Dad Called Me George

"My father was in a dream last night," I excitedly told manager Rhonda.  Dad was across the proverbial crowded room, smiling in my direction, wearing a suit and tie as if heading to work.  "Dad," I cried, and by the time I reached him I was no longer 5'2" but hugging him about his knees.

"You never talk about your father," Rhonda commented and it's true; but not for any reason other than it's been so long ago.  Dad died in 1986 at age 62 from cancer; despite the fact that he quit smoking in his 20's.

Another businessman who worked in the same building was convinced the reason was asbestos in the old brick six-story in midtown Manhattan; across from Port Authority. 

I'm better at writing stories when I include photos as I type, so here goes:

1915

Bron Urban (Urbanowicz) was born in 1925; one of six children of Polish immigrants Chester and Rose who arrived in NYC in the early 1910s.  They were fleeing Russian and Cossack oppression and settled in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  Grandma and Grandpa worked hard and saved their money, as many immigrants do; and in the 1930s they bought their house on Eckford Street, 3 stories and a loft, for around $6,000, where they lived until the late 1960s. Today that neighborhood's full of million-dollar apartments inhabited by the rich and famous; but back then it was a low-income neighborhood made up of Eastern Europeans.  

1926, Helen, Willy, Rose, Bron
(on knee), Chester, John

Details are sketchy, but Grandpa started out working for a local textile manufacturing company; and after several years the young couple purchased the corner grocery store to supplement their income and growing family.  Their efforts are encapsulated in a couple of paragraphs here, but life as recent immigrants wasn't easy, for as Poles they were marginalized.  

By 1921 the government put a quota on Eastern Europeans, and ships en route were re-routed to Cuba; where some of my relatives were deposited (and later made their way to the US).  Here's a bit of our country's immigrant history, which helps explain parts of my story (from AI, but I knew this already):

1956

"Polish immigrants faced severe stigmatization in America during the 1910s. Often viewed with hostility by Anglo-Americans, they were frequently subjected to social, economic, and cultural discrimination.

"In the early 20th century, Polish immigrants were often not considered "white" by native-born Americans. Their distinct Slavic culture, languages, and Catholic faith led to heavy stereotyping and marginalization.  (Above r: Dad's holding me, in front of older sister Helen and parents Rose and Chester in their back yard.  Grandma loved her roses, but she also grew a potent variety of horseradish.)

Grandpa and me

"Derogatory Slurs: Poles were frequently demeaned using offensive insults like "dumb Polack" to belittle their struggles to learn English and to inhibit their social mobility." (This slur continued throughout my school years and occasionally adulthood.)

"Economic Exploitation: Native-born Americans and nativist groups stereotyped Poles as uneducated laborers or "peasants." They were heavily concentrated in grueling, low-paying industrial jobs, such as the meatpacking districts of Chicago, the textile mills of Massachusetts (and NYC), and coal mines."

People had lots of children in those days but they didn't always survive.  A daughter, Josephine, died as an infant; Vincent (Willy), the oldest, at 23 from typhoid fever; Stanley, the youngest died in his 30s, I don't know why. (Note: I'm using their Americanized names, for like many nationalities, their given names were often unpronounceable to others. When he was young, Dad was called Benny.)

Her sons back after WWII

Second son John (on left both photos) passed away suddenly several years after returning from WWII.  He'd been a POW in Germany, and shortly before liberation a guard struck him in the head with the butt of his rifle.  The brothers, 4 years apart, had been extremely close and John's death was particularly hard on Dad.

 

Uncle John left behind a wife and two young sons.  Aunt Betty eventually remarried and moved away; but with the help of Helen's son, Tom, I reconnected with cousin Ray in 2013.

At some point, Grandpa bought 6 acres in Suffolk County, on Long Island.  It had a rustic house (no indoor plumbing) which I loved but Mom hated.  In the beginning the extended family 'camped' quite a bit until the novelty wore off and Grandpa eventually sold it.  Imagine what it would be worth today.

Aunt Helen's family moved to Phoenix in 1957 so we saw them infrequently, but happily Dad and Aunt Helen remained close throughout their lives.

Sorry to say I rarely asked questions about 'the family' and half-listened when stories were told unless I heard them dozens of times (from either parent); so I don't know much about Dad's childhood other than it was happy (in-between deaths, of course) and full of familial love.

That love was evident throughout my own childhood; for Dad was, as they say, a Girl Dad before it became fashionable.

Fortunately, I've always been a letter-writer and Aunt Helen and I corresponded through the years; moreso after Died died, even when I was on the boat.  She always included an old photo or two along with her newsy letters, several of which are included here.

Gleaned from documents and family recollections, Dad and Aunt Helen were raised first speaking Polish then later English and became, as often goes with immigrant families, the Translators.  They attended a Catholic school, which I know Dad hated.  The story goes he'd been 'boxed in the ears' by a Nun for some infraction; so Grandma went in the next day and told the Nun if she did it again Grandma'd box HER ears. 

Scooping me out of the pool

My cousin has a story of Grandma buying a melon from a streetcart vendor and, upon opening, found it to be over-ripe.  The vendor was still outside so she went to him and, long story short, pushed the melon in his face after he refused to refund or replace.  Grandma didn't take you-know-what from anyone.

50th Anniversary 1965

That included from Grandpa; and so growing up Dad had a healthy respect for women.  Our family was full of strong women and yet I remember nothing but harmony whenever we visited; unless it was during one of Grandpa's card games, which could get rowdy.  Aunt Helen said that when participants got together, because they were from different countries, they spoke their common language, Russian.

1913 Passenger Manifest

The store burned some time in the 1930s, but Rose and Chester were resourceful and survived the Depression.  After all, at 18, Grandpa made his way across Europe between the Balkan Wars and WWI to catch a ship to America.

I was 9 when my grandparents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in the spring of 1965.  Aunt Helen came out from Arizona.  No one could anticipate she'd be back again in the fall, when Grandpa passed away.  I loved my grandfather.  Even though it was difficult for us to communicate, he was always good to me.

We lived in New Jersey and would drive to Greenpoint each weekend; but the house became too much for Grandma so Aunt Helen invited her to Phoenix.  She lived there until she passed in 1972, and was buried back in New York alongside Grandpa and her children.

So that was my grandparent's part of this tale.  I am grateful cousin Tom Reyman who took the time to write Greenpoint Memories and Stories My Mother Told To Me in 2017.  It's an extensive family history which I inadvertently contributed to while searching Ellis Island records.

In 1913, immigration records were 2 pages and offered more information than later years, including the name of the passenger's home town and nearest male relation still there; which is how I discovered Leonowka.

Prior to 1918 there was (officially) no Poland; having been absorbed by Germany, Russia and the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  Therefore, on the Ellis Island records, Grandpa's listed as Russian from Russia.  FYI, immigration information is available on the Statue of Liberty/Ellis Island website, free of charge.  It takes some snooping but you, too, can find your long-lost relations.  I did purchase physical copies, in case I need to prove anything some day.

1938

Great-grandmother Aniela, known to us as 'Babcia,' came to America to visit her sons in 1937 and never did go back.  War had broken out and there was nothing to go back to; for Leonowka was razed to the ground and it's residents massacred in 1943.  Babcia died in 1964.  (L standing: Great-uncle Kayo, Dad - always had a great head of hair - Grandpa Chester; seated Aunt Mary (Kayo's wife), Babcia and Grandma Rose.)

150th Birthday Card USA

Only today I found this 1926 '150th Birthday Card to America' with signatures compiled from Leonowka; the last census of sorts, including the name of my Great-Grandfather Severyn.  Kind of ironic, considering we're at 250.

Dad joined the Army before he graduated high school, so after the war he worked for a time in the same factory as his relatives.  I don't know when his creativity began in earnest (30s for me), for he used his G.I. Bill to attend art school and became a Graphic Artist.

1950s NYC

He worked for an ad agency in Manhattan for awhile and it was about that time, I believe, that he legally shortened his surname to Urban. No doubt his family didn't care for that, but I'm sure he hoped to be judged for his talent and not his name when competing in Manhattan.

Dad met Mom in 1949, married in 1950 and sister Hillary was born in 1951.  They lived in the second-floor apartment of the Greenpoint home at first, but moved to Sunnyside, Queens before I arrived in 1955.

Those early New York years are some of my fondest memories which by now would be completely fuzzie if not for Dad's penchant for taking pictures.  My parents didn't have much disposable income but still took us to lots of places, from Niagra Falls to Williamsburg, VA.  Dad also took loads of home movies, which I'd love to get digitalized one day.  As you see, Mom took pictures, too.

We'd go to Coney Island to escape the city heat; and where my view was always from under an umbrella because I easily burn.  Dad looks yellow - I'm not the keeper of the family photos, so many of these were taken from a DVD Sis compiled.  I froze my TV and snapped a picture with my Sony Instamatic then transferred to my laptop; not very high-tech.

We were fortunate growing up, for my parents wanted us exposed to as many things as possible in order to decide which hobby we enjoyed enough to continue.  In New York it was gymnastics and tap dancing (ballet for Sis), and my civic-minded spirit began as a Brownie Mascot.

We owned a car (which I can't identify), and Dad would pack up our bikes or easels and head for some park for weekend picnics.

I'm convinced Dad wanted a son, but he was happy with daughters.  Mom had an ectopic pregnancy and was advised not to have any more children, but she didn't want Hillary growing up an only child.  Perhaps Dad knew he wouldn't have another chance, so he must have thrilled when I expressed interest in his hobbies.

Dad never made fearful of anything.  Cautious, sure, but fearless.  Climbing rocks, at the beach or in Central Park, was one of my favorite pastimes; I don't know why I never tried it as a sport.  Oh, yeah, too much exertion.  I'll stick to the jetties.

Dad would prop me up on railings and walls while Mom held her breath.  They say when I was two I managed to climb on top of the refrigerator.  I don't know when Dad started calling me 'George' but I think it had something to do with,

"Which way did he go, George, which way did he go?"

New York neighborhoods were becoming less safe and my parents, like so many others, wanted to move out of the city for their children's sake; but where could they find affordable housing?  One popular solution came by way of Levitt and Sons, who manufactured cookie-cutter homes tailored towards returning veterans.  You've heard of Levittown here and Levittown there; same outfit.  It was communities like this which inspired Pete Seger's, "Little Boxes"; you still hear the tune in commercials.

1972

In 1963 a new development was going up called Strathmore-at-Matawan, on the New Jersey Shore.  Close enough for Dad to commute by train or bus.  They paid $16,990 for a 4-bedroom Cape Cod with a single garage.  I was ecstatic over moving to the 'country,' my imagination influenced by Bonanza.

At final sale

For months, every weekend we would drive from Queens to watch our home being built from the foundation up, Dad snapping photos the entire time.  It was thrilling to imagine our new lives as we wandered through unfinished walls, and to top it off, on the way home we'd stop at White Castle for who-knows-how-many hamburgers, yum!  I had just turned 8 when we moved and lived in that house until I married at 18.

In the 1960s Dad opened a small graphic design firm with 2 others but, as happens, their visions differed and Dad went out on his own to open Uniart Assoc.  He worked very hard at his advertising business and despite tough times, we were not lacking in at least the basics.

Through my Dad I learned to appreciate finely detailed artwork, which undoubtedly inspired my own work.  We were always going to museums, but one trip to the Cloisters, where Dad admired this tiny piece and pointed out its intricacy, always stuck in my head.

Iced tea from a can?!

Dad didn't teach me to draw, but he did offer hints when I was stumped in art class.  He took pride in his work and went about projects methodically.  "Measure twice, cut once," he drilled over the years.

 

Dad's stereo cabinet

I definitely preferred puttering in the garage with Dad on a carpentry project over cooking in the kitchen with Mom.  I learned both, neither particularly well, but at least I can separate an egg and handle a jigsaw.

1969 Mom Dad Sis

Dinnertime was family time, where we'd discuss the day's events.  Afterwards Dad would often head upstairs to his drafting table to finish some work he'd brought home, but no matter how busy he was, I could always interrupt him if I needed help on a school project or advice.

As I write this I realize how many things Dad taught himself over the years: carpentry, photography, home repairs and improvements, gardening, among so many things.  Perhaps that's why, at least to me, it's no big thing to teach myself to paint, quilt, learn a new program or take care of my RV.  I had excellent examples to follow growing up.

After high school graduation I headed to West Berlin, where my Air Force Uncle was stationed with his family.  A sheltered child, I was exposed to military life for a summer and, once back home, married an Army fellow stationed at Ft. Monmouth by the following April.  

Dad walked me down the aisle, and by 20 I was moving every few years, so interractions with my parents were sporadic and always welcomed.  They weren't crazy about my first husband and went out to dinner to celebrate when I announced I was divorced; but they weren't overbearing and allowed me to make my own mistakes.

They came to Germany in 1977 and had a wonderful time touring around.  Dad went off on his own by train to Bonn to explore the birthplace of Beethoven.  I admired him for that, considering he didn't know any German.

Mom was talkative and whenever we were together tended to monopolize her daughter's attention; so time spent alone with Dad was special; my sister would agree.

He took up golf in his 40s and when I first went to college I selected Golf as my elective.  Dad and I played a couple of times, but my amblyopia caused me to swing 2 or 3 times before the club made contact with the ball.  Too frustrating to continue.

One thing I knew without a shadow of a doubt was that my parents loved one another deeply, and Dad always treated Mom like a lady.  Mom had been an Arthur Murray dance instructor in her youth, and they would get dressed up and go out dancing; I loved to watch them spin around in the living room.

We made up for infrequent visits with letters - pages and pages - sometimes with a cassette tape so I could hear their voices (phone calls from Germany were very expensive) along with photos, including their annual one in front of the Christmas tree.

Dad didn't draw often, but considering it was his business I guess I'm not surprised.  He drew this sketch of Mehlbach, our little town in Germany.

My parents moved out of the Strathmore home and into a larger place one town over during my second marriage.  It seemed strange going home, for it wasn't really my home any longer; but it had a pool, great for barbeques with the grandkids.  Turned out Dad was great with boys, too; here with Hillary's sons in the 80's.

The second time I went to Germany was 1983, but 2 years later that marriage was ending so I flew back to 'Jersey like a salmon swimming upstream.  Dad wasn't at the airport to pick me up, Mom said he had a bit of a cold.

I was shocked to see Dad frail, and for two days I went in to the city with him ostensibly to help him get around; but that was the last time for Dad.  He was diagnosed with cancer throughout his body but chose to go naturally at home.  It took 6 weeks.

Closing his business fell to me and I was scared to death.  Dad drew me a detailed sketch off his office - the filing cabinets, the art supplies (lost over time) and every night we'd go over which work to send to the printer, which account to call, which bill to pay, until he could no longer concentrate.  But by that time I'd contacted all his clients to retrieve their (proprietary) artwork and the office was an empty shell of Dad's life work.

Dad died on Good Friday shortly after turning 62.  We're Christian Scientists, meaning religious services and things are a bit different because we don't have Priests or Pastors or whatever.  I was married in a Presbyterian church and our churches don't have graveyards, don't ask me why, so Mom had Dad cremated.  Aunt Helen came out once more, but this time she asked Mom to take Dad's ashes back to Phoenix so he could be interred in her family plot and Mom agreed.  I visited in 2017 during my last cross-country trip.

Dad was kind and honest, and for a businessman in Manhattan that's a rarity.  His largest client was the Mizlou Television Network, and after I picked up my things from storage last year I found some old copper plates with their logo.  I contacted the owner to offer the pieces (nostalgia), and he wrote some very nice things about Dad's character and business ethics.

Today, June 20, 2026, would have been Mom's 101st birthday and tomorrow is Father's Day, so I'm glad I finally wrote all this down.  I'm proud to be his daughter, and considering how hard my relatives worked to achieve the American Dream, I can hardly throw up my hands now.  Happy Father's Day, love you, Dad!