Remembering Jeremiah

Posted: Thursday, October 15, 2015 

I always looked forward to Columbus Day as a kid. It reminded me of the year, 1984 to be exact, that I won first prize in the citywide poster contest. I drew a pretty impressive rendition of the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria. I was so proud of the blue ribbon that was tacked onto the poster and that it was displayed along with other winning drawings in the foyer of Lynn City Hall. But, I was even prouder that I was able to draw a small picture of my cat Fifi on the deck of one of the boats (I believe it was the Pinta) without anyone noticing.

As I grew older, I simply looked forward to the day off from school and the adventures the long weekend would bring — a trip to the Topsfield Fair or a final trip of the season to Cape Cod. And as an adult, my outlook on the holiday changed because it marked a somber occasion — the passing of my grandfather Jeremiah. Today, Oct. 15, marks the 13th anniversary of his death.

For the first 10 years of my life, Grampy Jerry, or “Jedsie” as he preferred to be called, lived 3,000 miles away. He and my grandmother relocated their young family to California a few years after marrying. She returned to Lynn with their three daughters, the oldest of whom is my mom, after they were divorced not too many years later.

I can’t say that I knew very much about Jedsie during my younger years, just some basics: After graduating from St. Mary’s, he joined the military. After returning from war, he went to Salem Teachers College. He taught at Pickering and worked at Ray’s Taxi in Central Square. At some point, he met, married and started a family with my grandmother. Sadly, he also became an alcoholic, a difficult battle that he ultimately won before I was born.

I learned most of this information by overhearing adult conversations. He only visited once or twice a year, usually taking the Bresnahan girls (me, my mom and two aunts) to dinner at Anthony’s Hawthorne, followed by a stop at his aunts’ home on Baker Street or a ride to visit his sister in Georgetown. I always enjoyed those brief visits, but we didn’t really have much to talk about. He was a tall, loud and seemingly stern man who would correct my grammar and give me pop quizzes on American history. As a little girl, I found this intimidating and tended to retreat to the sidelines, listening in while he bonded with his daughters.

While there was little spoken conversation between us, my grandfather and I found our own way to communicate and eventually bond — through the mail. I would look forward to each time the mailman would send an envelope or card addressed to me sailing through the mail slot. I marveled at the California postmarks — Long Beach, Los Angeles, Palm Springs, Rendondo Beach, Torrance — all of which seemed to be exotic and a million miles away from our apartment in Lynn. There were birthday cards with $10 bills tucked inside, Christmas cards with little angel ornaments attached, postcards with pretty beach scenes, and sometimes just simple notes on green stationery bearing his name and a small leprechaun.

No matter what the medium, his correspondence was always signed, “Be good to yourself. Love, Jedsie.”

I would respond with drawings, stories about my teachers, and occasional updates on how the Celtics were playing. I always asked for help with my grammar, punctuation, and spelling, for I somewhat feared that my letter would be returned with markups and corrections.

In 1985, my grandfather made a career change that took him from a school administrator in California to a congressional chief of staff in Washington, D.C. It brought him a bit closer to his family. His visits to Lynn increased, as did our conversations and correspondence. Over the next several years through both spoken and written words, I learned that Jedsie was a U.S. Marine who fought in the Korean War; a history teacher who worked at a school in Watts, Calif., during the 1965 riots; a superintendent of schools with his doctorate in education; and a mentor in the Alcoholics Anonymous program. I also discovered that he had a sweet tooth and loved Connelly’s penuche fudge.

Even with the move, the letters, notes and postcards kept coming, but there were some noticeable changes. The postmarks now read: Washington, D.C., Arlington, Va., and Baltimore, Md. The $10 typically tucked inside increased to $20. And, the closing salutation was condensed to, “Be good. Love Jedsie.”

Just as I was getting ready to head off to college, Jedsie retired and moved to Martha’s Vineyard. He wrote about how pleased he was that I graduated from his high school (an education that would not otherwise had been possible without his assistance with tuition) and even more proud that his oldest grandchild was going to college. I remember tucking a long letter detailing my gratitude inside a card and sending it to his P.O. box (of course ensuring that there were no grammatical errors enclosed).

Now that he lived closer, my grandfather and I were able to spend a lot more time together. I’d visit the Vineyard every summer, sharing breakfast at Linda Jean’s and complaining about moped riders. When I was home from school for Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks, he’d take me along on his visits to various relatives. We’d now talk the entire ride.

I learned that as a young Marine he fought in the Chosin Reservoir Campaign, a brutal 17-day decisive battle in the Korean War; we shared a love of the Red Sox and could debate for hours as to who the greatest left fielder of all time was; and he had a hearing aid that he refused to wear because it made him look “old.” The last of those discoveries explained why we had many nonsensical conversations due to something he misheard — many of which will still make me laugh out loud when I think of them.

Throughout my college years, we continued to write. Each month a letter would arrive in my dorm mailbox with a $100 check inside. The accompanying note, still on his personalized leprechaun stationery, simply said, “Behave! Love, Jedsie.”

I saved almost every letter and card that I received from my grandfather from the early ’80s on. All are still tucked in a box tucked under my bed.

Once I graduated from college and began working, the notes (and the checks) continued only the “behave” was a bit bolder and underlined with an extra exclamation point at the end of the sentence. And the postmark, it was now a lot closer to Lynn. My grandfather had moved to a small studio apartment in Nahant so he could spend more time with his daughters and eight grandchildren. While still strongly opinionated and still correcting grammar, Jedsie no longer seemed like the intimidating authoritarian I viewed him as two decades earlier. He was attending his grandchildren’s Little League games; delivering my brother’s paper route; napping on our couches; and serving as what may have been the oldest, and most experienced, intern in the Massachusetts State House. Most importantly, he became my friend.

We commuted into Boston together. I taught him how to navigate the T. In turn, he taught a few T riders grammar lessons. We’d often walk the beach together or grab dinner. I truly grew to enjoy his company and I believe he felt the same way.

On the night of Oct. 14, 2002, Jedsie and I had dinner at a local restaurant before I headed to UNH for a concert. He wanted to tag along until I played him one of the band’s songs on my car stereo. He wished me a safe trip while still cringing from the music. I can still picture him waving as I drove out the restaurant parking lot. Sadly, it was our final conversation. I was awoken by a knock on my door in the wee hours of Oct. 15. Jedsie had died of a heart attack while attempting to drive himself to Salem Hospital. He was 72.

The days that followed were extremely difficult. I had never really experienced the loss of a loved one. I retreated to my room where I sat alone on the floor for a full day. Staring blankly through my tears, I spotted the box under my bed filled with 20 years’ worth of Jedsie memories. I read every piece of paper. Suddenly I felt less alone.

Jeremiah’s funeral drew hundreds of recognizable faces out of the woodwork, but it was the unfamiliar faces that had such a significant impact on my ability to cope with the loss. Complete strangers approached my family with their recollections of Jedsie as an unselfish, caring man. I learned just how many people he helped through recovery and crisis, and how many he was a true friend to.

As we cleaned out and boxed up his apartment, I came across Jedsie’s keepsakes: military dog tags, newspaper clippings announcing his Medal of Honor, various family photos, many books and an overstuffed manila envelope. Upon opening the envelope, I was shocked to discover it was filled with letters and cards that I had sent him over the years. I read through each one, happy to see that while there were certainly errors throughout, he never made a single correction.

That night, I tucked the envelope into the box under my bed. Around this time each year I take it out and sift through the letters. They serve as my inspiration to keep writing and as a stern reminder that I better “behave!”