Radio Flyer Wagon: Father's Day Memories

Thirty-three years ago, my father, George, passed away on a cold day in March and will always be missed. On this Father’s Day, I’d like to share some memories.

Turning back the dog-eared pages in the book of one's life that hold cherished memories of times gone by, I am a young girl laughing with my sisters as Dad pulls us in our Red Radio Flyer Wagon. What fun, well, fun for us anyway. I don’t imagine it was a light load pulling four young daughters in that wagon but Dad never complained; he always smiled for us. As he pulled us along, we chatted to each other excitedly the way young children do, jumping up and down in giddy delight whenever the wheels hit a bumpty bump on the sidewalk, and enjoying the warmth of the sun on our faces. We were off to the neighborhood general store for crayons and coloring books.

Coloring was my favorite pastime next to reading; my sisters loved to color too. Brightly-colored waxed crayons worn down to the stub would be in need of urgent replacement, something Dad always understood. The store was a just few blocks away but why walk when you can ride in fine style in the chariot of wagons. 

Red Radio Flyer Wagon similar to the one we had. 

We were very close in age, my mother had four daughters in five years, and we’d later have two younger brothers. Four girls, close in age and close to each other, which made the parting when we were later separated at the orphanage and then into different foster homes after my mother was hospitalized all that much harder to bear. But that would be a few years away and I cannot pause at that place in my mind too long lest I get entangled in the cobwebs of fractured dreams, so I go back to the ride in the Radio Flyer Wagon.

Being the oldest, I’d hold my youngest sister, Theresa, just a toddler, on my lap. My second sister, Mary, would be giggling as my third sister, Rose, made funny faces; Rose liked to be the clown. When I grew too old for the wagon, I’d walk beside my father while my younger siblings rode. Walking beside him felt very grown up. Those fun jaunts in the Red Radio Flyer Wagon were a heavenly respite from the trauma of life at home with an unbalanced, mentally ill mother. I think my father knew it; I believe that’s why he took us on those excursions to the general store for coloring books and crayons, where the kindly store owner gave each of us a lollipop from the glass Mason jar behind the counter. 

With my sisters in New Brunswick, New Jersey.
(L to R: Mary, Madilyn, Theresa, Rose)

The days of red wagon rides were over when my family moved from the housing project in New Brunswick to a home in Bridgewater. That house was near a highway in a rural area, no sidewalks, no neighborhood general store nearby. One brother was a baby when we moved and my youngest brother would be born after we moved there. Regrettably, my younger brothers never had the chance to experience those rides to the general store in the Radio Flyer Wagon. I feel fortunate to have that memory of the wagon rides with Dad and my sisters.

I savor all my memories of my father. Those memories are beloved treasures wrapped in crayon-colored ribbons of sun-drenched yellow-orange, warm Indian red, and midnight blue. For everything that transpired in our fractured family life, when I remember coloring books, crayons, and the red wagon, I smile and remember my Dad.

Dad when he was young (by car, hat in hand) with his parents and sister.
(Providence, Rhode Island)

My father was born in Providence, Rhode Island, back when Model-T cars shared the streets with horses and everybody knew their neighbor. His father, James, owned a butcher shop and his ancestors had traveled from England to America in Colonial times, settling in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. On my father’s side, we are distantly related to Sarah Peabody Hawthorne who married the author Nathaniel Hawthorne (“House of the Seven Gables,” “The Scarlet Letter,” among other works) through my great grandmother, Ann Eliza Peabody (who married John Henry Leonard). Dad’s mother, Madeline, was the daughter of Irish and Portuguese immigrants. Sadly, my siblings and I never met our paternal grandparents. Both died within three month of each other, long before we were born. Dad spoke lovingly of his parents and was proud of his roots.

There were lively stories of his youth spent playing baseball in the streets with his friends and going down to the Providence River with buckets to clam-dig with his older brother, Bill. He’d save the money he made from a paper route to attend Saturday afternoon picture shows. Dad could recall when silent films became talkies and was a fan of Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin. His family home in Providence was across the street from where the songwriter and entertainer, George M. Cohan (“Yankee Doodle Dandy” and “Give My Regards to Broadway”), once lived.

Mom and Dad before I was a twinkle in their eyes.

My father, George, was thirteen years older than my mother, Carmela, so my parents came from two different generations. They met when he was stationed in New Jersey during World War II and married right after the war. However, it would be another five years before my mother had children. My father was 44 when I was born and I’m the oldest of six.

He had no idea about my mother's bipolar illness (her family was not about to tell him and they were in denial themselves, as it turns out); he had no idea of what was later to come. As I wrote in my Mother's Day post, I never knew my Mom in the way one would normally know a mother because I never knew my mother when she was not mentally ill. But I did get to know my Dad as a loving father, and the time spent with him in those early years was a bright spot in an otherwise difficult childhood.

Three years after giving birth to my youngest brother, my mother was hospitalized for a nervous breakdown. It was summer so we were home from school, six of us between the ages of 12 and 3. My father needed help caring for the children at home while he was at work. He begged my mother’s family to help but they refused. In their Old World Italian views, my mother’s mental illness was an “evil-eye curse” and they disavowed themselves of her and her children. Next, he appealed to the parish priest, requesting that Catholic Charities send a woman to help out during the day while he was working. Instead of sending someone from Catholic Charities to help, the priest called in social services. That’s how my siblings and I ended up at St. Michael’s Orphanage, taken there by social workers while my father was still at work.

A few years ago, after connecting with others from the orphanage, I discovered that Catholic Charities had an arrangement with parishes in the diocese back then to send children whenever possible to the orphanage (a diocese could profit handsomely from donations for orphans.) Of course, that was never disclosed to my father and he trusted the priest. Once in the hands of social services and made wards of the state, some of us were eventually sent to different foster homes. Our family life was fractured, never to be whole again. The series of events broke my father's heart. The rest of that story is for another day.

With my Dad when I was just a wee one! (New Brunswick, New Jersey)

On this Father’s Day, I can smile as I remember my Dad and those rides with my sisters in the Red Radio Flyer Wagon. Dad often liked to hum tunes as he pulled us along, especially Irish lullabies his mother sang to him when he was a child.

To my Dad, Happy Father’s Day! Playing an Irish lullaby and thinking fondly of you.

©2013 JerseyLils2Cents.