An engineers cap, a dungaree coat, a black truck and a German shepherd at his side; if I say these words to you and one person’s name doesn’t come to mind, then you never knew my father Roger Brockelbank. These words were the epitome of him but there was so much more to the man. Roger was a loving son, devoted husband, adoring father and grandfather and caring friend. He had a deep passion for animals especially dogs and cats and gave a warm loving home to many. He was an avid woodworker, sports enthusiast especially football ( go Patriots!) and a music lover particularly smooth jazz. He was the hardest working man I have ever known. My father led a simple, uncluttered and uncomplicated life. He gave a lot and asked very little in return.
Roger was born August 9, 1930, at the height of the depression to a family of little means. His father was non-existent in his life and life wasn’t easy for his mother being a single parent. His mother did marry a wonderful man, Fred Sturtevant, when he was 11 years old, but sadly, he died at the young age of 53. As a young child my father quickly learned if he were to have any of his dreams come true, he would have to work to make it happen. This was the jumping off point of my father’s incredible work ethic. At the age of 11 Roger joined the work force delivering newspapers in his hometown of Ipswich. He had 75 customers during the week and on weekends he and his friend, Gump Stone, delivered the Sunday paper to 250 customers. They met the train in the early morning hours on Sunday, put the sections of the paper together at the Ipswich paper store, loaded the papers onto a huge wooded push cart and pushed that heavy cart house to house. The Sunday paper was 23 cents. He and Gump made a whopping 3 cents per paper. A constant companion as he worked…a German shepherd named Skipper. Skipper’s owner, Arthur Philpot, came to realize his dog had chosen a new master. Arthur showed up at my dad’s house one day with a leash, dish and food. “This dog loves you and I know you’ll take good care of him,” he said. When my dad came home from school Skipper would run to the door with the newspaper bag in his mouth ready for work. Skipper and dad were together for many years. Dad’s life was richer for the time spent with him.
Dad met my mother, Jackie, when they were in their mid teens and on July 8, 1951 they were married. He was 20 and she was only 18. “They Tried to Tell Us We’re Too Young,” was their song because their parents did just that. After 59 years of marriage I guess they told them!
Roger worked as a mechanic in his teens and twenties and through his service with the Marine Corps from 1952-54. The role he was born to play came between 1953 and 1958. My dad became a father to three children, my sister, Cheryl, my brother, Scott and myself. For a man who’s father was absent in his life he excelled as a dad. How lucky for the three of us that he was our dad!
Our family resided in Ipswich until Nov.22, 1963. The saddest day for our country became the happiest for the Brockelbank family. Dad was offered a job as caretaker on a 60 acre estate in Wenham and the home of The Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. Jim Scahill, the caretaker at the Ipswich novitiate recommended dad for the job. “Is he Catholic?” Sister Superior asked Jim. Jim replied, “No, but he the man for the job.” My father spent the next 27 years proving just that.
Dad hit the ground running. There was so much to do and so much to learn. A man was sent to tutor dad on the inner workings or heartbeat of the convent, the boiler and pumping system. Bill Murphy was the “go to guy” on the subject of boilers. Bill took my father under his wing and for weeks guided him through the complex heating and plumbing system. Dad and Bill became fast friends. They were cut from the same fabric. Their work ethic was impeccable. Bill was a true country gentleman. On the job he wore his old work clothes. When he popped in for a visit on a Sunday he wore a collared shirt, cashmere sweater, dress slacks and wing-tipped shoes. Dad liked that. He’d say, “Mr. Murphy is a classy guy. ”Bill and my dad would sit at the kitchen table sipping coffee on a Sunday and the conversation would go on for hours and hours. Both had an insatiable gift to gab. Bill was a role model, a mentor and a father figure to my dad. Sadly Bill passed away in his 60’s over 30 years ago. My dad cried over the loss of his dear friend but his life was richer having known him.
My father took his job at Notre Dame as serious as a heart attack. The big black truck with Baron, his German shepherd, in the back was ever present around the property. Everyday he dove headfirst into work. Plowing and shoveling in winter, spring clean-up, mowing and raking in the summer, leaf blowing and more raking in the fall, as well as electrical and plumbing repairs, painting, car repairs and the list goes on. Dad became a workaholic. On occasion us kids would help out or the Sisters would lend a hand which was sometimes helpful…. sometimes not. A group of Sister’s and I helped dad with spring clean-up one year. The end result left my dad’s truck stuck in the mud up to the bumper on the road to the dump. When my dad arrived on the scene one sister was behind the wheel with the peddle to the metal, gunning the engine and three sisters and I were at the back of the truck, pushing, covered in mud from head to toe. My father just shook his head as he went to the garage to find something to extract his truck with. Another time, however, three sisters helped my dad carry a snow blower up two flights of stairs so he wouldn’t have to shovel off an entire flat roof. I guess it all balances out.
My father would often recruit our help when doing a two-man job. He had no sanding truck on the estate. Instead he had to throw sand from the back of the truck with a shovel. He instructed me on the art of throwing sand so it would fan across the roadway. “O.K., I can do that,” I said. Dad inched the truck forward, I dug my shovel into the sand and let it fly. That sand landed like a nice big cow plop at the side of the road. It was absolutely pathetic. My father came to the back of the truck, lifted me to the ground and marched me to the cab of the truck. “Plan B,” he said. I quickly said a little prayer that my driving skills would far surpass my sanding skills. A little instruction from dad and away we went down the main driveway, dad throwing sand like the pro he was and me driving like I was born to do it. My father took a leap of faith that day. I’m so glad I didn’t disappoint.
In 1965, my father nearly lost his life in an explosion on the estate. He sustained second and third degree burns over 40 percent of his body. The entire order of Sisters of Notre Dame prayed for his recovery. How blessed we were to have him in our lives for another 45 years.
As for my dad’s happiest times, I can say without a doubt he was in his glory at home with us, his family. He was a “get down on the floor and play” kind of dad. Suppertime was most important to him. To sit around the table and connect through conversation, stories and the day’s events tied us together with a common thread. Our family was and still is close, and my father made sure every doctor and nurse at Burlington Lahey was aware of our bond. Sunday’s were a family day growing up. It was a day for being home with each other, a day for dad to stack his record albums on the stereo and fill the house with music. Did I tell you my father was a music lover? For a man with no musical talent he had great taste in music. We grew up on such jazz greats as Erroll Garner, Sergio Mendez, Sarah Vaughn and Dave Brubeck. Dad expanded his musical tastes as we grew older. We began to find James Taylor, Blood Sweat And Tears, Chicago and Steely Dan albums in his collection. My dad had become the “cool” dad. He knew all the big names and the band they were with. How many 80-year-olds do you know who know the names Steven Tyler, Keith Richards, Joe Perry, Pete Cetera, Roger Daultry and Pete Townsend. My father did.
Weekends and evenings were also a time for dad to retreat to the basement to his workshop. The old talk show Sports Talk with Eddie Andleman played on the radio. He created so many beautiful pieces of furniture in our home and I took pride in them. I remember as a kid showing off my dad’s talents to friends who came to our house. Cheryl, Scott and I would have our one on one time with dad as he taught us the rules of carpentry; safety first, measure twice, cut once and remember to allow for the cut of the blade. He encouraged us to be “hands on,” to start up the radial arm saw and actually make the cut. He taught us as if we were to be the next Bob Villa. Dad loved sharing his knowledge and time with each one of us.
My father was a lover of animals especially his German shepherds and his 22 year old kitty, Emmy Lou. He loved football, baseball, antique cars and auto shows, ice cream, coffee and cookies (ya, he had a real sugar Jones). He cherished his years in Wenham with the Sisters of Notre Dame, the trips to their home in North Conway and time away, alone with his best girl, Jackie.
As for me, I’m grateful for the time spent. The family gatherings, the trips up north, painting at the Montessori School, countless visits and Sunday dinners at home and patronizing our favorite restaurants for dad’s favorite… seafood. I am ever grateful for our trip we took together to San Francisco two years ago. We had a ball!
Today, my father is making new memories with his long missed friend, Bill Murphy. I’m sure Bill and dad are sharing their many long-winded stories that go on and on and on. Enjoy your old friend, Dad, until we’re together again… we love you.
