When our grandmother Mary Margaret Dawson died in January of 1963, our mother Marian Frances Dawson Pepin represented the end of her line, as far as she knew. As the mother of six children at that point, that fact may not have bothered her unduly since she had been an only child all of her life. 

Earlier, until Marian’s grandmother Annie Powell Dawson’s death in 1929—when Marian was only 5—her grandmother was the sole survivor of what had been a large family of great grandparents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. To her granddaughter’s knowledge, there were no surviving cousins, despite the fact that all of the family had lived in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, close by her parents’ home in Willow Grove. Her closest “relatives” in the area were her godparents, Mr and Mrs William Uhlein, of Willow Grove, whom she knew well.

Our mother grew up the center of a charmed family circle where her gentle Irish beauty and good nature must have seemed to our grandparents as the one vital presence in the aftermath of so many family deaths.

Growing up, we were told that the Dawson and Powell family members had “weak lungs” and that was the reason they had all died young—especially of tuberculosis. Indeed, our mother’s most serious illness in her adult years was a near fatal pulmonary edema or embolism that was inexplicable to her doctors and memorably frightening to those of her young children who were old enough to remember it. But death certificates indicate a number of causes, including heart disease, “La Grippe” (influenza), arteriosclerosis, and cerebral hemorrhage.

Perhaps our mother truly felt alone only when our father died in late 1982—the same year her youngest child, Rita, went off to college, too—but she had a lot of experience on her own from her childhood. Until she moved to Greensboro in 1988 to join Rose and Rita there, she had her longtime position as secretary at Camp Green Cove in Tuxedo, North Carolina, and she continued her interests in music and friends in the community. When I looked through her address book recently, I was surprised by how many people she knew there and kept up with for years afterward.

But she clearly had more time on her hands, for the first time in a very long time, and one of the things she did was to embark on a more in-depth search for both her father’s and her mother’s ancestors. In pre-Internet days, this involved a sheaf of letters and correspondence. Our mother was a master of politely pleading her case for information and assistance by business letter.

She did a good job and was able to construct a genealogy of both sides of her father’s family back three generations in the United States—all had come from Ireland but she never got to their point of embarkation. There is enough information on the Dawson and Powell ancestors that an online search of additional family in Ireland and in the United States might be more successful today. See Dawson Genealogy Tree. On the other hand, it seems very odd that there are no photographs at all of any of those ancestors.

Our mother had much less success on researching her mother’s side where essentially almost nothing is known about her mother’s father and mother beyond the first name of her mother—Margarita—and the last name of her father—White.

The story was that the mother had died shortly after arriving from Ireland and that the newborn child had been entrusted to a Quaker family to raise on a farm, after which she went into service. There is no written documentation of Mary Margaret until she goes into a Catholic Church to be baptized at the age of 15 on January 1, 1904, with her godmother Anna McCarthy and, later, is married to James Anthony Dawson at the age of 24. On the baptismal and marriage certificates her birth date is given as January 18, 1889 but sometimes our mother said it was January 1.

It may be that our Grandmother Dawson really was raised by Quakers because that religion does not practice outward sacramental rites such as baptism or communion.

However, she could also speak Gaelic and often did so—unlike her husband James who was  two generations removed from the Irish language. Frequently mentioned in the stories we heard was the name of the Godmother, Anna McCarthy, so perhaps that is where the Gaelic comes in and perhaps it is Mrs. McCarthy who took her on as help somewhere between the ages of 12 and 15, insisting that she be baptized at that time. Alternative information indicates that the orphaned baby was given to Anna McCarthy directly and that she herself had a farm near Kennett Square. At other times our mother mentioned a foster mother in Chester County, Pennsylvania, followed by her mother going into service at age 12. What we do know is that Mary Margaret was baptized at St. Patrick’s Church, which is in Kennett Square, when she was 15, on January 1, 1904. And then we know that she met James Anthony Dawson, possibly at St Veronica’s Church, where they were married 8 January 1913. Given all of the variant tales and unknowns it is hard to even begin to research where she came from in Ireland—or, even, in Scotland. From time to time our mother would say that the “real” spelling of our grandmother’s last name was “Whyte” which could indicate that her father was from Scotland or England. At one point, she asserts that her mother was not a “cradle” Catholic like her father. The problem is, of course, that we know almost nothing about her cradle of origin.

With no photographs whatsoever of the Dawson or Powell grandparents or great grandparents, the only scrap of evidence we have of the business James H. Dawson and his sons ran, is a single tattered envelope directed at some point to the New Cathedral Cemetery.

It includes the partial return address of Jas. Dawson & Son, Established 1870, Roofing and Sheet Metal Work—Phone Connection—Lawrence and Sedgley [illegible] -e., Phila., Pa. Perhaps the handwritten Pil 1398 is an old phone number.

Sedgley, included in the return address above is very close to three addresses that family papers give for the Dawsons in Philadelphia: 310 Erie Avenue and 3535 North 5th Street; 5th and Venango Street is their address on James Anthony’s 1888 birth certificate. These are all in North Philadelphia. St Veronica’s Church is also close to the Erie, 5th Street, Venango, and Sedgley addresses.

Tin roofing is not for the faint of heart. It seems difficult to imagine that James H. Dawson’s sons could have built a successful company when so many of their lives were cut short. Perhaps the brothers and sisters of James H. were more robust and have additional descendants. To have been established in 1870, it is possible that the Irish Dawson-McBride and Powell families came to the United States at the height of the potato famine migration in 1845-1855.

We don’t know where the young family of James and Mary may have lived in Philadelphia, but by the time of our mother’s birth in 1924 they were further to the north of the Dawson family addresses in North Philadelphia—in Willow Grove, on Grant Avenue. When his mother died in 1929, James Anthony gave his address as NE New York Rd and Fairhill Ave. On maps today, the closest we can come to that is N York Rd and Fairhill Street.  We don’t have a single instance of a more specific or postal address, but the home is described in detail by our mother as a large 4-bedroom Colonial with many upscale features in her writings—see Grandmother’s Memories.

In her memoir For the Love of the Mike, written at age 17 for a senior high school assignment, our mother says that their home on the Old York Road was built by her father in the years 1926-1929. During construction they lived in a garage apartment they had built first to the rear of the property, which was surrounded by fields and woods in all directions, and where she was stricken with, and recovered from, polio and meningitis. Completed in 1929, her grandmother Annie Dawson moved in with them and died late that year, just a month after the Stock Market Crash and start of the Great Depression.

In a 2005 interview, our mother speaks of the struggles her mother had in caring for her mother-in-law in that last year before she died. She had dementia and broke a wrist in a fall. Over and over again grandmother Annie Dawson would unravel the dressing and remove the sling the doctor had given her. Our mother also says that her grandmother told her wonderful stories and she missed her when she was gone. I wish she’d written some of those stories down.

FOR THE LOVE OF THE “MIKE” 

In a rough garage in Pittsburgh, in the year 1920, station KDKA began the first broadcasting of public entertainment. Just four years later in another part of Pennsylvania, a child was born to the Dawson family. The event took place in Abington Memorial Hospital, Abington, Pennsylvania – a suburb of Philadelphia. The date was  October 10, 1924, and the time was one o’clock in the afternoon.

Our family did not live in Abington, however, but in the neighboring town of Willow Grove. This small suburban town contained a park that was world famous and dear to the hearts of music lovers for the many concerts held there by the great Victor Herbert, John Philip Sousa, and many others. This was, however, the only glittering feature of Willow Grove. Otherwise it was simply a quiet, secluded country town where  everyone knew everyone else and their entire histories. The center of the village was a scene of continual activity. The farmers from nearby farms coming to buy their seed remained to chat about the fortune of their crops, Willie’s bad cough, or the scandal of Mrs. Brown’s having her hair bobbed. It doesn’t seem possible that this town was only fourteen miles north of the center of Philadelphia – one of the largest and busiest cities in the United States.

I started life in a little home on Grant Avenue in this same village. We remained at this residence for two years and then moved to our new home on Old York Road, the highway from Philadelphia to New York. My father built the garage apartment in the rear of the plot of ground and we moved in to await the completion of the colonial house, which was to be built next to the highway.

While we were living in this garage apartment, I was stricken with infantile paralysis and spinal meningitis. The treatment of this disease required intricate care and it was only through God’s will, the treatment of a young German doctor, and the constant care of my mother, that I recovered without any ill effects. A daily column in the Philadelphia papers was written concerning my illness, and its daily developments. So strange was the event of having these two illnesses at the same time, the specialists from far and near visited me and studied my case. I remained in a coma for several days during which time our parish priest placed a relic of Saint Theresa the “Little Flower,” on me and prayed for my recovery. Upon my awakening from my coma, I said to my mother, “See, mama, ‘Little Flower’ made me better.” The only explanation that the priest had for this utterance was that the Saint appeared to me while I was unconscious. Ever since this time, in deep gratitude to Saint Theresa as well as to our Lord, the “Little Flower” has been my patron Saint.

Upon the completion of our colonial house, in 1929, we moved from the apartment into the house. The same year my grandmother, who was living with us, died. This was a great blow to me as I used to wait on her and tend to her minor wants. I missed the stories she used to tell me. The following June we took a trip to Canada as my mother was very tired from caring for my grandmother. This was one of the most delightful trips that I can remember. Our family has always been fond of traveling. The beauty of the New England country with its swift streams, rolling hills and good food has remained fast in my memory. I also believe that the beauty of Canada, and especially the cities of Montreal and Quebec, are unsurpassed.  

Most of the mail we have in family records went to their address in St. Petersburg, Florida, where the family lived during the winter, returning to Willow Grove in the summer, beginning in 1931, when she was 7 years old. As our mother notes in her writings, the travel back and forth—recommended by his doctors for James Anthony’s health—made for a disjointed schooling,  especially in the grade school years. On several occasions she was put back and then put forward again as she caught up.

In September of 1934, our mother reports that they brought along “my father’s cousin” for their annual stay while she was in 5th grade. Marian’s father is on the left of the photograph at right. There does appear to be some family resemblance with the man to his left and perhaps that is the cousin she refers to. Unfortunately, she does not mention his name, neither here nor when she later mentions that he dies suddenly in March of the following year. They leave early from St. Petersburg to go back to Philadelphia for the funeral.

In 1937 her father sold the Willow Grove property and they moved to St Petersburg, lodging at first at the Heaven’s Delight Apartments, at 5th Avenue and 3rd Street South. The next year they moved all their furniture down from Philadelphia and bought a home at 1916 10th Street South to live there year ‘round. There is also—on our mother’s sheet music in 1940—the address of 1445 10th Street South but perhaps that was a teacher’s address.

In 1942 James Anthony entered the Bay Pines VA Hospital for treatment due to his worsening health and the family prepared to go back to Philadelphia. Marian and her family may have thought that job prospects for their newly graduated daughter might have been better up North—particularly since she sought a career in radio and music—but the job search proved very disappointing.

The next couple of years were disheartening and very sad—James Anthony was moved up to the VA Hospital in Oteen, NC, near Asheville, and then moved back again to the Bay Pines VA in St Petersburg, with no improvement. Friends in Florida alerted our mother and grandmother that James Anthony’s condition was worsening and he was brought up to live with them at 5901 Lawndale Street in Philadelphia in their small, second-floor apartment, during a sweltering summer, where he died on 27 August 1944 at age 56. Dr. George J Rilling of 5752 Rising Sun Ave—yet another address near the old Jas. Dawson & Sons location on Sedgley—was the attending physician. Perhaps he was a family acquaintance.

The best account of these wartime years is, of course, written by our mother in her For the Love of the “Mike”:

On August 6, [1942] my father decided to go to Bay Pines hospital for treatment. He had been suffering with a rupture for a long time and had been putting off going to the hospital. After two weeks of examinations and tests, the doctors have decided that he is terribly run down and that his lung ailment needs more immediate attention. Consequently, they have decided to transfer him to the veteran’s hospital at Oteen, North Carolina, as the climate is better for his ailment.

During the entire summer, we have been planning to go to Philadelphia in the Fall so that I may  go on with my career. Since my father has gone to the hospital my mother and I have been carrying on the planning and preparation for this trip. We have partially renovated both the inside and outside of the house so that we may rent it in the Fall. Our car must be sold along with a few more of our possessions. When all of these things are taken care of, we will be free to make the trip.

The time seemed endless as Mama and I were waiting to make our journey north. The day finally came, however, and we were on our way. Of all months in the year to pick to head northward we picked January. A normal person would of course come south. We travelled by Greyhound bus (that was the most economical) and planned a stop over in Asheville, North Carolina, to visit my father at the hospital at Oteen. The trip to Asheville was uneventful and the weather proceeded to get cooler as we got further north. It was a very raw and chilly day that we arrived in Asheville and my father was at the bus terminal to meet us. He of course was very pleased to see us once more; it had been such a long time. We found rooms in a private house near the hospital (Oteen is outside Asheville), which was very comfortable and warm. It belonged to a Mrs. Beazley whose husband worked in the hospital. He has since gone into the Army for the second time as he was in the First World War and her son has also been drafted. Her son was leaving while we were there and he felt very badly about going. During our three day stay the weather was cold and raw and it snowed on and off the entire time. The hospital was bleak and dreary and the weather didn’t help any. We went into Asheville and looked around, and I happened to think of John Rhodes whom I have mentioned earlier in this autobiography, and thought of looking him up.

I remembered the name of the hotel at which he used to work so went  there and inquired about him and where he was at the present time. The clerk was a very good friend of the family and said that John had been in the Army but had an appendicitis operation and was sent home to recuperate and was now working at the “Bon Marche” in Asheville.

I promptly went to the “Bon Marche” and asked for John. (We had corresponded for so long but had never seen one another.) He of course didn’t know me and when I introduced myself he was so surprised. I told him I was on my way north and gave him my godmother’s address. He promised to write which he did later. Had a nice little chat then said good-bye.

Also visited the Radio Station (cannot remember the call letters) and had a nice chat with the announcers and the girl control engineer. (I had no technical knowledge at that time.) Told them I was going to try at WIP in Philadelphia. They wished me luck and a nice trip.

Left Asheville on Monday morning and it was still bleak and cold. Had a very nice crowd on the bus they were always cracking jokes. The trip was beautiful from there up as we went through the Shenandoah valley. The mountains were ablaze with all the fall and winter colors, and peaked with snow. Were wishing we could stop at Harrisonburg, Virginia, at friends the Argenbright’s but it would mean an extra stop-over and extra money which we had very limited amount of. An amusing incident happened around Harrisonburg. It was early morning and every one had been sleeping on and off throughout the night (except Mama who slept on and off day and night) and were rather groggy. We were nearing a bus station and the bus gave a swerve around a corner. Mama always carried a brown “carry-all” bag with everything imaginable in it and had it on the floor beside her. She was sitting across the aisle from me, as we couldn’t find two seats together at that time. The man next to her (next to the aisle) was asleep and had his shoes off, so when the bus swerved Mama’s Carry-all bag swerved too and spilled out on the floor. Spoons bottle openers and atomizers were thrown on the floor and in her haste to pick them up she put (in the very bottom of the bag) the man’s shoes. It was rather embarrassing trying to explain how she did that!

Cold and tired and decidedly dirty we arrived at Philadelphia. Went to Broad Street Station and phoned the Uhlein’s. There was no one home as it was early in the afternoon and they had not arrived home from work yet. So, we sat and sat some more. Finally called and they were home. Boarded an Easton bus and went out to Willow Grove.

Received a warm welcome from the Uhlein’s and were certainly glad to get cleaned up after our long trip. Met Larue, Adrian’s wife, for the first time and liked her immediately . . .

My mother and I began to get letters [the next year, in 1943] from Florida friends saying that my father’s health was bad and he looked as if he was not improving. He remained in Florida for the remainder of the winter however and in June came up to us again. We were both shocked to see him as he had failed so very much and was only a shadow of his former self. He was sick almost from the moment he landed here and about three weeks later became so sick that he was bedridden .The doctors couldn’t help him and he was very miserable as we were in a second floor apartment and the heat was unbearable, even for a well person. His health kept failing and he was getting weaker seemingly by the minute, and on August 27^th he passed away.

Now there is only Mama and I. The funeral is over and we are at present waiting for her compensation to come through and several things to straighten themselves out so we may be more settled. We are hoping to find a little apartment down in the city where it will be more convenient for my work and to get into the center city. We cannot make any move just now for all the money is tied up and will just have to wait until things start to come through on her compensation.