Sto Lat, Daddy!

“Sto Lat,” the traditional Polish song that says “may you live 100 years,” was one of my dad’s favorites. We sang it every year on his birthday – and he nearly made it to that milestone, dying at 95 in 2019. February 17 would have been his 100^th birthday.

My brother-in-law Ralph texted me recently and asked me to share the oldest photo I had of my dad to mark the occasion. Flipping through my collection of family photos, I came across one from about 1931 when he was seven. He’s pictured with some of his sisters, including Bernice, Rosie, Caroline and Mary. Victoria, the oldest girl, and Stella, who died following tonsilitis at age nine, are missing, as are his brothers. I was struck by a couple of things: my dad never changed his hairstyle in almost 100 years, and always looked thrilled to be in the midst of family.  

He grew up in poverty in Detroit during the Great Depression, with no stable home. At one time, the family was forced to live in a storefront on Vernor Highway because there was nowhere else for welfare officials to put them. Yet he was the most upbeat and optimistic person I’ve ever met; his stories about World War II and other challenges always emphasized the positive. 

When my dad talked about his experiences aboard the William C. Miller destroyer escort in the Pacific, the stories weren’t about participating in the battles of Iwo Jima, Tinian or the Gilbert Islands, or sinking a Japanese sub off Saipan. Instead, they were “the food was good and we got to eat corn bread and beans for breakfast!” 

He loved to recount winning $2,500 (the equivalent of more than $43,000 today) shooting craps onboard during a lull in the 1944 invasion of Leyte Gulf in the Philippines, the largest naval battle in modern history. He later sent the money home to take care of his dad and his sisters – but not before pondering whether he should just keep it and move to California. A low point: being on leave in San Francisco and discovering that “Abalone Steak” was not beef.

On his 90^th birthday, we all gathered to celebrate and tell our favorite “Chester” stories. They include:

• Never being “off duty” as a Detroit cop, and always willing to break up fights in the neighborhood or at Tiger Stadium when drunks got rowdy. Stepping in was always preceded by these words to my brother: “Mike, hold my watch.”
• A lifelong thriftiness, which included never hiring a landscape service to tend to the lawn on Archdale Street. Instead, he would put on his golf shoes with cleats and stomp across the grass dozens of times to “aerate it.” Of course, he had the best lawn in the neighborhood.
• A dedication to health and wellness long before it became popular. He attended hundreds of Detroit Tiger games, but never went to the concessions stands. Instead, he always brought a brown paper bag filled with fruit, which he would occasionally share with the ushers he knew by name.
• His shockingly sentimental side, despite never saying “I love you” to anyone. After he died, I came across an envelope with my name. In it, he had carefully preserved every report card, starting with the one I got in first grade at St. Mary of Redford and signed by Sr. Mary Praxedes to each one from Michigan State University. I was delighted to learn I earned an “A” in arithmetic in the first grade, but only a “B” in reading. Coulda been a STEM girl after all.
• Strong values, such as never ratting out anyone. When he stopped by my house when my husband and I were away on vacation, he discovered my teenage son Phil had hosted a party the night before. Phil threw the keg over the back fence when he saw my dad pull up in the driveway. My dad knew and asked: “Philip, are you drinking beer?” The response: “Sometimes.” We never knew what happened until the boys had kids of their own.
• Never-varying routines and a simple faith. Coming home from a shift, his process was to empty the bullets from his service revolver, eat, and then kneel down next to the bed and say a prayer. He loved Easter, but refused to engage in complicated theological discussions. When I asked him about the subject of the priest’s sermon one year before dinner, he said, “Jesus died and rose from the dead. Now, let’s eat!” 

He was a storyteller to the end. The Saturday before he died, he regaled a large group of family members at his bedside in the hospital with reminiscences and songs. The hospice social worker told me that is common, with some patients rallying at the end with an amazing burst of energy. Later that night, my Aunt Caroline came to visit him, bringing their dad’s violin. He hadn’t seen the instrument in decades. Undoubtedly, his dad had used it to play Polish folk songs. My dad held the violin for a while before closing his brilliant blue eyes and drifting off to sleep.