...Just
before returning to Nova Scotia, Frank Beazley received
records from the orphanages where he lived from shortly
after birth until he was 12. Almost 70, he was uncovering
details of his early life that had been a secret even to
him.
...Frank
saw letters that his grandmother and mother wrote to the
two institutions during the years they lived within walking
distance but never visited. The evidence confirmed beyond
question that Edna May (Beazley) Moffatt was his mother
— not his sister, as his grandmother had claimed.
The records revealed the name of the father and the address
where he was living when unmarried Edna became pregnant
at 17.
...On
June 8, 1998, Frank flew to Halifax. The next day, the distant
relative who had responded to his letters visited him in
his hotel. A Beazley family genealogist, the young man had
nothing further to tell Frank about his grandmother and
mother, but he knew the married name of Edna’s daughter
— Frank’s half-sister, Helen, whose childhood
nickname was ‘‘Snookie.’’ She lived
two hours from Halifax. Her number was listed.
...Frank
asked his nurse to call.
 |
Christine Caparco,
an employee at Zambarano Hospital,
hands Frank the mail which he
delivers to other patients.
Journal photo/Mary Murphy | ...You
don’t know me, the nurse said, but I’m up here
with a gentleman and we’re trying to locate his family.
We were wondering if the name ‘Snookie’ meant
anything to you.
...I
haven’t heard that name in so long! Helen said.
...Does
the name Francis Beazley mean anything?
...Helen
said that it did. The Francis Beazley she remembered was
her mother’s brother — her uncle — a teenager
who had lived upstairs at Bluebell Lane, and later, as an
adult, visited when the family owned the tourist compound
called Bramley Gardens. Helen hadn’t seen Frank since
1953. She didn’t know where life had taken him, she
said, but she had sometimes wondered. Frank had been so
nice to her when she was growing up.
...The
next day, Helen drove into Halifax. Frank greeted her in
his room.
...They
were happy to see each other after so many years. After
chatting some, Frank said:
...How
is Mother?
...Helen
said that her mother was living with her.
...Your
mother and mine are one, Frank said.
...Helen
didn’t get it.
...I’m
your half-brother, Frank said.
...The
conversation stopped. The mystery man about whom relatives
still sometimes whispered had materialized, here on Nova
Scotia soil. He was no closet skeleton, but a kindly old
man with a simple wish.
...Frank
asked if Edna ever spoke of him.
...Helen
said that the woman, almost 84, had Alzheimer’s disease.
...Is
there any way that she could communicate?
...No,
Frank, Helen said.
...Frank
wanted to visit, but Helen wouldn’t allow it.
...They
talked some more, but not about the Beazleys. Helen did
not reveal that Nellie and Edna had sold Bramley Gardens
in 1963 and moved to British Columbia for two years, then
relocated to Ottawa, where Nellie died in 1975 at the age
of 89, her hold over Edna having persisted to the grave.
He did not learn that Edna had married a retired navy officer
in 1983, when she was 73. The officer died three years later.
...Before
Helen left, Frank gave her his address and said:
...Now
that you know the story, if you’re willing to bring
me into the family, you can write to me. You don’t
have to. I know that you have children to take care of,
that you’re married. I’m not going to be somebody
they don’t like. But I’d like to stay in touch.
|
Frank
poses during his 1998 trip back to Halifax, Nova
Scotia, where he visited his former homes including the orphanages and his
foster home.
Photo courtesy of Frank Beazley | ...THE RECORDS LISTED Ralph Flemming as Frank’s
father, but the only Ralph Flemming listed in the Halifax
directory was not him. Frank would never meet his father,
or learn much of anything beyond his name and an almost
70-year-old address. Like his peers at St. Joseph’s
Orphanage — like his mother — time had swallowed
Frank’s father.
...Frank
spent the remainder of his visit on the move.
...He
rode by the shopping mall built where St. Joseph’s
Orphanage had been, and he rode by 50 Creighton St., where
he had first seen his mother. That house was gone, replaced
by a newer residence, but the house on Bluebell Lane remained,
the garage that he’d constructed still standing. I
built that! he told his companions. It’s still there!
Windsor Sweets, the soda fountain that he and the Bluebell
gang had frequented, was a beauty parlor — the pretty
soda clerk Winnie long gone — but Ben’s Limited,
the bakery where Frank had worked as a young man, remained
in business. A manager gave him a tour.
...The
house where Frank lived with his alcoholic foster mother
had been razed for a watershed, but Frank rode past the
fields where he had seen the northern lights. He visited
Peggy’s Cove. He visited the Halifax waterfront, where
his long-dead grandfather had been a steamship clerk. Playing
slot machines at a casino, he won $170, which he donated
to a disabled children’s fund.
...A
Halifax journalist heard of this native son’s return
and interviewed him. Frank summarized his life’s story
and used the opportunity to advocate for the disabled.
...‘‘Ramps
and sidewalks are bad in Halifax because of bumps on the
curbing, which means you can’t get across fast enough,’’
Frank said. ‘‘And I wish they’d upgrade
the air terminal. I had to go to the ladies’ bathroom
because the doors on the men’s weren’t wide
enough.’’
...
MIKE SAPORITO, the other surviving member
of The Three Musketeers, was dwindling when Frank flew off
to Halifax. His muscular dystrophy had robbed him of the
use of both arms, forcing him to use his chin to maneuver
the joystick of his motorized wheelchair. Eating had become
more difficult and he was increasingly susceptible to pneumonia.
...Mike’s
condition worsened while Frank was away. His kidneys began
shutting down, his lungs filled with fluid, and his heart
struggled to keep its beat. Five days after Frank returned
to Zambarano, at 7 in the morning, a nurse tried to wake
Mike. He did not respond.
...Mike
had died in his sleep. He was 64.
...The
new millennium approached, and some of Frank’s other
friends lost more ground to their diseases. Frank blamed
himself for his accident — forgetting to tie his boot
laces was an act of ‘‘stupidity,’’
he often said — but what of people like Louie Pafundi?
...‘‘I
always wonder where the justice is,’’ Frank
said. ‘‘These people were out there having fun,
enjoying life — and all of a sudden they’re
diagnosed with a disease. Why Louie? Why Mike? Why is there
disease?’’
...Frank
did not have the answer.
...Life
goes on, he thought. Seasons change; the wheel
turns.
...He
was still here, and there was plenty left to do.
|
Above, Frank
Beazley and Roy Shovelton, both Zambarano patients,
wait in the State Senate chambers to
be recognized on Zambarano Day at the State House.
Below, Frank lobbies Gov. Donald Carcieri
to restore cuts to the budget for art classes at the State Hospitals.
Journal photos/Mary Murphy |  |
...IN
THE YEARS after Mike’s death, Frank won an
award for his poem ‘‘Northern Lights,’’
a remembrance of his childhood. He lent another poem to
an exhibition at the 2002 Winter Olympics. He was named
poet laureate of VSA Arts of Rhode Island, local affiliate
of an international group that promotes artistic works by
the disabled. He showed his paintings at festivals, and
donated some of the money from sales of his prints and Christmas
cards to United Cerebral Palsy.
...He
continued to testify before the General Assembly every year
during budget deliberations. With Patients for Progress,
the advocacy group, he led efforts to establish Zambarano
Day at the State House. He was appointed to the Rhode Island
Disabilities Council, a federally mandated agency devoted
to bettering the lives of people with disabilities. When
the state public transit authority proposed cutting bus
service to Zambarano, Frank joined the campaign to preserve
the route.
‘‘It makes me mad,’’ he said. ‘‘I
became an American citizen to get my voice, and now I’m
going to use it.’’ Service continued to Wallum
Lake.
...Inside
Zambarano, Frank delivered patients’ mail and newspapers,
and sold candy from his wheelchair. He cheered despondent
patients.
...Always
remember one thing, Sister Rita Marie had told Frank when
he was a boy of 11. There’s a fork in the road. There’s
a good route and a bad one. Whatever you choose, let’s
hope it’s the good one.
...Frank
continued down the good.
 |
Above,
Marion Henn Oakley, Frank’s foster sister, poses
with one of her seven children. Marion contacted Frank
after his 1998 trip back to Nova Scotia, reconnecting
with him after more than 50 years.
Photo courtesy of Marion Oakley. |
 |
During
his trip, Frank met his half-sister again,
but a meeting with his mother, Edna (Beazley)
Moffatt, left, was not to be.
Photo courtesy of a Beazley relative. | | FRANK
HAD RETURNED from Halifax hoping that Helen would
reflect on the sudden reappearance of her half-brother.
When weeks passed with no word, Frank wrote to her.
...‘‘I
have been lying in bed thinking about what to put in this
letter,’’ he began. ‘‘I know it’s
a big step in your direction to find a way to accept me
as one of yours.’’
...Frank
told Helen that he thought about her daily. He asked her
to send pictures of her children. He inquired about Edna’s
health. He signed the letter with his X and added a postscript:
‘‘I do really want to hear from you. Let me
know where I stand.’’
...Helen
never replied.
...Along
with sadness, life brought blessings. The newspaper column
featuring Frank was published after he left Canada, and
when it appeared, childhood friends marveled at what Frankie
had accomplished in the half-century since they’d
seen him. No one predicted this crazy kid who talked to
movie screens was destined for bigger things.
...‘‘I
was sorry to read about your accident but very happy about
your trip to Halifax, your old memories of the area, and
the great work you are doing for handicapped people,’’
wrote Stan Ernst, a member of the old Bluebell gang. ‘‘Keep
up your good work and remember that you are NOT forgotten
by some of your old friends.’’
...Someone
who’d been even dearer to Frank also wrote to him
after reading the column: his foster sister, Marion, with
whom he had gone skating and blueberry picking. She was
Marion Henn Oakley now, married with 7 children and 14 grandchildren.
Marion and Frank exchanged calls and letters, and Frank
hung a photo of Marion on his wall, next to his certificate
of citizenship. In the summer of 2000, Marion and her husband
drove to Zambarano to see Frank. They cried together.
...‘‘Hope
things are good for you,’’ Marion wrote in one
letter. ‘‘You sure are a busy guy. And what’s
this about you being my (foster) brother? To me, you’re
my brother. I remember you doing the most for me. When you
were around, you took good care of me. They are the good
things I remember.’’
TOMORROW | A GOOD FIGHT
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