My cousin “Pooch” recently passed away. I loved this man, who was the last living connection to my own father’s younger years. Dad, along with my Uncle Mick, were more like older brothers to Pooch, rather than uncles. There were many stories of their times together over the years. As a young boy, he idolized my dad and Uncle Mick when they were both serving overseas during WWII.

These comments are based on my conversations with George (I always called him “Pooch”), past memories from my father, and some written information that Pooch gave me. Any inaccuracies here are strictly my own, and shouldn’t be attributed to anyone else.

George Francis Connell Jr passed away on Sunday, March 10th, 2019. He was 84 years old.

George, also known as “Pooch”, was born on July 27th, 1934 in Orient, Illinois. It was the middle of the depression, and his parents, George and Ellen Connell were poor by today’s standards, but at the time, it was the plight that many people faced. In George’s words “ I was born next door in a duplex. The doctor was late in coming. Dad was up town drinking and someone was sent to tell him I was born.”

As a child, times were tough. In his early years, he grew up in a three room “shack” that was owned by the coal company his father worked for. There was a stove in the kitchen for both cooking and heating the house. Out back, there was a well and an outhouse. The house had no running water or electricity.

Even at an early age, Pooch was an observer of life and always trying to learn more. In 1939, at the age of 5, he watched men in the WPA improve the road in front of their house. He got to know many of the men by name and he would talk with them during their lunch hour. At the end of summer, as the men were finishing up their work, they approached the house and gave him a present – a Bull Durham tobacco bag filled with about 20 pennies. Later, George tried to plant the pennies, figuring when they grew, he’d have 40 or 50 pennies….

In 1940, the coal company drilled for oil near their home. Pooch spent the summer watching the drilling, smelling the oil in the tanks, and talking with the workmen. He got to know them well enough that they often gave him their extra dessert or a few pennies from their pockets.

The war years came and George was attending school. His inquisitiveness grew and by the end of 1942, although only in 3rd grade, he had read every book in the school library. One of the high points of those years was moving to a new school, with a new library. He had a whole new set of books to read.

If you ever had the chance to sit with George, he’d tell you wonderful stories of those days. Stories about shooting marbles, or playing stickball, or swimming in “shit creek”. Stories about both his granddad’s and his dad’s drinking, or the exploits of his young uncles, Bill and Mick, during WWII. While home recovering from a wound, Bill (my dad) taught Pooch how to swim in ’44, and after the war, Uncle Mick taught him how to throw a perfect curve ball. There were a lifetime of stories, all well told.

I’ve spent a lot of time talking about his youth, but I think it was key to the man he became. Growing up poor and dealing with hardship, his ability to observe the world, his hunger for knowledge, along with his capacity to remember things, all served him well. He had learned the values of duty and hardwork and applied these throughout his adult life.

After high school, he did a stint in the Navy during the Korean War. Following Korea, he went to college using the GI Bill and graduated from Southern Illinois University. He started working there at SIU, while he was also raising a family. Eventually, his job took him to Western Illinois University, where over the years his role grew, until he was managing all of the physical plant and support infrastructure for the University. In addition to his work, and raising his 7 children, he also met the love of his life, Dorothy during this time. They married and stayed in love for the remaining 41 years of his life.

George leveraged his work and management experience to increase his capabilities and land other jobs managing the physical plants and facilities at Hayward State and San Jose State in California. Throughout his career, he always worked for the little guy, and never forgot where he came from.

Eventually he retired, and Dorothy and he moved to Arizona. Even in retirement, George stayed active in his community and worked part time at the local golf course. He continued to find ways to enjoy life. The last we saw of Pooch and Dorothy was in October of ’17. We had a wonderful stay with them in Arizona and listened to many stories of his youth and his times with my dad.

And now, he’s gone. 84 is young, or old, I guess depending on who you are. I like to think that even as he grew older and developed health issues, he remained young. He stayed inquisitive, loved to share stories from his past, and never met a stranger that didn’t become a friend. I will miss him, cherish the memories, and promise to keep him alive in my heart. What I wouldn’t give for one more night of listening to his stories.

Rest In Peace Pooch. Rest In Peace.

Addendum: You can read two previous blogs I wrote about Pooch at the following links:

1. June 1944. Dad and Pooch on D-Day. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2016/08/19/dad-and-pooch/

2. Stickball. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/03/27/stickball%EF%BB%BF/