In Memory of Edward J Powers

This post is for friends and family who were unable to attend my father's funeral in Fort Gratiot, Michigan on January 21st, 2017. 

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

In Dad's Kitchen

Dad and Mitzie in the kitchen. 2007

If I hadn't known about the tumor, I would have thought he had just returned from the Bahamas. The mottled brown skin, a side effect of chemotherapy, belonged to a polo-wearing executive not my father.

Protruding collarbones and sagging skin under his jaw were evidence of the thirty pounds he had lost since surgery. A diminished sense of taste ruined his appetite so meals were various flavors of Boost, a highly caloric protein drink. His mouth was persistently dry and he spoke with a slight slur, as though his tongue were thick.

I looked forward to summer visits with Dad. I would sit on a stool in the kitchen while he and my stepmother rinsed, chopped, and sautéed vegetables in tandem, deftly avoiding each other as they changed stations in the small space. Meals would cover the 3’ by 3’ island and the kids could choose what to put on their plates. Afterwards, dirty dishes disappeared in a blink. I gave no thought to what we would eat at Dad’s; they enjoyed cooking, there was always plenty to eat and it was always good. I had a front row seat at a cooking show.

This summer my stepmother was out of town on a previously scheduled trip. Dad spent most of his time in the living room watching MSNBC, drinking Boost and would retire early. The kids’ dirty drink glasses sat on the island where they’d left them hours earlier. As I loaded them into the dishwasher and searched for detergent I thought how unnatural it felt to clean up, as if my dad and stepmother didn’t exist.

Years earlier, after my parents’ divorce, visits with Dad meant eating homemade lasagna instead of Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup. As I rummaged through his refrigerator and cabinets it dawned on me that the preparation and enjoyment of food was how we connected; it was an expression of love.

Conversation came easily when he cooked. We talked politics and he shared stories from his firefighting days. When asked about his childhood and deceased parents he shared that his maternal grandfather operated a fishery in the early 20^th century. He told the story of how his father, as a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force during WWI, earned medals for bravery and showed them to the boys. Dad was a natural storyteller.

My boys have come to expect things when they visit their grandpa- fireworks on the patio, playing baseball and soccer in the large yard and hitting golf balls off the neighbor’s tee onto the flats of the Black River. When Dad whipped up a batch of Jiffy Mix waffles, the boys cheered, and breakfast at Grandpa Eddie’s was confirmed as part of our summer visit tradition. For me, it was an appreciated sliver of normalcy.

Dad is on the mend and I’m grateful. His positive attitude enables him to take the cancer in stride. The tumor is gone but so is a cherished part of our relationship. My hope is that it is temporary.