ABOUT MY DAD JACKSON J. NEWMAN

Posted on June 9, 2010 by Jeffrey Newman

Found some old photos of my dad Jackson Newman including a few of his World War II photos of him over in England, where he was a mechanic in the Army Air Corps. My father died about seven years ago, at the age of 93. He worked up until a few weeks before he got sick with an infection, rising early and meeting friends for breakfast each day before going off to manage Salami’s Trucking Company in Roxbury for the day. He used to like talking about his time in England and although he never saw combat, he did have some hairy moments, for example the time when the P-49 began shooting off its machine guns after landing and after the pilot was out of the plane. The bulletts went everywhere and it was my father’s job to find a way in and shut it off. His friends called him Jack or “Jackie” and he had a lot of long time friends, like Fred Brodney, with whom he would play Pinochle every Tuesday night for nearly fifty years, save the war years. He had an argument with Fred one time and there was another little break there but they missed each other’s company so they pateched it up. I can recall as a boy going to Nantasket Beach during he summers, where my grandparents had a summer house they rented. We went fishing on the bay side off the pier for flounder. There were still some left then. One time I was walking over to get some bait and another fellow managed to hook my ear with a hook when he was casting. I cried out and my dad came over and smiling pulled out the hook, pinched my earlobe and said “Well, you’ll be fine but I bet you remember this.” Jackson was a happy guy, who rolled with the punches and knew how to get enjoyment from doing things. He knew a lot about engines and everything about trucks–dimensions, loads, engine size, lifespan. You name it. He really loved trucks and everything about them. He also loved gadgets and could walk around a hardware store for hours. My grandfather was Simon and he and my dad worked together owning a used truck company on Allston Ave called S. Newman & Sons. It was there for many many years and later moved to North Beacon Street after my grandfather died. I went there on Saturdays but never followed in my father’s footsteps. Once in a while though, I will have a vivid dream about working with him in the yard of our tucking company–dad and me outside in all weather–cold and warm. He used to say he didn’t mind the cold but couldn’t take the heat because when its cold, you can always put on more clothes. Dad had a collection of pocket knives and watches. So do I. He also collected coins. I have a few. My father was a steady guy who didn’t complain. He also had a saying for a lot of things. Like whenever I said I was Thirsty, he would say he was Friday.

My father loved his home and he had places there he would hang out. In our basement, he built a work desk, around which all his tools were stored. Saws, big wrenches, hammers, lots of glass jars with nails and his big red toolbox. Above the desk in front of the window, which was just above ground level was a model ship of the Santa Maria with intricate rigging and exacting details including three masts and rigging. When he was working at his desk in the basement, he would bring down the ship and let me play with it. In our backyard, we had a freestanding fireplace made of large stones where dad would place branches and leaves for a fire on weekends. He liked to do that for some reason. The fire would get very hot and bright and was most beautiful in the fall when it was cool and the winds would fan the flames until the wood crackled and popped.

Sometimes, we would burn the leaves on the street in front of our house on Roosevelt Road. They allowed that then. Our neighbor, Henry Russell and my dad were good friends and would take turns cutting each other’s lawn and Henry would burn the leaves with us on the street in the fall on the weekends. Henry had a true green thumb and grew vegetables in his backyard in long rows which he would tend with perfection. Then he would bring some over to us in a basket covered with a cloth.

My father liked to be around people and to banter with them. He didn’t talk politics generally, but rather talked about the day to day things of life. Sometimes, I would go with him to the deli in the morning when he met his friends for breakfast around 7. They poked and prodded each other but everyone laughed and enjoyed it. As the years passed, many of dad’s friends died and this left a gap in his life, although he never complained and always seemed to find someone to get together with for breakfast. He had to. Dad was very much a creature of habit and his days were structured around his friends and work.

He and my mother really loved each other. Not that they didn’t have their rows. Dad would tease her mercilessly and she would give it right back to him and they would laugh. There was a running joke in our house. Whenever the toilet broke, my mother would call dad “Jack-you need to fix the toilet, it won’t flush.” Invariably, he would walk into the bathroom on the second floor with a grin on his face and would flip and handle and the toilet would flush cleanly. “There’s nothing wrong with the toilet, it flushes fine,” he would say. “It only doesn’t flush for you.” “Oh for god’s sake,” she would reply and this probably happened three times a month for all the years I lived at that house. “It must be the way you flush it,” he would say, rubbing it in. That would really make his day.