcade of shops beneath the hotel. The lobby was filled with old stuffed furniture and very dusty fake palm trees. The rooms weren't that much better. There was no air conditioning of course, the beds were hard and lumpy and the bathroom was a little scary. Outside the hotel there was a swimming area and of course the famous "Sulfer Springs", which were supposed to have healing qualities.

After unpacking we walked across the street to a little cafe to get something to eat. The cafe was about as old as the hotel, it was hot and dusty and it didn't look promising. Having only eaten cheese sandwiches for the past two days I decided on a chocolate milkshake. Once again I made a good choice as I seem to remember my folks complaining about the food they ordered.

Dad paid the check and we stepped outside where we got hit with a blast of heat. It was like walking into a furnace, and this was in March or April. God, what must it be like in the summer? We decided to walk up the street to Bonema's house and see what the news was regarding her condition.

The walk only took about five minutes but we were all hot and sweaty and exhausted by the time we got there. I prayed my grandparent's had air conditioning! My prayers were answered but my joy was short lived. They only turned it on in the summer (it was a small window unit that only cooled one room). Mom and dad sat down to talk to Bonpa and Charlie and I went outside and sat under a palm tree. So this is Florida.

February 24, 1911



One hundred years ago today, on a bitter cold day, in Cambridge, MA. My grandmother, Annie Kerrigan Barbier lay dying of tuberculosis in a darkened room at Holy Ghost Hospital, 1575 Cambridge Street. She was just 38 years old.

Annie, mother of five children, had just lost her youngest child, John Francis Barbier, 18 months old, on February 20th, just four days earlier. John Francis had succumbed to tubercular meningitis.

I'm sure as Annie lay there struggling to breathe, her thoughts turned to her four surviving children, Caroline ten years old, Lawrence eight years old, Henry six years old, and my mother Anna, just three years old. She had nothing to leave them but some small possessions.

Who would care for them? John Higgins,her adopted father was much too old. What would happen to her children? Would her step brother Joseph Higgins and his wife Catherine take them in?  They had 4 children of their own. 

Many years later Caroline spoke about the day their mother died. Joseph and Catherine Higgins brought the children to the hospital to say goodbye to their mother.

As Caroline and Lawrence stood next to their mother's bed, they understood that their mother was leaving, just like their baby brother, a few days ago and their father Henry Barbier. Only Henry didn't die, he chose to leave the family (for reasons unknown) and move to California to live with his mother and other siblings.

Golden haired Anna (my mother) stood next to her brother Henry, tightly holding his hand in hers. Henry was her best friend and constant companion. They both stood there silent in the dark cold room, watching the events unfold.

As Anna watched her mother struggle to breathe, her expressive hazel eyes were troubled as her world was becoming one of confusion and loss. First losing her father, then her baby brother and now her mother.

After Annie died, her children were placed in The Home for Destitute Catholic Children at 788 Harrison Street in Boston, MA., by Catherine Higgins. 

Annie Kerrigan Barbier, age 38 and John Francis Barbier, age 18 months, were buried together in a single grave at Mt. Benedict Cemetery in Roxbury, MA.

Me & Mr. Smith

My love of animals started at an early age. My first dog was a mutt named Mr. Smith. Oh how I loved that dog!

I remember mom making me a cheese sandwich for lunch and she would give me a Milk Bone dog biscuit for Mr. Smith. Mom told me later that if she wasn't watching, I would eat the dog biscuit and give Mr. Smith my sandwich.

Mr. Smith loved to chase anything with wheels. Cars, trucks, kids on bicycles, it didn't matter. The bus that would take guests to Skytop Lodge would pass our house. As soon as Mr. Smith saw the bus, off he would go running down the road, chasing the bus.

He was a lovable old mutt who was my constant companion. I don't know what ever became of my beloved Mr. Smith. I'm sure my sister would know, but I prefer not to ask her.

I'd like to think he's still in the mountains, chasing cars, buses, kids on bikes and enjoying his Milk Bone dog biscuits.

Dad's Christmas Lights

 My dad loved Christmas.  I grew up in a small town in Northeastern, Pennsylvania.  It was always very cold in December and we were blessed to have a "white Christmas" almost every year.   Once Thanksgiving was over,  my Dad couldn't wait to put up Christmas lights on all the bushes around the house. I think he would start counting the days during the summer, until he could put up his beloved Christmas lights.  Dad loved Christmas.

Dad would go outside in the freezing cold and put a string of lights on one of the bushes and then come in the house and tell mom and me that we had to come outside to see the beautiful lights. We'd go outside and stand there in the freezing cold and tell dad how great it looked, then mom and I would run back into the house.

Five minutes later dad would have another string of lights up and we would have to go back outside and see those lights. This would continue until dad got all the lights on all the bushes. When he was finally finished and mom and I were inside trying to get warm, dad would shake his head and say "aren't those lights just beautiful? Don't they look great? Let's go back outside and see them again," and outside we all would go, shivering and shaking, the snow would be falling down and we would all marvel at the beautiful Christmas lights that dad was so proud off.

Oh what I would give, to watch my dad put up Christmas lights just one more time.