June is the month we honor fathers, and memories of my dad bring many memories of my own.
My father’s name was Frederick and he was 59 years old when I was born.
As I got older, there was a lot he couldn’t do due to his age, but in some ways he did a lot for me that counted more.
He always told me to tell the truth and to stand up for what I believe in.
He also told me to volunteer and to always help those in need if I could.
Many times my father would sit me down and tell me about our colorful family history.
He would tell me that my great-great-grandfather, who with his brother left England in 1776 to go to America to fight against the British in the American Revolution and forge a new and better life for themselves.
My grandfather fought in the Civil War and served as a drummer boy in General Sherman’s army.
My father was born in 1890 and was the youngest of 13 children, only six survived after the age of 21.
He once told me a story I will never forget.
He was 9 years old and saved all year in order to get some fireworks, which was legal back than where he lived in Brooklyn.
When he was going to shoot some off, a boy about 14 lit a match into a box where my father had his fireworks.
My father was extremely mad and beat up the kid and this bully ran home to tell his father.
The boy’s father went to my grandfather to complain.
My grandfather brought my father to the door and said, “Look at my small boy and look at the size of your son.”
At this, the bully’s father took the boy home and yelled at him.
My father got married at 19 and had a daughter named Marion.
My father had gotten a job in a coffee company in 1909, which latter became Uban coffee.
One day he was working on one of the machines and had the power turned off.
When a woman came back and turned on the power, my father ended up losing two fingers of his right hand.
He didn’t know it at the time, but it saved him from going into the Army in WWI, where many in his neighborhood were killed in the war.
His first wife died in 1941 after 35 years of marriage and had lived in Baldwin at the time.
WWII came and he was denied again for serving due to losing two fingers.
He ended up serving as an air raid warden at night.
Through most of his life, he worked as a manager for various stores such as A&P, as a sexton at St. Paul’s church in Glen Oaks Village, and as janitorial help at Grace Lutheran church in Queens Village.
During this time, he married my mother in 1944 and settled in Queens Village.
I was born to them in 1949 on Aug. 1, which by the way was my father’s birthday.
I guess he got a son he waited for so many years and on his birthday to boot.
My father was a tough little man of 5’4” and weighed 126 pounds.
He always spoke the truth and had many opinions (that he) was not afraid to utter.
He died in 1973 at the age of 83.
Let me say to my dad, “I’m proud you were my father and will forever be in my heart.”
And to all fathers, “Happy Father’s Day.”
Frederick R. Bedell, Jr.
Mineola
