“And when a convenient day was come ... on his birthday ...” (from Mark 6:21)
Yesterday, September 13, 2007, was my (paternal) grandfather’s birthday. Well, to be more accurate, it WOULD have been his birthday. If my figuring is correct, Peter (born “Pierre”) Eximier Baril would have been 129-years-old today.
Sadly, I never knew my grandfather. I was born in 1954, eight years after his passing. Peter Baril was born and raised in Saint Philippe, Quebec, a farming community about 20 miles southeast of Montreal. He graduated from the Montreal Normal School (a teacher training institution) and taught elementary school for several years in the Montreal area. I believe he (and his new wife Marie) immigrated to the U.S.A. in 1904. I know he first lived in St. Albans, Vermont and worked as a carpenter. Sometime shortly after that, Peter Baril came to Boston and lived there for the rest of his life. He became amazingly successful for the time, building several new multifamily homes in Boston’s Dorchester section, and graduating from Law School. My mother and father grew up in the same working-class neighborhood in Boston’s Roxbury section in the 1930s and 1940s. My mother said the Barils were (sort of) considered rich (for that neighborhood) because even in the worst days of the Depression they always had a car and they always had a telephone- amenities which most of their neighbors didn’t possess.
Peter Baril fathered 8 children. My father, Eugene A. Baril was the youngest. In 1946 when my Dad was 23, “Pa” (my Dad and all his siblings ALWAYS called their father “Pa”) was stricken with a heart attack. My father drove him to a local hospital, and rushed home to pick up his mother and get back to the hospital. Upon their arrival at the hospital less than an hour later, they learned that “Pa” had died. This was one of the biggest regrets of my father’s life. He always felt he’d let his father down- that he should have stayed with him. Of course, it wasn’t his fault and he had no way of knowing what was about to happen, but that had to have been a very traumatic experience for a 23-year-old.
One of the eight Baril children, Irene, died as a child at age 7 in 1915. She and my Uncle Raymond had each been stricken with dyptheria in the great epidemic of that period. Raymond remembered each of them being sick together. Raymond also remembered that Irene had a horse-drawn hearse for her burial at St. Joseph’s Cemetery, and that “Pa” was absolutely inconsolable.
I’ve heard that my grandfather was very intelligent, very handy with tools, but that he also had a great sense of humor and was a very jolly, fun-loving man. His wife, Marie, was much more serious, and was a “clean-freak” and a perfectionist. Interestingly enough, I have his sense of humor, but I inherited my grandmother’s compulsion to have everything perfectly clean and orderly...or at least to TRY to! One of the favorite stories of “Pa” Baril is that he’d invite a female family friend who had a shrieking operatic singing voice over to entertain the family with her singing. The kids would be in agony trying not to laugh, and they’d end up excusing themselves one by one to go into an adjoining room and laugh hysterically. By the end of the concert, only “Pa” would be left...I guess clapping and saying his “Bravos”!
I carry the man’s name, and I wanted to share a little something about him on this, the week of his birthday!
Yesterday, September 13, 2007, was my (paternal) grandfather’s birthday. Well, to be more accurate, it WOULD have been his birthday. If my figuring is correct, Peter (born “Pierre”) Eximier Baril would have been 129-years-old today.
Sadly, I never knew my grandfather. I was born in 1954, eight years after his passing. Peter Baril was born and raised in Saint Philippe, Quebec, a farming community about 20 miles southeast of Montreal. He graduated from the Montreal Normal School (a teacher training institution) and taught elementary school for several years in the Montreal area. I believe he (and his new wife Marie) immigrated to the U.S.A. in 1904. I know he first lived in St. Albans, Vermont and worked as a carpenter. Sometime shortly after that, Peter Baril came to Boston and lived there for the rest of his life. He became amazingly successful for the time, building several new multifamily homes in Boston’s Dorchester section, and graduating from Law School. My mother and father grew up in the same working-class neighborhood in Boston’s Roxbury section in the 1930s and 1940s. My mother said the Barils were (sort of) considered rich (for that neighborhood) because even in the worst days of the Depression they always had a car and they always had a telephone- amenities which most of their neighbors didn’t possess.
Peter Baril fathered 8 children. My father, Eugene A. Baril was the youngest. In 1946 when my Dad was 23, “Pa” (my Dad and all his siblings ALWAYS called their father “Pa”) was stricken with a heart attack. My father drove him to a local hospital, and rushed home to pick up his mother and get back to the hospital. Upon their arrival at the hospital less than an hour later, they learned that “Pa” had died. This was one of the biggest regrets of my father’s life. He always felt he’d let his father down- that he should have stayed with him. Of course, it wasn’t his fault and he had no way of knowing what was about to happen, but that had to have been a very traumatic experience for a 23-year-old.
One of the eight Baril children, Irene, died as a child at age 7 in 1915. She and my Uncle Raymond had each been stricken with dyptheria in the great epidemic of that period. Raymond remembered each of them being sick together. Raymond also remembered that Irene had a horse-drawn hearse for her burial at St. Joseph’s Cemetery, and that “Pa” was absolutely inconsolable.
I’ve heard that my grandfather was very intelligent, very handy with tools, but that he also had a great sense of humor and was a very jolly, fun-loving man. His wife, Marie, was much more serious, and was a “clean-freak” and a perfectionist. Interestingly enough, I have his sense of humor, but I inherited my grandmother’s compulsion to have everything perfectly clean and orderly...or at least to TRY to! One of the favorite stories of “Pa” Baril is that he’d invite a female family friend who had a shrieking operatic singing voice over to entertain the family with her singing. The kids would be in agony trying not to laugh, and they’d end up excusing themselves one by one to go into an adjoining room and laugh hysterically. By the end of the concert, only “Pa” would be left...I guess clapping and saying his “Bravos”!
I carry the man’s name, and I wanted to share a little something about him on this, the week of his birthday!
1 comment:
that's very cool i never knew any of that
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