"Kilroy was here." And is here, still.

I recently observed the fourth anniversary of my father’s death. He is among the thousands of World War II veterans who are leaving us daily; he is buried in the National Veteran’s Cemetery in Bourne. Dad was a Quincy resident his entire life, growing up on Hunt Street, attending North Quincy High School, buying his first house on Newbury Avenue, and working his way up through the ranks of the Quincy Fire Department to the position of Deputy Chief.

In the 1940’s, before and after his service as an Army Technical Sergeant in France and Germany, Dad worked as a welder in the Quincy Shipyard. He often told dramatic tales about his shipyard experiences: there was the pride in seeing a cruiser float out of dry-dock and head out to sea; there were stories about his buddies, like Stanley Provost, whom he swore “could jump right over a car.” If anyone knew of the dangers of asbestos back then, no one was talking, because Dad frequently worked “in a cloud of the stuff.”

The shipyard icon he spoke of most often, though, was the funny little cartoon of a man peering over a fence accompanied by the logo, “Kilroy was here.” He was there when James Kilroy began to boost the morale of American troops in a remarkably simple but effective manner. “I was here,” Kilroy’s hastily drawn figure seemed to say. “I have inspected the rivets on this bulkhead. You are safe. People at home care about your safety.” My father was a talented amateur artist, and I’m sure he was among the first to guarantee the quality of his welds by signing them with his co-worker’s reassuring cartoon.

Dad enlisted in the army, leaving his recent bride with her parents in Dorchester. My mother would eventually give birth to my sister while Dad was serving as a Motor Pool sergeant in Europe. He was always a stickler for detail, and I’m sure that the vehicles serviced by his unit were returned to the front in utterly dependable condition. I know that each repaired vehicle leaving his motor pool left with a drawing of a long-nosed man peering over a fence. “I was here,” the little man told the soldiers at the front. “This jeep is safe.” Dad’s letters to home would sometimes arrive with Kilroy peering from the back of the envelope. Kilroy was everywhere.

Dad returned from the war to see his infant daughter for the first time. He returned to the Shipyard and settled the family into the government-sponsored housing on Sullivan Road in West Quincy, which was my first home. Just before my fourth birthday, he and my mother moved us to their first owned home, a two-family in North Quincy less than 200 yards from his parents’ Hunt Street address. He would soon “get on the fire”, and eventually become the lieutenant in charge of the new North Quincy Fire Station. Dad continued to insist upon optimal maintenance of the vehicles in his care; the engine and ladder truck shone from so many layers of wax that the firefighters at the station nicknamed him “Lieutenant Waxie Maxie.”

Dad had a number of routines to entertain us three children after dinner. He loved to demonstrate that he could touch his tongue to his nose and that he could wiggle his ears--well, one of them. He recited whole stanzas from “The Cremation of Sam McGee”, favoring especially the line about “the men who moil for gold.” He cupped his hands over his mouth and played what he called “trumpet solos.” He would convert every sneeze into the barking of a drill sergeant. Our favorite trick, however, happened when Dad would take up pencil and paper, and within thirty seconds, produce a rendition of a long-nosed man peering over a fence. Explaining the length of the nose, Dad was fond of saying, “When God gave out noses, he thought He said ‘hoses’, so he asked for a long one.” We loved it.

We all eventually outgrew Kilroy, even as we became more aware of the history of the cartoon and catchphrase. The drawing faded from our family routine; but, I suspect, never from my father’s heart. I suppose that might have been the end of our Kilroy connection, except for the arrival of grandchildren. My sister’s two daughters, my son and daughter, and my brother’s son all were treated to the totality of the Kilroy experience.

Dad loved being a grandfather, and was doted upon by the grandchildren. When my son was old enough to begin visiting colleges, Grampie Joe came along as often as he could, taking in the sights at Tufts, Holy Cross, and Trinity, among others. I know he took great satisfaction in seeing that his grandchildren were getting opportunities that he himself had been unable to afford--that his life of grit and hard work had provided the foundation for a family to keep improving its position in society.

When my son (and later my daughter) did go off to college, they periodically would receive an envelope from Grampie Joe. Inside would be some spending money, usually twenty or twenty-five dollars. There would also be an index card, on which was drawn the face of a long-nosed man peering over a fence. A letter was seldom included, but no letter was necessary--the drawing said it all: “I am here. You are safe. People at home care about you.”

My son has had six of these cards matted and framed. They are proudly displayed in his home in Georgetown. Kilroy is there. Kilroy is here. Still.

(This essay was the winner of the "Kilroy Was Here" essay contest. I read it as a speech aboard U.S.S. Salem in May, 2005)