The Happy Gang by Christine Fox, as told by Jerome Korff My father was dead, and I was in a quandary. Where would I be able to find a minister, priest or rabbi who might be persuaded to say a few words at the funeral? Dad was a guy who often told me he only attended church for weddings, christenings and funerals, having been "churched out" as a young man. When I asked him to explain, he told me that as a youngster, the son of first-generation German immigrants, he had been required to attend too many services. He had to attend English services and Sunday school and German services. He developed an aversion to organized religion after several years of Lutheran religious instruction. Lent was strictly observed in the household of his childhood. He vowed to himself that when he reached 21, he would forego church services except for the aforementioned occasions. I was seated in the funeral director's office, pondering how I might entice a clergyman to bury Dad. I considered violating a confidence and telling the pastor of the Lutheran church about Dad's anonymous contributions. I did his taxes for him every year and he would never claim the deduction, stating, "Son, the Bible tells us, 'Let not your right hand know what the left is doing.'" Perhaps I could tell some of the clergy in town that my father always seemed to be attending funerals. There were many times when I thought he might be a bit daft. During the Depression years, when I was a kid, he was always going to a funeral. Sometimes he went to two or three a week! He always told us he had to go pay his respects to the departed. While the other men in our neighborhood spent their time at the Elks', Masonic Lodge, or K of C meetings, Dad was off to a funeral parlor. I dreaded the time I reached my 50s and 60s if I had to bury as many friends as Dad did. I concluded that he must have met a good clergyman, one who might be persuaded to speak. The funeral director handed me Dad's personal effects, the few things found in his trouser pockets. I counted the bills. They seemed so few when I recalled how he always reached into his pocket to give someone a handout. The wad had always appeared thicker, somehow. His pocketknife flooded me with memories--how he constantly used it in the men's clothing store where he worked, cutting labels off suits and trousers, slicing string after he'd wrapped a package, snipping a fishing line after he'd tied on a new lure. Most of all, I remembered him teaching me to carve my initials in a birch tree while on a family picnic when I was 5. That knife had been his old, trusted friend. The wallet was full of the usual--driver's license, car registration, membership cards to civic organizations and a 30-year volunteer fireman's card. The shocker was a card he no doubt had picked up at one of the numerous funerals he'd attended. It was the 23rd Psalm. The card was well worn, indication that he probably read it many times. For a man who never attended church, it seemed a strange thing for him to be carrying. I told the funeral director of my dilemma. He looked at me for a few moments and then made a remark which caused me to laugh. He said, "Don't worry about a minister. Your dad was a member of the Happy Gang." Oh Lord, I thought, the Happy Gang! I'd seen these clowns in operation over the years. A better name for them would have been "Kuhn's Beer-Drinking, Gambling, Chowder-Eating, Fishing and Marching Society"! The club held a monthly meeting, and Pa always came home a little woozy, having drunk too much. These pals of his had bought a summer cottage in Canada and had a huge fishing boat built to their specifications. The most important part of the boat was the icebox where the beer and whiskey were stowed. Dad always looked forward to these trips, and always returned with fish, a hangover, and more money than he'd left home with, a result of his poker winnings. And usually he came home with some portion of his anatomy sprained as a result of falling in or out of the boat. Dad had been a member of this club for a good many years. Their prime purpose seemed to be to have a good time. And now this funeral director, who also was a member of this illustrious crew, was telling me I had nothing to worry about. He said all the details of the funeral would be looked after by the Gang. While walking the few blocks back to Dad's house, I was troubled. My aunt, Dad's sister and a devout churchgoer, was waiting back at the house. She definitely would not understand my failure to obtain clergy! A car horn was beeping at me. I recognized the Cadillac limousine as it pulled up to the curb at my side. The passenger was the Monsignor of the Catholic church. He motioned for me to come sit in the car with him. He said, "I knew your father well and I want to express my condolences. I would be deeply honored and forever in your debt if I could be allowed to say a few words at your father's funeral." I was speechless! In shock, I thanked him. I wondered what my aunt's reaction would be when I told her the Monsignor wanted to give the eulogy. I was off the hook, as I had him as "an ace in the hole." My wife, wearing an enigmatic smile, greeted me upon my arrival home. She told me I had had about 15 phone calls that I must return as quickly as I could. When I looked at the list of callers, I thought she was pulling my leg! All had been from clergymen of various faiths. When I called, each said essentially the same thing the Monsignor had: He had known Dad and wished to speak at his funeral. I wondered if he had been giving them all clergy discounts on the clothing he sold them. When I returned to the funeral parlor for the wake that evening, I was met by a priest. He explained that a huge number of Catholics wished to pay their respects and wondered if it would be OK to provide a kneeling bench before the coffin. I had no objection. During the next two days, the bench was never vacant. My next surprise was seeing the type of people who came to see him. I noticed two men standing in the doorway, and I wondered if they were lost. Neither appeared to be a leading denizen of the town. In fact, they were down-and-out bums. I approached them and asked if I could help. They told me they had spent the last money they had to ride a bus 30 miles to get to the funeral parlor. I thought something about them seemed familiar. Then I realized they were wearing clothes that had once hung in Dad's closet. Now I knew what had happened to most of his clothes. He had given them away! We had to unlock the clothing store to get him a white shirt. While looking at these two men, I thought back to some of the things I'd known Dad had done during his lifetime. Particularly, I recalled 1933, the Great Depression, the year after my mother died. On my birthday, in freezing mid-March, he was going to treat me to a movie and a hot fudge sundae at the Sugar Bowl afterward. This was to be a real treat! Dad was working alternate weeks, earning $15 a week. On the off weeks, he went door-to-door, trying to sell coal. If he sold a ton of coal, he earned 50 cents commission. After the movie, we walked across the bridge spanning the Erie Canal, which was frozen solid. We hurried to keep warm, our breath puffing like locomotive exhaust in the frigid air. As we passed a storefront, a man came out of the doorway where he had been sheltering himself from the wind. He had wrapped old newspapers around his shabbily clothed body in an attempt to ward off the chill. Icicles hung from a five- or six-day growth of beard. He asked my dad for a handout. Dad reached into his pocket and took out his last 50-cent piece. He looked at me, then to the man, then to the coin in his hand. He handed the money to the man, saying, "Here, old-timer, get yourself a hot meal at the diner down the street and then try to get a cot at the Sunshine Mission." Without stopping at the Sugar Bowl, we resumed our walk home. I glanced at my father, who had tears trickling down his cheeks. I tried to assure him that I didn't mind that we weren't able to stop for the sundae. He stopped beneath a streetlight and turned to face me, his overshoes squeaking in the snow. He bent down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Sonny, I'm not crying about the ice cream. I'm crying for that poor man who has nobody and is down on his luck." He continued, "Remember one thing as long as you live: You are your brother's keeper." I was shaken out of my reverie when one of the men standing in front of me told me they had no way to get back to Buffalo and the flophouse where they lived. I gave them each a dollar. One of them said, "You really are your father's son." I consider that one of the finest compliments I've ever received. I couldn't believe the tremendous number and variety of people who came to pay their last respects. Among them were all of our city's leading businessmen, the mayors and councilmen from towns within a 50-mile radius, firemen, policemen, doctors, lawyers and more indigents. The floral tributes spilled out of Dad's room and overflowed into all the other rooms of the funeral parlor. The funeral director was forced to begin placing new arrivals on the front porch. He remarked that if they kept coming, he'd have to start putting them out front in the snow. Five delivery vehicles, four of which were commandeered from other funeral homes, were required to deliver just a fraction of the bouquets to local nursing homes and hospitals so we could make room for more. What had this man done during his lifetime to warrant this show of respect? I was clueless. All I knew was that he lived all his life in our small town, had dropped out of school to become a mill hand, and was a star baseball pitcher who was about to sign with the New York Yankees until a mill accident injured his leg and ended his potential professional athletic career. He then worked the remainder of his life as a silent partner, clerking in a clothing store. He had done nothing of great significance. Why all the tributes now? The final night of the wake, I was sitting in the rear of the nearly empty room. A man entered and approached the casket. To my recollection, he and Dad had never exchanged a pleasant word. They insulted each other mercilessly when they were together. I wondered why they had never come to blows. He stood silently by the casket, starring down at my father. Sobbing, he reached down and placed his hand on Dad's. "Well, ole pal, this is the first time I've ever seen you without your hands in your pockets, reaching for some money to help someone less fortunate. You must have worn out your trouser pockets a million times." He continued, "I'd say I'm sorry for the way we always kidded each other, but I know you enjoyed it as much as I did. I love you, old friend, and I thank you for all you did for me the last 50 years. Goodbye for now. Maybe, someday when the Happy Gang is together in heaven, we can all go fishing again." He turned to leave, then saw me sitting in the dim corner. He approached and pulled up a chair. He said, "The Happy Gang has asked me to tell you about your father. Have you ever wondered why he was always going to funerals when you were a kid?" He began by telling me about one of Dad's evening stops en route home from the clothing store. Because we owned no automobile, he walked to and from work. On his way home, he would stop by Kuhn's Cigar Store to buy his evening paper. If he had the money, he would wager a few pennies, a dime or nickel on "the numbers," a lottery based on the day's baseball scores. If the winner was lucky, he could win as much as $500 or $1,000, a fortune in the 1930s. I remembered that shortly before my mother died, Pa won enough to treat us to a week's vacation at Crystal Beach in Canada. It was no luxury trip, but we had a great time, on our only family vacation. One day, Dad was in Kuhn's when he overheard someone talking about a local resident who was to be buried in Potter's Field, the city's graveyard for indigents. There would be no funeral, no headstone, few mourners (if any), and only a cheap casket. Such were the rewards for an impoverished life. Dad expressed a proposal to some of the men in Kuhn's. He was playing a nickel on the numbers that day and if he won, he would donate the winnings to "the club." He started the treasury that day with another nickel. Most of the men in the store scoffed at his idea. But the following day, he learned his had been a lucky number. He donated the proceeds of $50 to the club. Whether or not this was an omen, his winning prompted a few of the doubters to join him. They met and established the rules of their organization. It was decided they would limit their membership as the Rotary Club did. They would invite two men from every profession in the city but would leave open membership to any clergyman who wished to participate. From each member they collected 5 cents a week for operating expenses. If a member played the numbers (they all did), he would have to wager an equal amount to buy an additional ticket for the club, and if he won, he donated all the proceeds to the club. If his regular wager won, he donated 10 percent to the club. What to name the club was one of their biggest decisions. Many names were suggested and rejected. Finally, someone suggested they name it after the owner of the cigar store, since he would be treasurer. He had severe asthma and had undergone some type of surgery for it. The resulting operation left him unable to smile. No one knew, from looking at his expressionless face, what his emotions were. Everyone called him Happy. Hence, the Happy Gang was born. Things began to change for the better in the city. When someone died who was destined for Potter's Field, they stepped in. They purchased a suitable burial plot, supplied the casket and services of a funeral home, and attended the wake and burial. They provided appropriate clothing to be laid out in for a man, woman or child. In addition, they saw to it that the family had a few dollars to tide them over those difficult times. If a John Doe was found frozen to death beneath the bridge, the Happy Gang claimed the body. Their attorney members filed whatever papers were required. The unknown was treated in the same fashion as a respected community member. Occasionally, word reached them that a woman in town had been deserted by her husband. Left with no money and children to raise, these women sometimes turned to prostitution. The Happy Gang contributed money to these desperate, needy families. They never let it be known to anyone outside the club what they were doing. They adopted Dad's philosophy, based on Christs words about not letting your left hand know what the right is doing. When World War II came, the Happy Gang turned their attention to the war effort. They conducted scrap drives and volunteered their treasury to the American Red Cross, the Salvation Army and the USO. After the war they established scholarship funds. Quietly and without fanfare, they donated their time and money to clean up prostitution and gambling in town. They continued with their assistance to the less fortunate. They also played--on the water in the fishing boat and at their summer cabin. They had annual picnics. They played nickel-and-dime poker to relax. They had earned it. And now it was my turn. The man told me the Happy Gang wanted me to accept a membership. Openings in the Gang were available only when a man resigned or died. My father's membership was open to me if I wanted it. He told me many men in the city had been waiting for years to join. But as my father's son, the members thought it fitting to invite me in order to continue his spot. I was uncertain. I could see the respect and love the people had for Dad. I was honored that they considered me for inclusion. We walked to Dad's casket. I looked down at his face, and thought I detected a vestige of the little smile he always seemed to wear. I knew he would have wanted me to do the right thing. I had not earned his place in the Gang. I knew that other, much older men who had unselfishly supported the Gang without benefit of membership, were more deserving than I. I turned to the man and told himthey should award Dad's spot in the Gang to one of those men. He looked at me for a moment and then said, "Yes, you are your father's son."