The Man With A Fly On His Hat

This photo has been in the family since before I was born. We always referred to it as “The Man With A Fly On His Hat.” The problem is this photo was in possession by my mother’s Irish side long before my father came along. In all probability he isn’t a Loftus. But there still is that ever-so-slight chance that he could be. He looks Irish and he is obviously excited about tipping a cold one: two traits amply found in the Loftus genes. If this man with the fly on his hat is not a Loftus, then he should be. A picture tells a thousand words.

One warm August night in 2005 I was standing in a long line waiting to see the New Braintree, MA town clerk. It must have been register-your-dog night since that is what everyone in this tiny town was doing. I was the odd-one-out, wanting to get a few death certificates, especially that of Martin Loftus, my great, great grandfather who emigrated from Ireland.

Behind me in line was Jeff Fisk, a retired teacher from David Prouty Junior High in Spencer. I asked if he remembered me. I never had him as a teacher, but I reminded him that he yelled at me enough for my antics in the hallways of that school many years ago. We had a good laugh about old times, then I mentioned I had been thinking of calling him. Jeff had written the history of New Braintree and that of several surrounding towns and churches. I wanted to know if he had remembered coming across any photos of my direct Loftus relatives. (No, he had not.)

He was surprised when I told him I was related to Bill Loftus, a major figure in the history of New Braintree from the early 1900s to the 1950s. I told him I was here to get information on Bill’s father, Martin Loftus.

Jeff said the man in front of me in line may be able to give me some information. I gently tapped the man on the shoulder. To say he was old would be an understatement. He looked to be 150 years old. Jeff told him I was related to Bill Loftus and that I was looking for information on his father.

With an expressionless face the old man blurted out, “Martin walked out of his house stone drunk one night, fell into a snowbank, and froze to death. That is how he died.”

I laughed then jokingly said, “Well, that pretty much describes the Loftus line!”

The old man never cracked a smile.

Then I started to think. Hmmmm. Martin Loftus did die in February (1917). Perhaps this story is true. I also know from snooping around the New Braintree historic archives and talking to the elders of New Braintree that Martin’s son Bill was quite a storyteller. Was this another story of Bill’s that has been passed down through the decades?

Then the old man said it again as if I hadn’t understood him the first time. “Yep, walked out of his house stone drunk and froze to death in the snow.”

“Right after robbing a bank,” I added.

“Really? Jeff asked.

I laughed again. “I don’t know! Why not?”

Then, of course, there is that other story still told every year when my family gets together for the Christmas Eve meal. It’s about another Christmas Eve long ago when my sisters and I were little kids. It was late that night, well past dinner, and my father had not arrived home yet. He had gone to a company Christmas party in Worcester earlier that day, and my mother and my two visiting great aunts at my house were starting to get worried.

My non-Loftus grandfather, with whom we lived, was the police chief in our hometown of Spencer. Suspecting the obvious on a night known for parties, he called his contact at the Worcester Police Station and inquired whether they were holding a Loftus there who may not be able to drive himself home.

“Yeah, which one do you want?” was the guard’s reply.

A picture tells a thousand words. And we all have flies on our hats.

So, here’s to all those Loftuses who have tipped a few cold porters and stouts. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be who we are today.

And here’s to all those Loftuses yet to come. May our lives become your stories to tell.