Edward Harris of Bronx, NY, died April 28, 1968, after a long battle with emphyzema. He was 47. ln the spring of 1938, he entered the Navy. In the summer of 1946, he was honorably discharged with the trade of a cook. After his service he began a new life in Harlem, NY. Fourteen-years later he married, Joan Gloria Harris on September 3, 1960, in Saint Anthony's Church on Boston Road in the Bronx.
The union produced five children. I am his daughter, Lilliette.
Daddy you are missed and never forgotten. I look forward to seeing you again one day. I love you. Rest in Peace. God Loves too.
Partly sunny, sixty-three degrees and cloudy. That was the forecast for Sunday, April 28, 1968. The day my daddy passed away. Twenty-four days prior, the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. horrified him and the rest of the world. For the country and beyond this was a period of immeasurable sorrow. For my family the grief was doubled.
My father, a native of Voth, Texas was a U.S. Navy veteran. Having served during WWII, as a Steward. Five months after D-day in spring 1942, he traveled to Austin, Texas, where he enlisted. With the trade of a cook, they honorably discharged him in the summer of 1946.
Three months after my father's forty-eight birthday, while sleeping beside my mother. He succumbed to emphysema, leaving behind his thirty-two-year-old wife of seven years and five young children. I, the middle child was four.
My older sisters and I sensed something was wrong. The sky still blanketed by darkness. Yet, we were abruptly awaken by a family member and ushered into the bathroom. I remember our small faces peeking from the bathroom as two stoic men clad in white, exited my parents bedroom. They were maneuvering a shiny metal stretcher with squeaky wheels. My daddy was laying on it. His body was covered. Apparently, they had difficulty navigating through the short and narrow hallways. Occasionally, hitting the stretcher against the walls. Finally, foot first, my daddy was rolled out of the apartment. Never to return. And, nobody said, goodbye. Well, maybe someone did say it to themself, as I had.
Once the front door was locked, I voiced my concern about his being unable to breathe having that white sheet wrapped firmly around his face and body. My oldest sister replied in a whisper, saying, "He doesn't need to breathe anymore. He's dead."
The union produced five children. I am his daughter, Lilliette.
Daddy you are missed and never forgotten. I look forward to seeing you again one day. I love you. Rest in Peace. God Loves too.
Partly sunny, sixty-three degrees and cloudy. That was the forecast for Sunday, April 28, 1968. The day my daddy passed away. Twenty-four days prior, the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. horrified him and the rest of the world. For the country and beyond this was a period of immeasurable sorrow. For my family the grief was doubled.
My father, a native of Voth, Texas was a U.S. Navy veteran. Having served during WWII, as a Steward. Five months after D-day in spring 1942, he traveled to Austin, Texas, where he enlisted. With the trade of a cook, they honorably discharged him in the summer of 1946.
Three months after my father's forty-eight birthday, while sleeping beside my mother. He succumbed to emphysema, leaving behind his thirty-two-year-old wife of seven years and five young children. I, the middle child was four.
My older sisters and I sensed something was wrong. The sky still blanketed by darkness. Yet, we were abruptly awaken by a family member and ushered into the bathroom. I remember our small faces peeking from the bathroom as two stoic men clad in white, exited my parents bedroom. They were maneuvering a shiny metal stretcher with squeaky wheels. My daddy was laying on it. His body was covered. Apparently, they had difficulty navigating through the short and narrow hallways. Occasionally, hitting the stretcher against the walls. Finally, foot first, my daddy was rolled out of the apartment. Never to return. And, nobody said, goodbye. Well, maybe someone did say it to themself, as I had.
Once the front door was locked, I voiced my concern about his being unable to breathe having that white sheet wrapped firmly around his face and body. My oldest sister replied in a whisper, saying, "He doesn't need to breathe anymore. He's dead."
Edward Harris of Bronx, NY, died April 28, 1968, after a long battle with emphyzema. He was 47. ln the spring of 1938, he entered the Navy. In the summer of 1946, he was honorably discharged with the trade of a cook. After his service he began a new life in Harlem, NY. Fourteen-years later he married, Joan Gloria Harris on September 3, 1960, in Saint Anthony's Church on Boston Road in the Bronx.
The union produced five children. I am his daughter, Lilliette.
Daddy you are missed and never forgotten. I look forward to seeing you again one day. I love you. Rest in Peace. God Loves too.
Partly sunny, sixty-three degrees and cloudy. That was the forecast for Sunday, April 28, 1968. The day my daddy passed away. Twenty-four days prior, the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. horrified him and the rest of the world. For the country and beyond this was a period of immeasurable sorrow. For my family the grief was doubled.
My father, a native of Voth, Texas was a U.S. Navy veteran. Having served during WWII, as a Steward. Five months after D-day in spring 1942, he traveled to Austin, Texas, where he enlisted. With the trade of a cook, they honorably discharged him in the summer of 1946.
Three months after my father's forty-eight birthday, while sleeping beside my mother. He succumbed to emphysema, leaving behind his thirty-two-year-old wife of seven years and five young children. I, the middle child was four.
My older sisters and I sensed something was wrong. The sky still blanketed by darkness. Yet, we were abruptly awaken by a family member and ushered into the bathroom. I remember our small faces peeking from the bathroom as two stoic men clad in white, exited my parents bedroom. They were maneuvering a shiny metal stretcher with squeaky wheels. My daddy was laying on it. His body was covered. Apparently, they had difficulty navigating through the short and narrow hallways. Occasionally, hitting the stretcher against the walls. Finally, foot first, my daddy was rolled out of the apartment. Never to return. And, nobody said, goodbye. Well, maybe someone did say it to themself, as I had.
Once the front door was locked, I voiced my concern about his being unable to breathe having that white sheet wrapped firmly around his face and body. My oldest sister replied in a whisper, saying, "He doesn't need to breathe anymore. He's dead."
The union produced five children. I am his daughter, Lilliette.
Daddy you are missed and never forgotten. I look forward to seeing you again one day. I love you. Rest in Peace. God Loves too.
Partly sunny, sixty-three degrees and cloudy. That was the forecast for Sunday, April 28, 1968. The day my daddy passed away. Twenty-four days prior, the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. horrified him and the rest of the world. For the country and beyond this was a period of immeasurable sorrow. For my family the grief was doubled.
My father, a native of Voth, Texas was a U.S. Navy veteran. Having served during WWII, as a Steward. Five months after D-day in spring 1942, he traveled to Austin, Texas, where he enlisted. With the trade of a cook, they honorably discharged him in the summer of 1946.
Three months after my father's forty-eight birthday, while sleeping beside my mother. He succumbed to emphysema, leaving behind his thirty-two-year-old wife of seven years and five young children. I, the middle child was four.
My older sisters and I sensed something was wrong. The sky still blanketed by darkness. Yet, we were abruptly awaken by a family member and ushered into the bathroom. I remember our small faces peeking from the bathroom as two stoic men clad in white, exited my parents bedroom. They were maneuvering a shiny metal stretcher with squeaky wheels. My daddy was laying on it. His body was covered. Apparently, they had difficulty navigating through the short and narrow hallways. Occasionally, hitting the stretcher against the walls. Finally, foot first, my daddy was rolled out of the apartment. Never to return. And, nobody said, goodbye. Well, maybe someone did say it to themself, as I had.
Once the front door was locked, I voiced my concern about his being unable to breathe having that white sheet wrapped firmly around his face and body. My oldest sister replied in a whisper, saying, "He doesn't need to breathe anymore. He's dead."
Inscription
Father
