Click here to return to section

Click for Home

My father died February 28, 1945 more than 35 years ago. It's amazing to realize that I knew him for only 24 or so years but as I reflect I realize that he lives in me now in so many ways. I can even see him in my children and in their children. I'd better get this story written now so all may learn of his life from someone who knew him. He'd be proud if he could see the generations that followed him.. He missed his first grandchild by three years. For twenty-four years I took him for granted. How I wish I would let him know now how grateful I am that he was what he was --- a very good guy!

Dad's father Peter Martin Morse, born in 1860, never was a good provider. He was a "hail fellow well met" who ran for, but was never elected to, public office in the Bronx. The family was poor and obtained little schooling as the boys, Uncle Charlie and Dad had to go to work at early ages and the only girl, Aunt Sophie, had to take care of household chores after their mother died about 1905. Dad completed the third grade -- possibly as much as the eighth grade but according to the census was working as a caddie on the golf links at age 12. Many weeks he was the chief wage earner in the family.

Soon be became a runner for the Furuya and Nashamura tea company in downtown, N.Y. City. He traveled to work from his home in the Bronx via horse car and later subway to his job at ___ Street. As a runner before modern communication, he traveled all over New York City.

I don't know much about his early years as an adult as he didn't talk of them and Mother was always very actively keeping us informed of her side of the family. I do know that he was popular with the girls and had an active "gang" of young men called "The Jolly Five". This group
spent holidays camping at Orchard Beach in the Bronx or at a boarding house in the Catskills.
From photo albums I find that he and my Mother were both in the Catskills (with different groups) at the same time. Perhaps it was arranged that way. They both sang in St. Peter's church choir and were active in a church group at the "Church House" on Westchester Ave. in the Bronx. Dad learned some woodworking in a class taught there and until a fire of a few years ago we had a lovely mahogany table which he had made.

After their marriage in "The Little Church around the Corner" in New York, Mom and Dad lived at several different addresses before Frank and I arrived. Frank and I were the 4th try for Mother and Dad. The first three died soon after birth. We came into the world Dec. 23, 1921 via Schmal and home delivery at 983 E. 181st Street in the Bronx.Uncle Frank describes a memory from the Bronx apartment when his Dad attempted to clean a kitchen hooked rug in the kitchen sink - "one hell of a mess!" We were twins -- and still are.

By that time Dad was leaving the tea business and entering the sugar business with a firm named Lowry. He was with Lowry until just before the great depression when he joined the Punta Alegra Sugar Sales Corporation. I remember them being in an old building then moving into the new 120 Wall Street "sky scraper" just completed. He became Treasurer of the company in time.

When we were about 3 years old the family followed Uncle Charlie and his family to Ardsley, N.Y. (One of New York's suburbs). We claim that the population increased to 1,000 on our arrival.

We moved into half of a duplex, the other half being inhabited by the owner, the recently widowed Mrs. William O'Dell (Auntie O'Dell). It was heated by a monster of a coal hot air furnace as well as a range in the kitchen. We were impressed that the coal was brought to us via sleds from the O'Dell coal company -- the horses had quite a time climbing the hill to Lincoln Ave. Every morning Dad walked down to the station, about 1/2 mile to catch the steam train on the Putnam division of the New York Central R. R. and returned each evening about 6:30. The train went as far as Sedjwick Ave. but before it got there, most of the commuters had changed to electric trains at High Bridge, the stop before, from whence they went on to grand Central Station.

While we were living at O'Dells', Dad purchased some property about a block away on Johnson Place and proceeded to have a house built on it. Mother worried a great deal as "The Great Depression" was on us and we were all concerned about Dad's job. Seems to me though that Dad wasn't worried. I don't ever remember his worrying. The house was completed and we moved in in 1929.

During this time, Dad bought our first car. It was a blue, 4 door 1926 Chevrolet. He had continued to sing with the Singers Club of New York and St. Peter's choir in the Bronx, but after some very cold trips in the unheated auto he decide to switch to the choir at St. Barnabas Church in Irvington, New York. There, his young boys were also enrolled.

The following are recollections I have of Dad as I grew up in Ardsley, went to college and into the service (WW II). He died shortly after I returned to the states following a service connected injury in Europe.

Dad was different than other men. He wore triple E high black shoes and high white socks. I think that after much effort on my mother's part he once bought a pair of low brown shoes which he promptly stored in his closet. He didn't like low shoes and he didn't like brown shoes because they just didn't look good with white socks. When not wearing his shoes, they inhabited his closet with shoe trees. The one exception were his golf shoes with spikes in them, but they could hardly be considered as shoes.

Seems that no store in all of New York carried triple E high black shoes except Hurleys. During his lunch hour one day he bought a pair at Hurley's who wrapped them nicely for him to tuck under his arm. As he was leaving he stepped off the curb.

That night he stayed in a New York hospital as he'd been pretty well bruised by a taxi whose driver claimed Dad failed to look in the right direction before attempting to cross the street. May years later as I look back, I think it was those shoes he wore when he died.

Long after the average New York City businessman had switched to shirts with soft collars, Dad continued to attach hard white collars via collar buttons to his white shirts. Once a week he'd wrap up a swatch of soiled white collars and take them with him on the train to New York. A day or two later another package would accompany him home --- collars all white and starched. As the collars grew older they would become grayed and scratch his neck. On very hot days, they would sort of roll softly at the top and become rather gray at that point. Of course he always wore a necktie to go with the collars. Some picture of Dad hiking in the Catskills show his collar and tie --- as usual. He was uncomfortable without a collar while most of us were uncomfortable with a collar.

I never heard Dad swear, never heard of him imbibing in an alcoholic beverage (He promised his mother he never would) and I would have been truly shocked if he'd ever accepted a cigarette, cigar or pipe. He just didn't do these things. He chewed gum. I think that because his father, an alcoholic, may have had a great deal to do with his abstinence. Perhaps because Dad chewed so much gum is the reason I seldom do. Always, except perhaps when he slept or ate, Dad was chewing gum. Chiclets, sort of a capsulated product, were his favorites. They'd show up just about everywhere. They could be found in his pants pickets, on his bureau, in the glove compartment of the Buick -- all over. Well do I remember raiding his Rogers Peet heavy overcoat in the hall closet for loose change and being disappointed in finding only Chiclets in the pockets. Needless to say, Mother reminded him frequently that the clack clacking of the gum was very distasteful to her. Dad never had gas pains. Perhaps it was the continuous gum chewing stimulating the digestive juices that save him at least that one common human ailment.

Only special tea and freshly ground coffee satisfied my father. Having worked for many years at the Japanese Tea company, he developed, I suspect, a fine taste for tea. He preferred Formosa/Oolong. It was so important to him that he sometimes had a box 3 ft. by 3 ft. by 3 ft. shipped to Ardsley where it was placed in the cellar. Lead foil was inside the wooden crate and inside that was the tea. He use to dole out a pound or two into a paper bag, then tie some string around it and take it to New York to sell to friends. I don't know how profitable it was for him, but to his other transportables frequently was added a pound of tea.

Coffee was always bought as beans. He never had it ground at the store, rather, every morning he'd go down to the cellar about 6:30 and grind out a cup full to put into the percolator. I can still hear the sound of the hand cranked grinder as it resonated up the beams to the attic where Frank and I were finishing our sleep. I think he also buffed his shoes just before he ground the coffee because the shoe shine box was just under the coffee grinder.

You could count on Dad. Every morning of his life since the day Shredded Wheat was invented it seems Dad had it for breakfast. I don't think it harmed him because he had only one biscuit at a time. It certainly saved him the trouble of making a decision at that very delicate time of the day and was less expensive that most other cereals except corn flakes. I wonder if his faithfulness to Shredded Wheat was related to a honeymoon visit to their factory near Niagara Falls.

Just off the kitchen in our house we had the luxury of a downstairs bathroom. It was very small and included a tub about 4 ft. long. It seems though that it received about 90% of the family's use. Upstairs was pretty much reserved for "Nana" (Mother's mother) although she always carried her wash water into her room and bathed there as was her custom. Dad took about 5 minutes of his well-regulated pre-train morning to perform his morning ablutions. Everyone else stayed clear of the downstairs facility until after he was finished. Needless to say on Wednesday and Saturday evenings Dad took a bath in the larger tub upstairs.

At first, when he worked 5 1/2 days a week including Saturday mornings and later, when he was finished for the week on Friday evenings, Dad would arrive home with at least two packages at the close of the week. One was fairly large, tied with a string and held by a wooden handle inserted into the string. It usually contained grapefruit and/or oranges. They always were the largest or juiciest imaginable. He had purchased them at the Fulton Market. The second package, tied with light string, contained a delicious Cushman's coffee cake purchased at their store in Grand Central Station. The coffee cake was usually enjoyed on Sunday morning before church.

In addition to the packages, Dad usually also purchased a candy bar for each member of the family. I preferred Nestles' chocolate and Nana and Mother each favored Mounds -- I don't remember what Frank liked. Dad though, knew what each of us enjoyed and would reach into his pocket drawing out the goodies soon after his arrival. On special occasions such as birthdays and Christmas, Dad would always bring home a box of Fanny Farmer mixed chocolates to one of the ladies of the house, or both, if the situation merited it.

My father was one of the worst automobile drivers I've ever known even though the family claims Uncle Charlie was the proper holder of that claim. Dad liked to drive fast but was continuously hampered by my Mother with constant verbal reminders of his inadequacies. This kept us all extremely tense. It seems that everyone, except Dad, kept his eyes on the road when Dad was driving. He was especially difficult if the road passed a golf course. If some one playing were about to drive or putt, the car would tend to head off onto the shoulder, if there was one, only to suddenly veer back on the road as Mother would shout "Rob!"

There was one time though that Mother was unable to save us for she didn't have a rear view mirror. Coming home from church, Dad took a left turn from the right side of the road off Broadway into Ardsley Park only to whacked by a car trying to pass on the left. Mother, who was very heavy, was thrown over the front seat into the laps of Rodney Ferguson, Frank and I in the back. After briefly checking Frank's bloody nose, Dad was out yelling at the other driver for not looking where he was going. The 1931 Chevrolet never quite recovered and the back of the front passenger seat remained bent from Mother's flight until the day Dad traded it in for the Buick.

Soon after he purchased the second hand 1936 Buick, Frank and I had our licenses and asked if we could have the car to go to a high school basketball game in Croton. We wished to take two cheerleaders, one of whom I was especially fond. Mother always a little suspicious, and rightly so, of possible romantic ventures on our part, suggested strongly that Dad could drive us. Besides, he did like basketball games. All hopes for a little "smooching" on the way home were dashed as Dad proceeded to drive for what seems a considerable distance with two wheels on the highway divider and two on the pavement. I was mortified.

When Dad drove alone, I have to assume he was a free spirit. He told how he had averaged 55 miles an hour on a trip to Copake Falls and hoped to do better on his next jaunt. The rest of us prayed for him.. Needless to say, the highways in the early 1930's were not as fine as those we've later enjoyed. To my knowledge, he was never stopped by the forces of the law for speeding or golf course gazing.

Soon after we moved to the new house in Ardsley, Dad decided that we should get a radio. I remember little about the occasion, being only 6 years old, except that only two people at a time could don the earphones and listen to the program. The monster was crowded into a corner of the dining room and didn't always work as well as we liked. There were a lot of squeaks, squeals and squawks. It must have been run by a battery as the dining room's oriental rug had three acid holes in it. Those same blemishes were still with it when it was destroyed in a house fire not many years ago.

After a while, a major family purchase was a Zenith cabinet model which we located in the living room between the dining room entrance and the stairway. Eventually time had to be allotted to each member of the family as we all developed our favorite programs. Dad listened to the baseball games on Saturday afternoon and the opera -- I think it was on Sunday afternoons. He knew most of the music by heart frequently humming the bass solos. More often though, he fell asleep in the chair claiming, when confronted, that he was just resting his eyes and was really wide awake. One day I was reading in the sun porch while the opera was on and Dad's rhythmic heavily breathing going along nicely when he awoke with a snort saying loudly,"I heard every word he said."

Dad loved to watch ball games. When we were home in the summer, he'd gather Frank and me and we'd walk over to neighboring Dobbs Ferry where a local team played teams from nearby communities. If we were at "camp" at Copake Falls, we'd walk down to the ball park/pasture across from Stickles' store and cheer fore the locals there also. Once or twice during the season, he'd take us to see the New York Giants and Carl Hubbell play at the Polo Grounds.

He was an ardent rooter on all occasions. This often proved embarrassing to his "well behaved' young sons. On more than one trip he let his opinion regarding the umpire's decision be loudly known. Should a portion for the other team be located within 10 or 15 seats of us I would fear that Dad might wind up with broken glasses. His loyalty on these occasions seemed to outweigh his good judgment.

While baseball was supreme, he also was a strong booster for Ardsley High School's basketball team. He'd go early so as to be assured a good seat in the small crowded gymnasium. When Frank and I were switched by Mother to Dobbs Ferry High School because of academic and disciplinary problems, Dad's loyalties went schizoid. It was rough on him.

I never considered my father to be an athlete. He had been a champion in the late teens and twenties but certainly was the last one to let any one know of his successes at golf. Of the score of cups we had around the house in Ardsley, I sill have one which indicates that in 1919 he had the best scores at the Manhattan Golf Club. The cup is name "The Manhattan Trophy". Once, while camping at a pubic campsite hear Haines Falls in the Catskills, Frank and I were surprised to see a rather excited man come running up to Dad saying "Are you Rob Morse?"

He told how he, as a boy, had caddied for Dad when he won a tournament at a nearby golf course. It wasn't until I started playing golf in high school that I realized how remarkable a player he was. He would play a round at Sprain Lake Golf Course and keep his score in the low 70s long after he had turned fifty. He just didn't tell folks how good he was. One wonders how he would have fared in today's world of professionals and subsidization.

As I grew older, I wondered about many things, including how Dad seemed to roll right along in his kind and loving manner without very much outward affection flowing in his direction. Ours just wasn't a touching or contact family. I do understand, however, that it would be and was indeed difficult to sleep in the same room, let alone in the same bed with him. When we were camping in the Berkshires each summer not only our entire family, but the nearby campers were often treated to some of the greatest nocturnal symphonies one could imagine. Mother's nightmares could stand one's hair on end, but Dad's snoring had operatic qualities. The compositions would include long and curious arias steadily building up to a magnificent crescendo only to be snapped off with snorts and kaff kaffs worthy of the most famous of musicians. His talents were exceptional. He slept well.

No one seemed to enjoy holidays more than Dad. Especially did he like occasions when he would team up with Uncle Charlie and Aunt Sophia and families. We all looked forward to the lively conversation but even more to the group games that developed in the living room after the feast. Some of the games we played I have passed on down to his great grandchildren. You may not know "Bub Bub Bub" or "Orchestra" or "Black magic" or a score of others because you weren't treated to such experiences as a child. Maybe as commercial television programming continues to deteriorate you too will learn "Bub Bub Bub" .

Dad had more of a chuckle than a belly laugh but the rest of us often would have tears in our eyes from the fun produced on those family occasions. He not only enjoyed a good time, he made one for all of us.

Click here to continue

Click here to return to section

Click for Home

cathysfiddle@yahoo.com