HEADSTONE: Introduction

Part truth and part fiction, HEADSTONE is the story of author Brian James’ nontraditional relationship with his father. Born in 1915, Brian’s father majored in mischief at an early age.

INTRODUCTION

 

          My father was born in 1915 directly across from the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown, Massachusetts, which, according to Hollywood, is infamous for producing bank robbers.  This particular story has been granted better than a quarter century to rest so as to not compromise anyone.  I now feel I had better write what I remember of it before all memory is gone, along with its events and characters, who, I trust, went peacefully and by natural means.  Dad claimed he always wanted to, in fact, pen this tale, but his time ran out in 1984, and, as he himself once commented, nobody would read or believe it anyway.  What follows are, no doubt, my well-varnished memories of a man I will always love and who forever will be my hero.

          An only and somewhat spoiled child, my father majored in mischief at an early age.  He would steal fruits and vegetables from a pushcart vendor and impale them on General Prescott’s sword moments before the Monument’s tour guide would descend the stairs with a crowd of astonished out-of-town tourists.  Soon the race was on with the guide in hot pursuit of the little artful dodger up and down Bunker Hill’s grassy knolls until the next group of history buffs came along.  One Christmas, when Pops was about twelve, a well-meaning relative gave him a dynamite set of drums.  He practiced day and night until his matriarchal grandmother couldn’t stand another wrist roll and gave away his drums to a school for the hearing impaired in Marblehead.  He had a cup of coffee at the best parochial high school in Boston, with his passing only English, but with an A.  He absolutely hated mathematics in school, but ironically wound up spending his days dealing with odds and probability.  The fad of the day was to borrow an unlocked Model-T Ford at the top of the hill and, hoping not to tip over on the right turn into the Schrafft’s building, coast it down into Sullivan Square.  The feat got him a license suspension until age nineteen, but townies say he made the turn safely. 

          A childish prank in his early twenties was to put signs for local politicians in his family’s front windows and wave to the candidates when they passed by looking for votes.  He, of course, wrote and drew outlandish cartoons on the backsides of those same signs for house guests to howl over while having drinks.    His favorite job was as a copy boy at the old Boston Record American, where the staff occasionally gave him a news story to write.  Dad was always a clever writer, to be sure, but never got a real chance to prove it. 

          The guy was simply an enigma.  Pops was no fan of anything that came from Ireland, from food to dance.  He considered the Irish Catholic Boston politicians to be the biggest phonies on earth.  Despite his eventually finishing in a dead heat with the Russian monk, Rasputin, for most vodka consumed in a lifetime, Dad never drove or ventured out on New Year’s Eve, which he called Amateur Night for Yahoos.  When under the influence, he would go into a department store and take something new without paying, while leaving his old item on a display rack.  Yet, once a week, he lit altar candles at St. Paula’s Church and said a few prayers despite never ever attending Sunday services.

          Family and friends said that, in his twenties, Dad had a striking resemblance to Tinsel Town’s leading man, Robert Taylor.  However, in his sixties, he reminded me more of veteran character actor, Charles Durning.  Such is the cruelty of life’s highway of time. 

          When queried about retirement, he would answer by asking, “What would I do differently in retirement?”  My father simply had no hobbies except for music.  He enjoyed sports like swimming and tennis, but claimed a basketball court was too small for the players on it, football wasted too much time running the ball, and baseball reminded him of monkeys circling the bases. 

          Pops never joined a club or an organization, and I don’t believe he much voted or served jury duty.  He paid taxes from his night job, but Mom and Uncle Sam never saw any of his winnings.  However, when a person is not outwardly materialistic, you can never be quite certain what they have or where.  

The complete version of "Headstone" is available here.