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Uncle ArthurSprinkled liberally throughout our lifespans are the inevitable surprises inherent in the life of a family, some wondrous, others frightening, that warm the cockles of our hearts or scare the bejeezus out of us. Any unusual event which does less is not really a surprise and more like a simple twist of Fate. Today, let’s stick with the surprises.
My Uncle, Arthur Wickey, was a big one, perhaps my first real qualifier. He just showed up one day out of nowhere, like Zorro, when I was about five. My maternal grandmother, Arthur’s sister, told me he had been in “The War,” where he served with the U.S. Army’s Acorn Division, which was primarily a replacement and labor outfit stationed in France. Did you blow up any Germans, Uncle Arthur? “I like to build stuff instead of blowing it up,” he smiled.
A week after we first met, I came home from school to find the word BILLY painted in bright yellow on the back of my fire-engine-red Radio Flyer wagon. I was thrilled. Of all the Radio Flyer wagons in all the world, I was sure mine was the only one with the owner’s name brightly splashed in neon gold. Turns out Uncle Arthur, among other things, was a talented sign painter. He rented an upstairs apartment on South Union Street and it was always filled with orders-in-progress, brilliant signs for all occasions resting everywhere, an exciting place for a kid to explore.
Unlike all other adults I knew, Uncle Arthur was never angry. A constant smile was part of the package, even though he had a loud-speaking girlfriend named Rose, who always seemed to be looking for a fight. “She can’t help it, she’s Italian,” Uncle Arthur said. Rose really loved Arthur. You could tell by the way she looked at him. I wondered why one person loved another like that. One day I got a small clue as we were walking past Conley’s flower store down the street. Arthur stopped and said, “This is where I get my secret formula that makes Rose smile. Flowers make ladies weak in the knees. They never fail, even when Rose is very angry.” I made a mental note. I think that was the idea. I wondered if it would work with Kathleen Carroll.
Uncle Arthur enjoyed taking my sister Alice and me to Canobie Lake, an amusement park about a half-hour’s drive away on the New Hampshire state line. Our parents brought us there occasionally, but it was more fun with Uncle Arthur because he took us on rides our mother found “dangerous.” He’d hold us by our little shoulders, look us in the eyes and say, “This is just between us pals, nobody else has to know.” We got his drift. And it was fun having a forbidden secret, even if Alice almost blabbed a couple of times.
Earlier in his life, Uncle Arthur had been an amateur prizefighter. He never pretended to be “a contenda” but he said he “won my share.” When I was about eight, he pulled out some headgear and extremely puffy gloves and said I should learn to box…or “spar,” as he put it. At the time, all I knew about fighting is that you and the other kid flailed wildly at one another until someone got in a lucky punch and knocked the other guy down. Who knew there was a science to it?
“You will almost never lose a fight with someone the same size as you if you learn how to box,” Arthur said. “Keep your hands up and you won’t get hit, especially in the head. Fight defensively and wait for an opening. Don’t try to wind up and throw a big punch, just throw jabs, that way you don’t leave yourself unprotected for long. Don’t be too eager to get a punch in, wait for an opening when the other guy gets tired. If you do get knocked down, get right up, the other guy just got lucky.”
How do I know when the other guy gets tired?
“His arms start to go down. He’s not covering his face as well. He’ll take more chances. It’s hard to hold your arms up even for three rounds. When you see the signs, take a shot. A lot of times it just takes one good punch to finish him off. The real trick is to outlast your opponent. This stuff called stamina rules the world.”
My Uncle Arthur was not grammatically gifted enough to define what a metaphor is but I think he was trying to teach me about life as much as boxing, which emphasizes resilience, discipline and overcoming adversity. It mirrors the human experience through themes of taking hits and recovering from setbacks. I carried his words with me and employed his wisdom often, once just a few years later when confronted by a tough customer in a 3-round match at a YMCA camp. His name, of all things, was Rodney Gay.
Rodney was a smidge smaller than I was, maybe ten pounds lighter. He was very polite and proper and would never be thought a tough guy. But Rodney Gay was a badger, he was steady, he would not back up and he seemed tireless. He was using the same philosophy I was and I couldn’t get a punch in. I was getting frustrated but I clearly remembered what my Uncle Arthur told me. “Steady as she goes, and the fight goes to the last to panic.” Halfway through the third round, Rodney’s arms were slowly falling. I didn’t rush, just feigned a couple of punches, but threw a third unexpectedly and he fell back a step and left himself open. I peppered him with some good shots and the bell rang. The sympathetic referee called it a draw but both of us knew the truth: Uncle Arthur had won the fight.
Uncle Arthur’s advice came to the fore many more times in my life. When I drifted from it, Life kicked me in the ass. When I adhered to it, I prospered. “Don’t be rash, but when you see an opening, take your shot, Be bold, but be careful. Brains over brawn! Outthink and outlast.” One of my best girlfriends, Betsy Harper, once told me, “I like you because you’re a risk-taker.” My calculating Uncle Arthur would have taken her aside for a few words.
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| On the left, Pat Oullette and Marie Killeen. They waited for The Mother. |
Take Me Out To The Racetrack
In 1986, one of my thoroughbred broodmares, Shannon Rose, foaled an attractive filly by an undistinguished son of Northern Dancer named Fairway Fortune. I named her Proud Celia after my formidable maternal grandmother. When Celia was two years old, I sent her to trainer Ned Allard at Rockingham Park in New Hampshire where Nan, living but a mile down the road, could watch her race. The filly promptly won and my grandmother was thrilled, but no more so than my Mother Marie, who’d bet serious money on the race and went to collect it before a trip to the winner’s circle. As the track photographer lined everyone up for the photo, Allard spotted Marie, not known for her sprinting prowess, heading his way and admonished “Wait for the mother! Wait for the mother!” She finally made it and was included in the happy photo.
Fast forward one month. Proud Celia is scheduled to run again, a race I will miss due to other commitments in Florida. Celia and Marie will be alone at the track, which is always a dangerous situation. By this time, my Mother has learned to check the entries column in the Lawrence Eagle Tribune newspaper and discovers Proud Celia is Number 6. The next day at the track, already flush with house money and optimistic after a lifetime of consistent success at the local Bingo tables, Marie loads up on her mother’s namesake. But when they go to the Paddock to watch saddling, her husband Pat Ouellette frowns with concern. “That horse doesn’t look like Proud Celia,” he worries. “Oh, don’t be silly, Pat, here it is right here in the Tribune.”
What Marie fails to realize is that sometimes a horse is scratched for one reason or another the morning of the race. When this occurs, the next horse in the chronological order moves up, inheriting the scratched horse’s post position number. That number is accurately listed in the track program, but too late for the newspaper to make corrections. In Celia’s race, the four horse scratched, so Proud Celia moved up to Number 5. The six horse was a big longshot.
When the horses left the gate, Number 6 went right to the front, the two Golden Girls screaming bloody murder for the leader, who they incorrectly called “Celia” to the utter confusion of neighboring fans who knew Celia was running mid-pack. Thus, while Proud Celia finished an undistinguished fourth, Marie gleefully pounded the ticket windows and came home with a bagful of money. “Oh, but WAIT---The Winner’s Circle! We must rush down to the Winner’s Circle!” she advised.
“Wait for the mother! Wait for the mother!” Marie hollered, leading her pokey crew to the circle. And wait they did, though certainly pondering the identities of this boisterous collection of strangers seeking to share their thrilling victory.
“We figured it out after we got home,” Marie told me. “We were laughing like fools for an hour. Your grandmother wasn’t too excited when she found out Celia lost the race after we all thought she won. I gave her fifty dollars though and she calmed down. What is it you people always say---that’s racing, right.”
Yeah, Ma. That’s racing at your house.
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| Tom Killeen with daughter Kathy, circa 1952 |
Of Fathers And Sons
My Father, Thomas Joseph Killeen was a serious man. Twenty-five years older than my Mother, he prowled the long and confusing corridors of the Lawrence, Mass. telephone company, solving problems. When a big storm came through and left the place broken and in mass hysteria, his best friend Jim Carney would pull up in his old Ford and haul Dad downtown to bring order out of chaos. Most days, Tom Killeen would walk the mile-and-a-half to work and back, arriving promptly for our 5 o’clock supper. We were a meat and potatoes family, except on Friday when we automatically had fish, as per Jesus’ apparent request. Occasionally, the Pope would issue an edict which excused the fish rule for a week, but that wasn’t good enough for my Father. “Who does he think he is?” Tom Killeen begged to know. In other words, a rule’s a rule. Good thing he didn’t live long enough to see the designated hitter or interleague play in baseball.
My Father played catch with me as fathers tend to do, but woe betide me if I didn’t throw the baseball directly to him. I’m not sure whether it was his age or an effort to better my aim, but any ball that went past my father’s glove, I chased. I used to sit with him when the Red Sox games were on the radio, listening to the play-by-play and noting his reactions. A nice hit by the Sox drew a nod, but an error brought an ugly scowl. And the bane of Tom Killeen’s existence was Red Sox pitching, rarely a pretty sight. Nonetheless, when I was five, my Dad and I got on a train to Beantown for my first live game. By the end of the third inning, the Cleveland Indians were up 12-1.
Never one to apologize, Dad looked sadly down at me and remarked, “I guess I could have found a better first game to take you to.” I pointed to the scoreboard and with the naivete of little children said, “Don’t worry, Dad, we have six innings to catch up.” A rare smile creased his knowing countenance. But as inning followed inning, no one in the star-studded Cleveland bullpen could stay the Red Sox bats from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. When it was over, Boston prevailed 15-14 in a classic comeback for the ages. “See, I told you we could win!” I celebrated. He looked at me with the hint of a small grin and said, “Don’t expect that kind of thing to happen very often, Billy.”
Entering Fenway that day, Dad told me I could pick out one pennant for my room. I immediately settled on a bold white one with red letters. He said we’d wait til after the game to buy it because he didn’t want to carry it around all afternoon. “What if they have none left?” I worried. He told me they’d have plenty. He was wrong. Being a sulky and disappointed little child, I would accept no substitutes. Being a man of his word, Tom Killeen was upset at his error. When we got off the train, he marched us a mile in the wrong direction from home to Louis Pearl’s variety store on Broadway, looking for that pennant. Louis sadly admitted he didn’t have one either, but he would “see what we can do.” Five days later, Tom Killeen marched home from work and a side visit to Louis Pearl’s carrying the white pennant with red lettering. I told him he was the best father in the world. He patted me on the head and said he was “working on it.”
The Envelope, Please…
When Little League Baseball came to Lawrence, my Father took me to the tryouts. Most of my friends were there, looking for a spot on one of the four teams that would open play later in the year. Being left-handed, I was relegated to being a first baseman unless I opted for the outfield (boring) or catcher (dangerous). A Little League official hit a dozen ground balls to me, which I fielded adeptly. Then we threw the ball around the infield, which was a breeze. I was disappointed that there was no hitting session involved, but I was sure I’d make one of the teams. My Father sat me down and explained how the world worked. It was almost an apology. “Billy, there are only four teams, so not too many kids we know will make it. Maybe John Barry.” What? I was better than John Barry.
“John’s father is a doctor, Billy. These people need money to make the Little League work. Right now, some of the wealthier kids will get picked. In a couple of years, there’ll be twice as many teams and twice as many kids will make it.” Great. By then I’d be too old. The neighborhood kids took solace in knowing we could beat any of the four Little League teams. A few years later, we did at a Fourth of July picnic. I was sad my Dad couldn’t make it that day to see that money wasn’t everything.
Despite the glories of shared baseball, my Father and I were not very close. His sense of humor was restricted, perhaps by age and his limitations, and he constrained most of his merrymaking to Thanksgiving and the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, when local friends and families intermingled over serious alcohol provisions, one night at our house, next night at theirs. But whatever a boy’s relationship with his Father, virtually all young tads are looking for some semblance of approval, some hint of pride of father for son, whether they know it or not. I can’t say that I knew that at the time. I felt fairly relegated to the role of live-and-let-live junior partner with limited expectations. Then one day came graduation from grammar school.
St. Patrick’s School made a big deal of commencement, holding the extravagant ceremonies at a church of the same name, with the saintly Monsignor Daly presiding at the altar, handing out diplomas with a nod and a coveted smile. St. Patrick’s Church, a very large building, was filled to the stained-glass windows with friends and families of the proud capped-and-gowned graduates, a few of which were thrilled just to have made it this far, the girls (as usual) on one side of the church, the boys on the other. There was much pomp and circumstance, wonderful organ music and a houseful of beaming parents. A graduate couldn’t help but feel on-stage, like some kind of minor movie star.
Near the end of the big show, the Monsignor handed out a couple of scholarships, one of which was to Central Catholic High School, too expensive for the average family to afford without a little help. That one, we all knew would go to the earlier-mentioned John Barry, the smartest kid in the class, or Dave Kiernan, next in line. When the announcement finally came, however, that was not the case. “The CCHS scholarship goes to William Killeen,” the Monsignor advised. Unbeknownst to all, Barry and Kiernan had received scholarships to nearby Andover, locally called Phillips Academy, the premier prep school in the country for Yale University. That left also-ran Billy Killeen to pick up the big scraps. I was pulverized with astonishment. What the hell did he just say? And do I have to walk all the way up there and get it?
A slight smile slowly arrived on my face as I traipsed the two miles up to the altar where Monsignor Daly was enthroned. “Good work, William,” he said with a smile. “We’re all very proud of you.” As if he knew me from Adam. “Thank you, Monsignor,” I managed, clutching my unexpected prize. A little more composed, I turned and made my way back to my pew to the eyes of the approving parents and probably a few quiet wisecracks from my friends. I could see my Mother and Father sitting on the aisle in the distance. As I neared my row, I noticed my Mother was teary-eyed, as might be expected. And then I saw my Father, big as life, immaculate as usual in suit, tie and fedora. He was actually smiling, a big one, an exceptional smile he’d been saving for 13 years for just such an occasion. My heart skipped a beat. I realized he was finally proud of me for something. The scholarship was nice, but I had just received the Ultimate Reward. It might have been the best day of my life. Top ten, anyway.
That’s all, folks….
…except to acknowledge the help of Beverly Mack, who researched and sent photos of Uncle Arthur. Beverly is our family genealogist, following in the determined footsteps of her mother Barbara. She knows all our secrets and where the bodies are buried. Thanks again, Bev.
