Susan, Dad & Mom, c. 1955, Philadelphia
Jack Schaefer was a true Urban Cowboy, well before the term was in popular use. Ever optimistic, even in the face of incredible hardships, my father was born at the turn of the 20th century, spending his early years in a walk-up, cold-water flat, one-room tenement in Brooklyn, N.Y., the last of 13 children, and the only one born in this country. At various times six or seven family members lived in this one room.
Street smart with a quick wit and agile brain and body, dad was hired by one of the infamous Rothschild's, Louis Rothschild Brokers, as a courier in the days before faxes and internet, literally running messages and trades across his beloved Brooklyn Bridge. He was so valued a worker that Rothschild provided him a rare recommendation:
With this invaluable letter in hand, dad joined his brothers and a sister who had migrated for a better life in Philadelphia. He married his first wife, Reba, had a son, my half-brother, Allen Schaefer, 23 years my senior, and lost his first wife to tuberculosis, forcing dad to raise Allen as a single father, no mean feat in those post-depression days. Allen, who passed away last year, told me that even then, dad focused his life on him, working three jobs in order to keep Allen healthy and well-educated.
Along the way, dad met my mother, Emma, who was then a supervisor at Philly's famous Frankford Arsenal, the munitions factory. Mom wanted a family, but I think dad was reluctant. Yet, after five miscarriages, I miraculously came along, and his innate fatherly predisposition once again ignited. Dad treated me as a treasure, imbuing me with the values of unconditional love, hard work, and a sense of adventure that at varying times has served and thwarted me. Though he was almost 50 by the time I came along, his stamina and energy easily equalled or surpassed that of my friends' much younger fathers.
Dad awoke each day with a twinkle in his eye and a steely determination to not just survive but to thrive. Without a doubt, Jack Schaefer was the most popular dad on our block in Mt. Airy, in my neighborhood, in our immediate family, and beyond. He was easy going and 100% engaging. Perhaps because of his age, he took the time to be fully paticipate in my life, and to encourage my independence.
Later in his life, in spite of meagre means, dad fulfilled his dream, buying a home in Central Florida, transplanting mom and reluctantly, his sister Rose, and planting a quarter acre of fruit trees in his own backyard - not to mention a luxurious 'victory' vegetable garden. Plucking a golden juicy pink grapefruit from one of his many citrus trees and savoring the tangy, tart pulp, was one of our favorite later-day activities, and remains one of my fondest memories of my dad. Somewhere I have a photo of him, though by then his body was cancer-riddled, climbing a ladder and packing a heavy carton with his own grapefruits to send home with me.
Though he's gone now 28 years, I miss him. I can still conjure his unique aroma of Old Spice and cigar smoke, and feel the ever tender touch of his hand on mine.
Here's a tribute poem I wrote to him on his 79th birthday, a few years before his death to colon cancer:
To Dad at Seventy-nine
Born at the dawn of the auto age,
you’ve always been car-bitten.
High priest of the highway,
patron of motion,
your office a Chevy or Ford
rolling on Ridge or Columbia Avenue.
Our best times –
you, me and mom –
on Sunday sojourns
Brooklyn and back,
Baltimore and back
in time to get me in bed for school.
We’d do “The Schaefer Theater”,
off-key and crazy renditions of:
“Heart of my Heart”, “Sweet Rosie O’Grady”,
“Sidewalks of New York”.
We were the best family we were en route.
Thanks for your drive, your joy for journey
of body and mind,
my fatherfriend.
by Susan Schaefer ©1983 Ride the New Morning
Shepherd’s Bush Press
