Martin Frances Ronan III

These are my memories of my Daddy.




Little Marty - 1931
 

Daddy was born on August 22, 1925 in Chester, PA. He went to Immaculate Heart of Mary Catholic Grade School in Chester, PA. Then he attended Eddystone High School, graduating in 1943. He really wasn't much of a student because of his fighting Irish attitude and all that comes with it. But he was very, very intelligent. He excelled in Art and Industrial Arts. He could do anything with his hands. He always had a project going, whether it be remodeling the house or doing something artsy like decorating for Christmas.

Marty Ronan
"Shorty"
Eddystone High School
Class of 1943
 

In 1946 Daddy married my mother.  It was a short marriage, only lasting less than 2 years.  I was raised by my paternal grandparents.

Dad worked as a machinist most of his life until his later years when he became a tool and die man. He was very proud that he achieved that goal. He was self taught, never having had any formal schooling for these skills.

Me and my Daddy

When I was two years old Daddy made made me a pair of roller skates. He bought the boots and all the wheels and assembled them himself. You couldn't tell they were homemade. They looked like a professionally made pair. He really could do anything. We would go to the Great Leopard Roller Skating Rink, just him and me. When I was little he taught me how to shuffle. I was so proud when I learned.

Daddy and me helping Poppop weed

Then when I was a young girl Daddy taught me how to jitterbug. He could really rock. He loved to dance. Being a divorced parent was really hard on him. He wanted to be part of my life. Before I was old enough to date, Daddy would pick me up for a "date" on a Friday night and we would go out and dance for a couple of hours. I cherished this time we spent together. I was just 14 years old and whenever I told him that I liked a boy by the next week's "date" he would have researched the family and told me all about them - Who his parents were, what they did for a living, where he went to school, and what kind of student he was, etc. It was his way of showing me that he cared about me and that he would always be protective of me.

In high school I was chosen to play the piano in the school orchestra, an unexpected feat that made Daddy really proud of me. I was enrolled at the Philadelphia Conservatory of Music and Dad took me to Philadelphia every Saturday for my lessons. He drove up the Industrial Highway around the Airport Circle into the city to 19th and Walnut Streets. Then sat in the lobby while I had my lesson. One day when I was 14 he made me drive his new 1960 Plymouth Fury to Philadelphia. He sat next to me while I shivered in the driver's seat. I was terrified, but he had faith in me. It's a wonder we both weren't killed. I even drove around the Airport Circle. Where was his mind? This became a regular occurrence. I even came to enjoy it. Of course, I couldn't tell anyone. My grandparents would have had a fit. It was our little secret. Thank you, God, for keeping us safe.

Dad, who wasn't a church goer, would attend church when I was playing the organ for Mass. In his own way, he really supported what I did. I know he didn't want to be there. Just like on Saturdays, I knew he had better things to do, but he was always there to take me to Philadelphia.

When I was almost 16 Daddy remarried a really nice lady named Faye. They had 3 more children, Susan, Nancy and Michael. I was 16 when Susan was born. I had been Daddy's girl for 16 years and he replaced me. How could he? The only thing that made it easier for me was that I didn't have to live with them.  The kids turned out to be real cuties. And after I got over my spoiled little snit I really enjoyed them.

Dad's life wasn't easy, partially his fault, but role models played a big part in it, too. After 15 years of marriage, Faye died of an aneurism. Daddy fell apart and wasn't able to function. His life spiraled downhill after that.

In 1987 Dad decided to retire. He was 63 years old, but his health wasn't that good. He just wanted to enjoy the rest of his life. He was remodeling the kitchen in his house and proudly showed it off to me. Then one day he came home and unlocked the door of his house while lighting a cigarette. The house exploded. Dad was badly burned. The Doctor at the burn center told him he had less than 1% chance of living, what did he want them to do. He said he wanted to live so they did everything they could to save him. He went through excruciating pain. After two weeks, we think that he just gave up. He didn't know how difficult it was going to be, how much pain he'd have to endure. He died on October 15, 1987.

Dad's best words of advice to me were "Don't worry about what other people think. Be your own person. Live your life as you want to live it."  I've tried to always be true to myself. I know I made Dad proud of me in many ways. He loved all of us, but he respected me because I wasn't afraid to tell him what I thought. We had many good discussions, but we always ended knowing that we loved each other.

I miss you, Daddy.