I remember exactly when I first meet my Uncle J. Francis Loughan.
It was the Fall of 1954 and we had just moved back to Plattsburgh from Florida. The home my parents lived in in town was rented and would not be available until spring.
So we moved in with Uncle Francis. He'd been a widower for years. He wasn't really my “uncle” as far as blood goes. He was the husband of one of my mother's favorite cousins on her mother's side of the family—the Hamels. His wife had died very young—in 1939—and he'd been widowed every since.
The very first Christmas that I remember is the one at Uncle Francis' home. He had a small Christmas tree sitting on a marble top table. The table was in the center of a cold, closed parlor. On the tree were the most marvelous Christmas lights I'd ever seen—sets of 1950's NOMA Bubble lights. More than sixty years have passed since I saw that tree but the memory of it is still in my mind.
That December I remember sitting in a warm “living room” that jutted out form the main part of the house. It was heated with coal and I can still smell that distinctive aroma. Uncle Francis had a television—the first one I'd ever seen. In the evenings, I remember sitting there with my dad—either listening to the radio or watching TV. I'd written a letter to Santa Claus and each evening we's listen to the radio program where Santa would read the letter aloud. Wow! I remember. Of course, to the mind of a fife year old all of this was very real.
We lived with Uncle Francis until sometime in the spring. I have a photo of my 6th birthday—March 30th 1955. My mother had made me a clown cake and in the photo I'm standing in Uncle Francis' yard holding the treasure. It was sometime after that that our home on Grace Avenue opened up. We moved in and I enrolled in Bailey Avenue School—my 3rd Kindergarten that year. It's a wonder I did so well in school considering my patchy start.
Uncle Francis owned or worked in a car repair shop near the corner of Elm and Margaret Street. As long as I can remember the garage has been gone, in its place a CPA's office.
Over the years Uncle Francis was always included in every holiday meal. He'd be there for Easter and Thanksgiving and Christmas. At Christmas he'd bring my parents a huge box of chocolates. It was the same every year—a two pound box of maple candies each topped with a half walnut.
Over the years I'd stop in to visit him. I was a child who'd been exposed to older people all my life and I liked them. He'd be sitting in his living room. I remember the room being filled with newspapers and magazines. He was a heavy smoker and the room was always filled with the smell. Today I would find that smell offensive, but it never registered in those days.
Uncle Francis died fifty years ago today—February 24, 1964. He was younger than I am now. I do not remember much about his death, but I do remember my mother's reaction. He was in the hospital but not expected to die, so when he did it was hard on my mom. She felt a responsibility to Uncle Francis and the fact that he died alone bothered her a great deal.
What also bothered her was what would happen to his possessions. He was survived by a cousin and I imagine all my mother's cousin's things went to him—Hamel memorabilia. She managed to buy the marble top table that became a center piece in my parents' home forever. At Christmas a small tree was sit on it. The rest of the year it would house photos and flowers—always flowers.
Uncle Francis lived a quiet life. He lived alone most of it. I don't imagine he was married very long before his wife died. I only knew him as a widower—and a kind man I loved to visit.
One day, about ten years ago, I was doing a long walk that brought me through Saint Peter's Cemetery. I spotted a stone with his wife's maiden name on it—Lecuyer. It has never been a common Plattsburgh name so I stopped to study it. Too many names were familiar, so I called my mother.
“I'm not sure,” she said.
So one day I picked her up and we made a cemetery pilgrimage.
“Yes,” she said. She then gave me a run down of the lineology of the name.
I was surprised to see his name omitted from the stone.
“His cousin never got around to it,” my mom said. “I always meant to do it, but never did.”
So it's now fallen to me. I will try to fulfill my mother's wish that the stone he is buried under will have his name engraved on it.
You are not forgotten, Uncle Francis. Thanks for sharing your life with me, albeit shortly. Your life and my relationship with it shows me how “family” is far broader than blood.
It was the Fall of 1954 and we had just moved back to Plattsburgh from Florida. The home my parents lived in in town was rented and would not be available until spring.
So we moved in with Uncle Francis. He'd been a widower for years. He wasn't really my “uncle” as far as blood goes. He was the husband of one of my mother's favorite cousins on her mother's side of the family—the Hamels. His wife had died very young—in 1939—and he'd been widowed every since.
The very first Christmas that I remember is the one at Uncle Francis' home. He had a small Christmas tree sitting on a marble top table. The table was in the center of a cold, closed parlor. On the tree were the most marvelous Christmas lights I'd ever seen—sets of 1950's NOMA Bubble lights. More than sixty years have passed since I saw that tree but the memory of it is still in my mind.
That December I remember sitting in a warm “living room” that jutted out form the main part of the house. It was heated with coal and I can still smell that distinctive aroma. Uncle Francis had a television—the first one I'd ever seen. In the evenings, I remember sitting there with my dad—either listening to the radio or watching TV. I'd written a letter to Santa Claus and each evening we's listen to the radio program where Santa would read the letter aloud. Wow! I remember. Of course, to the mind of a fife year old all of this was very real.
We lived with Uncle Francis until sometime in the spring. I have a photo of my 6th birthday—March 30th 1955. My mother had made me a clown cake and in the photo I'm standing in Uncle Francis' yard holding the treasure. It was sometime after that that our home on Grace Avenue opened up. We moved in and I enrolled in Bailey Avenue School—my 3rd Kindergarten that year. It's a wonder I did so well in school considering my patchy start.
Uncle Francis owned or worked in a car repair shop near the corner of Elm and Margaret Street. As long as I can remember the garage has been gone, in its place a CPA's office.
Over the years Uncle Francis was always included in every holiday meal. He'd be there for Easter and Thanksgiving and Christmas. At Christmas he'd bring my parents a huge box of chocolates. It was the same every year—a two pound box of maple candies each topped with a half walnut.
Over the years I'd stop in to visit him. I was a child who'd been exposed to older people all my life and I liked them. He'd be sitting in his living room. I remember the room being filled with newspapers and magazines. He was a heavy smoker and the room was always filled with the smell. Today I would find that smell offensive, but it never registered in those days.
Uncle Francis died fifty years ago today—February 24, 1964. He was younger than I am now. I do not remember much about his death, but I do remember my mother's reaction. He was in the hospital but not expected to die, so when he did it was hard on my mom. She felt a responsibility to Uncle Francis and the fact that he died alone bothered her a great deal.
What also bothered her was what would happen to his possessions. He was survived by a cousin and I imagine all my mother's cousin's things went to him—Hamel memorabilia. She managed to buy the marble top table that became a center piece in my parents' home forever. At Christmas a small tree was sit on it. The rest of the year it would house photos and flowers—always flowers.
Uncle Francis lived a quiet life. He lived alone most of it. I don't imagine he was married very long before his wife died. I only knew him as a widower—and a kind man I loved to visit.
One day, about ten years ago, I was doing a long walk that brought me through Saint Peter's Cemetery. I spotted a stone with his wife's maiden name on it—Lecuyer. It has never been a common Plattsburgh name so I stopped to study it. Too many names were familiar, so I called my mother.
“I'm not sure,” she said.
So one day I picked her up and we made a cemetery pilgrimage.
“Yes,” she said. She then gave me a run down of the lineology of the name.
I was surprised to see his name omitted from the stone.
“His cousin never got around to it,” my mom said. “I always meant to do it, but never did.”
So it's now fallen to me. I will try to fulfill my mother's wish that the stone he is buried under will have his name engraved on it.
You are not forgotten, Uncle Francis. Thanks for sharing your life with me, albeit shortly. Your life and my relationship with it shows me how “family” is far broader than blood.
