In Memory of Michael F. Smith: The Night Dad Moved On

Monday, December 31, 2007

The Night Dad Moved On

It had been a long road the last few years for Dad, Mom, David and the rest of the family so it was with some relief that I awoke early on Sunday December 16th and realized that the labored breathing I had been listening to all day had stopped. I got up and checked on Dad and he was finally at peace. I ran and got the nurse, Janice (who knew Mom from two years ago as her cardiac rehab nurse) and she checked on Dad and confirmed that he was gone. She had checked in at 1:20 AM and Dad had still been breathing and I was asleep... so he passed somewhere between 1:20 and 1:30, (when I woke up.)I miss Dad. I have missed him for years but today I miss him. But it is with some sadness that I admit to myself that I am not sure I ever really knew my father all that well. He was a private man, and there was a whole life in Ireland that I never really knew much about. There are stories about Dad that we have to tell here in the States (some of them only really funny in the retelling) but there are also stories that we haven't heard from the time before my father was a father, a husband, a US citizen. I would love to hear them if anyone can share them.There was a mighty storm the night Dad died and the next day there was an intense wind. Mom, David and I sat at the breakfast table in a stunned silence and agreed that there was probably a hell of an argument going on upstairs at that moment. Perhaps Dad was introducing himself to Einstein.... and telling him where exactly he had got it wrong.Sleep in Heavenly Peace Dad, you earned it.Love, --Dianne

1 comment:

Dave said...: Dianne woke me up after she discovered dad's passing. I was sleeping in another room. I immediately called my mother on her cell phone from the phone in dad's room whereupon she urgently asked me where I was, almost not letting me get the news out. Somewhat annoyed at the seeming silly question in the middle of such important news, I said I was at the hospice. She said she was in her room hearing noises in the kitchen like I was getting a drink so she was understandably puzzled by my call. I had to explain very carefully that I had not been home all night, but Dad had just passed away.. when he was alive, he had a habit of making a bee-line to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get a drink of apple juice which my mother could hear from her room.

She asked me to drive home and pick her up which I did and was amazed to see that the wind and rain was at a feverish pitch. Dad died at the very height of the storm. When I got home, I found my beloved homemade carport crashed to the ground. It had crashed during high winds a few times before but I was always able to rescue it. Now I could see it was done for: One of the supports had actually sliced in half in the high winds. So now I was putting my father, AND a faithful old friend to rest in one weekend (Dave's homemade carport, R.I.P April 2007 - December 16, 2007). Like the old adage says "When it rains, it pours" and it certainly did that weekend, literally and figuratively.; April 1, 2008 at 7:40 AM

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An Epic Journey

Michael Francis Smith shuffled off his mortal coil on December 15, 2007, making Wilmington, North Carolina the last of the many places—spanning several continents—he called home in his 85 years.

Michael was born on Gort Road in Ennis, County Claire, Ireland on the 29th of September 1922. He was the first of what would be ten children born to his father, Michael Smith, and mother Josephine Smith, born Josephine Bredin. Four of those ten—Jim, Joan, Donal and Nuala—survive him.

A bright child, Michael distinguished himself as a student, spending much of his youth with his head buried in books. Later as his parents modest wealth diminished, he would continue his studies and earn pocket money playing pool and darts at the bar his mother kept on Market Street in Ennis. He graduated in 1945 from The National University of Ireland in Dublin (James Joyce also studied there) with a degree in mechanical engineering.

After working briefly in Ireland, Michael worked as a civilian for the British Army in the Suez Canal Zone at Faid. But in 1952, just before Egypt took control of the military and civilian facilities of the canal under a withdrawal agreement with Britain, Michael left Egypt for England. This move—one of many he would make—would define his future.

This journey brought him to his next job as a refinery engineer for Shell Oil in Heysham, England. And it was there, in 1954, where he attended a company dance and found himself on the dance floor with Ena Wood, a native of nearby Morcambe, England who, at that time, also worked for Shell. The two cut such a rug on the dance floor that it led to marriage that same year. Michael would often say that it was unflagging persistence that won Ena over but she claims that she married him because, “He was the best ballroom dancer I ever danced with.”

When their own firstborn—Michael Paul—was only 18 months old, the two set off on yet another epic move: This time to the U.S. where Michael had been recruited to work as a design engineer for the Westinghouse plant in Meadville, Pennsylvania. He didn’t stay long at Westinghouse, though, returning to his studies, this time at Penn State, where he also began his pursuit of a Masters degree in engineering.

Two more children—David James and Christina Mary—were born in Pennsylvania. And this growing family made surviving on a teaching salary difficult so a job at the Bristol Company in Connecticut moved the family yet again. A fourth child, Dianne Elizabeth was born in Connecticut. While living there Michael took a job at Kaman Aircraft, where he coauthored a patent for stabilizers in helicopters and finished his masters at the University of Connecticut.

Another job in Boston moved the family to Beverly, Massachusetts. This one allowed Michael to fulfill his adamant desire that his children grow up near the ocean, as both he and Ena had. Many couples would have stayed put in a lovely house by the sea with four children and settled in for a quiet existence of evening Telly and hobbies in the shed. But not these two. After a couple of decades in this small coastal Boston suburb, it was time for another adventure.

They sold the house and most of their belongings (in a yard sale that itself holds a few good stories) in 1981 and set off once again for California, where they lived in at least three separate homes. But even that epic journey was merely another stop in a journey that was beginning to compete with Ulysses’ for length and duration.

At the turn of the century, with Michael already approaching the end of his 7th decade, the couple made yet another cross-continent move to Wilmington, NC. There, even in declining health, Michael distinguished himself among all who knew him—neighbors, doctors, residents of the nursing home where he never took residence but instead showed up to give weekly piano concerts, at the nightclubs where he got gigs playing piano even when he was in the grip of dementia—as an irascible, stubborn, witty, erudite, and dangerously bad-tempered man of intense will and determination.

As illness took greater hold of mind and life, many men would have succumbed to a bed and the care of nurses but Michael never forgot the names of those he loved, never stopped setting off on another journey (even if those last only took him around the block), and never stopped studying. (He was relearning Gaelic through textbooks as recently as 2006.) He never stopped pursuing life right up until the very end.

The night he died there was an intense storm. But none of us who knew him were surprised. Whatever authority welcomed Michael into the afterlife has their hands full and had best be ready for a pitched battle of wills. Whatever the outcome of that argument, though, one thing is certain: Like the rest of us who knew Michael Francis Smith, that body will have a story to tell afterwards.

Each chapter of Michael’s story contains at least a dozen good stories. None of us know all of them because Michael rarely told them himself. Michael is survived by his wife, four children, and four grandchildren and we ask you, if you knew Michael and have a story to tell, please share it here.

Feel free to post comments here but you may also email sotries, comments, or photographs to christina at tynanwood dot com.

In Memory of Michael F. Smith

Monday, December 31, 2007

The Night Dad Moved On

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An Epic Journey

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