Patrick Matthew Michael Pope. Hmm, what can I say about him? He had the most Irish-sounding name of any Italian American guy I have ever known. Growing up, he was my big brother, my playmate, and my nemesis. As an adult, he was my protector, my confidant, and my best friend. He was handsome, funny, creative, but most importantly… kind and thoughtful. He loved his family unconditionally.
In September 1954,
Patrick was starting kindergarten at Alfred Nobel Elementary School. My mother
loved to tell the story of how on his first day of school, after about an hour
or so, Paddy (as mom liked to call him back then) marched himself over to the
principal’s office and announced to whoever would listen, “get yourself another
boy, I’m outta here!” That was the first phone call from the principal’s office
that mom received about my brother. It would not be the last.
I think it is safe to say, that most older brothers get a
kick out of teasing (although at the time I might have referred to it as torturing)
their younger sisters. My brother was no exception. The time that Pat
wanted to go off to the neighborhood playground with his friends and I wanted
to tag along comes to mind. Patrick was never going to let that happen. So, the compromise was that he
would play hide-n-seek with me for a little while. Do I need to spell out that
I did the hiding, but Patrick did not do any seeking? Then there were the
snowball fights. By the time I finished making my first snowball, Pat had
already pelted me with about five of his. I could go on, but the point is that I was a pest and Pat wasn't having any of it.
Patrick was not a saint. He could be a devil at times. For
example, there was a time when he broke the neighborhood bully’s nose. As the
family sat down to dinner, my mother was in the kitchen finishing up some last-minute
touches to the meal when there was a knock at the back door. She opened it, and
standing there was Butch Panzewski with his head tilted back, and his hand
cupping his bloody nose. His father, a bigger version of Butch, stood next to
his son… itching for a fight. Mr. P., with his finger, pointed and shouted directly at mom, “where’s your husband?!” Mom called out to my father to come into the kitchen. Dad
took a deep breath, knowing this could not be good, and confronted Butch and
his father. Mr. P., flailing his arms at dad, accused Patrick of breaking his
son Butch’s nose. To say that my father was not pleased by this dastardly accusation
is an understatement. He called out for my brother to join him in the kitchen and
asked him, in front of his accusers if he had indeed, broken the younger Panzewski’s
nose. Pat, looked my dad in the eyes and said, no. Dad turned to Mr. P., and stated as a matter of fact,
“my son says he didn’t do it,” and proceeded to close the door on junior and
senior Panzewski. After a minute or two and, since no one on the other side of the door attempted to kick it
in, my father put his hand on my brother’s shoulder and walked him back to the dining
room, asking him along the way…” so, why did you break that kid’s nose?” It seems that Butch was picking on one of the
younger kids in the neighborhood. Pushing, kicking, and trying to trip the
younger (and much smaller) boy was standard behavior for Butch. When attempts at reasoning
with the bully fell on deaf ears, Pat put a stop to it by giving Butch a taste
of his own medicine. Breaking someone’s nose was not in Patrick’s nature and
something to my knowledge that was never repeated. I can attest to the fact that
standing up for someone weaker than himself would be something that Pat would repeat
time after time throughout his life.
By the time Patrick entered Rezin Orr High School, he was more interested in girls and dating, some school sports, woodshop, and art classes than the standard core curriculum. He was smart and his grades reflected it, but he was never going to be happy working in an office or a laboratory.
After graduation, Pat enrolled in Wright Junior College for
a couple of semesters, and then in 1975, he went on to attend Washburne
Trade School. He earned his diploma as a Carpenter’s Apprentice and by
1978, he was a Journeymen Millwright. Patrick’s skills as a carpenter would be a
godsend to me when I moved into a rundown 1926 apartment. Among the
many repairs that he made, Pat also built shelves, refinished woodwork, and
laid carpeting for me. I also ended up with a lot of high-grade tools, which
have come in handy over the years. It was a lot of work, and I am sure he
thought I was crazy for investing so much time, energy, and money into a rental
apartment, but if he had any complaints, he kept them to himself. All he ever
asked in return for his sweat equity was lunch, and coffee…lots and lots of
coffee.
Pat always looked out for me and my two sisters. While
I cannot speak for them, I can say unequivocally that I reaped the benefits of
getting the inside track on several people we had in common that I considered dating. Thanks to my brother, I knew which ones were the liars and cheats. He also let me know where he stood on whether or not they were good enough for me to date.
On December 8, 1981, our mother passed away. It was a major
blow to our entire family. The family was no longer whole and would never be
quite the same. Patrick was a source of great comfort to me and for that, I
will always be thankful.
Just when I thought the worst was behind us, Patrick was killed six years later in a construction accident on June 4, 1987, at the age of 38. While none of us ever really got the chance to say goodbye, I hope he knows how much he was loved and is missed to this day.
Rest in Peace, Pat…
