My dad had an great laugh and always had a story to
tell. The one he told over and over was how his first day as a firefighter was
the day I was born. When he introduced me I wasn’t just his daughter, I was “This is my daughter,
Heather. She was born on my first day at the engine house. I was new and too nervous
to ask the Captain if I could bust out. Someone else did it for me.”
The firehouse was a large part of our lives growing up. His
24 hour shifts (to this day I couldn’t explain to you what Kelly or Super Kelly
mean). Or how he would reek of smoke when he returned home from work. He told
me about the time he told someone he was a firefighter and she put her
hand on the top of his head, pulled him toward her and sniffed a few times. She let go of his head and confirmed, “Why, yes, yes you are!” because showers don't get the smoke out of firefighters' scalps and hair.
And there were lots of firefighter shenanigans. Once when I
was little I saw dad in the bathroom leaning against the sink, shaving. I
noticed he had the letter “P” in large, black sharpie on each butt cheek. When
I asked “What’s that?” He said that he was the “PP” in ‘Happy’. Seeing I was still
confused, he explained a bit more slowly, “I was the “PP” in “Happy Birthday”. So that’s how adults celebrate birthdays.
There were some perks to having a father in the Detroit Fire
Department. My brother, Jim, and I would get to sit on top of Headquarters downtown
to watch the International Freedom Festival Fireworks. If we wanted to go to
Greektown we could usually park at the firestation there.
Dad knew a lot of people which meant he'd run into someone everywhere we
went. Jim and I would get bored waiting for him to finish his
conversations, “Com’on, Dad. Let’s gooo.”
And this was before he went to Ireland – he didn’t need to kiss the Blarney
stone. I carry on the tradition with my own kids who know that if I’m talking
to a parent when I pick them up they have another 30 minutes to keep playing. Dad could carry on a conversation with anyone and often did.
Then there was the Fire Department Clown Team, a group of
young guys on a red truck goofing around to make kids smile and raise money for the Burn Unit at Children's Hospital. One of my favorite
pictures of Dad, aka the Chief of Fun, about to kiss a preschooler’s hand at
the Fireman’s Field Day. Jim and I were reminiscing about how we used to play on the truck when it was
parked in our backyard.
I got to know the city fairly well because I would go with Dad
when he ran errands. As a firefighter, he knew Detroit like the back of his
hand. I loved time in the car with him because it usually meant we’d go exploring.
Eastern Market. Zeb’s. Hirt Cheese Company. The Wine Shoppe where Tim McCarthy
would fix Dad up with whatever he needed. Hamtramck. Donuts from Supreme Bakery.
He was always checking out new places. Once when he came to visit me in
Maryland he went to local shopping center and came back with onion rye bread,
deli meats and marinated mushrooms just because. I was amazed because I’d been going
to that shopping center for years and didn’t know that stuff was there.
Baseball would become a significant part of our lives when
dad bought Casey’s Pub in 1983. I’ve enjoyed hearing everyone’s stories about
what Casey’s meant to them – how it was a gathering place for police officers, fire fighters and others. He developed a real sense of community. Sometimes on
Thanksgiving or Christmas Day Dad would open up the bar for anyone who didn’t have
any place to go. He’d cook, Lord he’d cook, and there’d be a ton of food. Jim
and I were recruited to help at the bar whether it was serving burgers on
Opening Day or cleaning the urinal in the men’s room. Now that’s a character
building experience!
Dad was interested in everything. When I was little car
rides could be unbearable because he was always listening to J.P. McCarthy and WJR talk radio. The
bathroom was stocked with Readers Digest, Popular Science and the Bottom Line. He
introduced my kids to Uncle John’s bathroom readers, full of stories, nuggets
and trivia. Kim used to joke he’d read the label on a can of peas. He liked to
watch Bill Maher. We talked about all sorts of things – Detroit politics, economic
development, current events, you name it. As I grew older and brought the
family to visit, these conversations took place in the kitchen while he and Kim
cooked. In the morning, he would pull out the Jiffy Mix to whip up waffles and fry
up bacon AND sausage links (such a luxury to have both). And the stories would
come.
How Grandpa Powers earned medals for bravery in World War I;
the night Grandpa died of a stroke when he was nine; how Grandpa was a
motorman for the DSR and how he used to ride with him and ring the bell until a
cranky rider complained; how, in the Navy, he’d buy American whiskey in the commissary and
sell it to his landlady in Scotland to pay for petrol. The story of the nice
lady in Ireland who looked up his family’s birth records in Waterford and
mailed them to him.
Tales from the Engine house like when they responded to a
fire and a woman cried, “My babies! My babies! are trapped upstairs!" to discover
they were Beanie Babies; or the time a woman got stuck in her bathtub; or
about the time a local dive bar caught fire. When the firefighters arrived the
smoke was several layers thick and the regulars were still at a table drinking
their beers - sideways. The fire chief said, “Hey, this building’s on fire!” and one
of them replied without missing a sip, “We know. That’s why we called you.”
Dad used to say, “Fireman are the cheapest sons of bitches
around. If you need something done cheap, hire a fireman.” He was frugal,
too. He bought his cars used and paid cash. After the gasoline shortages in the 70s Dad
bought a brand new VW Rabbit diesel. We
got a luggage carrier, aka the Bubble Burger, for the top and drove it to Washington
DC, Boston, Pennsylvania and Cooperstown, NY (where, of course, Dad ran into
someone he knew). It was cramped but we made fond memories.
 |
| My father and me November 2007 |
When I was ten, I had my first experience with the death of a relative, my dad’s
Uncle Bill, the youngest of the Powers men who emigrated from Ireland. His wake was the first wake I'd ever attended. It was an Irish wake and It Was
A Party. Food, alcohol, laughter - loud and plentiful. That was quite a standard to set and, as you can imagine, quite a contrast to all the subsequent funerals I attended that weren’t Irish (“Why is everyone whispering?”).
Dad did not
handle death well. He never went to funerals. But he was ready for his own and
that should give us comfort. He’s with his mom and dad again and his best
firemen buddies seen in the photos behind me. I’d like to think Dad would want us to celebrate because he is at peace. And so long as we hold
the stories we have of him have in our hearts, he will be with us.
- Heather Powers Sauter
