Dad Said…

You never know what will come up when Dad starts reminiscing, this time over Thanksgiving.

Grandpa Hanrahan studied veterinary science at Washington State in the teens. When he applied, he was scheduled for entrance exams. After the first one, which was in Latin, the examiner admitted him on the spot.

He also studied Castillian Spanish at Blackrock. He and Uncle Peter used to argue about Castillian vs “Southern California” Spanish. What a hoot!!

Dad reports that Grandpa left Ireland (the first time) in shame: he loved to ride horses, to the extent that he rode in horse races, much to the horror of the gentry.

It was Aunt Cassie, a mutual friend, who introduced Grandma and Grandpa. I didn’t think to ask how Aunt Cassie knew the both of them...

Dad majored in International Studies at USC, before the war. He’d thought about going into journalism (sports, since he was such a big fan, and knowledgeable). He talked to the head of the journalism dept. at USC (not a PhD, in those days), who told him, basically, “If you don't love it, don't bother.”

Dad’s basic training was at Camp Roberts. He got a big kick out of the U-Haul-truck-parked-on-the-side-of-the-freeway-just-across-from-the-main-gate moving story.

Sr Jenny’s previous name in religion was Sr John Dominic (hadn’t heard that name in years). The nuns at Mission High were Dominicans; Dad was surprised that she didn’t join up with them, but did note that, as with the Girl’s Dean (?) at Mission, she did choose Dominic as the second name. I hadn’t realized that Jenny went to Mission. She pitched for Dad, and had some pretty evil moves.

Dad’s first baseman also attended Mission, in the first graduating class. They had their 50th reunion recently, and this gal was one of the speakers. She praised Dad for his softball coaching (surprising most of her classmates, since Dad wasn’t a girls’ coach at Mission), and mentioned that all of her children had played soft/baseball, and not one of their coaches had taught them first baseman’s footwork. She had to teach them, and had gotten it from Dad (of course).

Mom was the catcher.

In baseball, at least, Dad’s arch-nemesis at Mission was St Francis (in La Cañada, of all places). After one game, I don’t recall who won, the St Francis boys got together for their cheer for the opponent, and what did Dad hear? “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Hammerhead!!!” The St Louis kids came by it honestly, I guess.