My Happy Life

By Bernie Cullinan

This is a story of a man who basically grew up poor in the streets of New York City, who is one of five children, and his struggle to create a better life for himself. He quit high school but got his GED, and later he was drafted into the army during the Vietnam War. It tells of his war time adventures and how he managed to survive. After leaving the army, he met and married his wife, Mary Anne, and with her strong support went to college and earned a bachelor of science in accounting while working a full-time job. It is a story of a man who overcame many difficulties to achieve a happy life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Nov 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781489709431

Bernie Cullinan

Bernie Cullinan is 73 years old and lives in Annapolis Maryland. He has been married to Mary Anne Cullinan for 45 years, and they have two grown children, ages 39 and 33. They also have three grandsons. He has just retired from NASA after 35 years. This book is about his life from childhood through the current time.

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Copyright © 2016 Bernie Cullinan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Lindsay Kammerzelt Photography (for interior image Sean, Kerri and the Boys)

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-0944-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-0945-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-0943-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016914521

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 11/08/2016

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Dedication

I dedicate this book to my sons Sean and Matt, my grandsons, Cameron, Cole, and Sebastian Cullinan, and all future generations of Cullinans who might find this book useful in understanding who I was.

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

Pop

The Hand My Mother Was Dealt

Life Was Good Anyway

My Universe

More Tales from The Block

The Dentist

My Best Friend

The Time I Almost Became Father Bernie

Tough Times in High School

Holy Cow, She’s Peeing on the Floor!

New Apartment, Same Money Problems

Becoming a Man of the World

Work, Family Matters, and the Big Blackout of 1965

When Robin Married Jackie

Take Me Out to the Ball Game!

I’m in the Army Now

Advanced Individual Training (AIT)

Viet Nam

From Stock Boy To The Stock Market: I Land A Job On Wall Street

She’s the One

The Courtship of Mary Anne Harris

From Marriage to College

Marriage, B.K. (Before Kids)

Co-Workers and Drinks: Not a Good Mix

A Great Couple

Studying with the Stars

Launching My Career with NASA

Married with Children

Extended Families, Hockey Adventures, and Introspection

We’re Off on the Road to…Well, Everywhere!

Daughters-in-Law and Grandsons!

A Very Special Woman

Dogs

Odds and Ends Before I Say Good-bye

Appendix

Foreword

A Life Well Lived

The book you are about to read is the story of a good man, a strong man, a loving husband, an adoring father. His name is Bernard Cullinan. It is the story of a man who lived the American dream, the son of a poor Irish immigrant with a third grade education. It is the story of a man who managed, while living that dream to hold on to his moral compass and his faith and who never forgot those less fortunate. How do I know this? I have been married to him for 45 years and counting.

We married young. Well, at least I did. I was 21. He was 28. We had not much going for us except a rent controlled apartment in Sunnyside, New York. The year was 1971.

It took some doing but I convinced him to start going to college at night. Bernie was not that long back from Viet Nam. He bettered himself financially somewhat by leaving the grocery business and going to work on Wall Street for what was then E. F. Hutton. Still, with nothing but a GED, the chances of promotion were practically nil, no matter how hard one worked.

Something else was needed. Once he got started, there was no stopping him. He graduated Cum Laude from Hunter College while working a full time job. It was hard work. He always worked hard and never stopped.

He went on to have a wonderful career at NASA where he was able to make fine contributions to the American Space Program. Now retired, he keeps busy with a friend running a movie club for the people in our retirement community in Annapolis, Maryland -- many of whom cannot really get out to a theatre to see new films or who just enjoy seeing a vintage film and discussing it afterwards.

Eventually, we got a larger apartment and had our first baby. He was there at the birth. From the first moment he saw his son, he was so enamored that I could barely get the baby from him to feed him. Eventually, we had a second son and it was the same. No matter how hard he was working, he always had time to spend with his boys. Since there were a lot of single mothers where we lived, people jokingly called him the neighborhood father. He would go out and play baseball or other sports with all of them. Our house was filled with love. Children, dogs, hamsters, fish, all the accoutrements of little boydom. He played a very large role in this.

I had a lot of health issues. I am not sure how he dealt with that. Twenty years of chronic daily migraine, slipped discs, and arthritis can really take it out of a person. When you add allergies and asthma to that list, you end up with a wife who managed to get through the day, keep the house, cook the meals, and who then collapsed. He was always patient and understanding. He has seen me through many surgeries and to this day, he still brings me flowers. It doesn’t get any more supportive than that, and there are many men in this world who could and should learn from him. The example he set carried over into both our sons who are now wonderful dads to our three grandsons.

We have laughed. We have cried. We have argued. We have made up. We still do. We’ve traveled and have enjoyed grandchildren. Our life together has not been easy at times. We lived in a small house. I shopped in thrift stores for the kids and myself, but we educated them both. They had no debt after college. Now we live the good life.

Yes, this is a story of a man with a life well lived. Perhaps it hasn’t been the most

exciting life, but it has been a good life and should serve as an example to everyone.

Mary Anne Cullinan

Preface

Upon getting married and moving out from the apartment I shared with my father, at some point I decided it was my responsibility to visit him on Saturday mornings to check in, drink some coffee, and talk. And talk we did.

I asked him about his life. What was his childhood like? When and how did his father die and what happened afterwards? Why did he have to work on a farm as a teenager? Where did his mother and sister go? Why and when did he join the British Navy? Pop being Pop, his answers ranged from evasive to salty, to long, wonderful tales.

Our conversations eventually led me to aim some questions at myself. Why had I suddenly gotten curious about him and his life? We had lived together for many years as fellow bachelors after my mother died so why did I wait a decade or so to start asking him all of this?

That’s when I realized, even though I was approaching 30 years old, I really didn’t know much about my Dad. Since I’d missed the opportunity to question my mother and with my father already 75 years old at that point, I did my best to learn whatever he was able to remember and willing to share. Better safe than sorry.

Fast forward to the present. As I write this memoir, I’m close to the same age my father was when I’d interview him in his kitchen. I just turned 73 and I’m retired. This is the ideal time for me to put it all down. I’ve told scattered stories of my life to various people, friends, family, even strangers over the years, but never talked about my full life in a logical, cohesive order.

If fate has allowed me to make it this far, I feel almost obligated to see that my story has been properly told. Not for me -- I lived it -- but for those family members not yet ready to wonder about their father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. I feel certain someday they will, as I did. They too will be asking the same questions I did. What was he like? What did he go through as a child, teenager, young adult, husband, father, grandfather, etc.? What about his time in school, in the army, at work, at school? Who was he?

So, here’s my attempt to provide the answers to these and other questions.

Acknowledgements

This book could not have been written without the help and support of my nephew, Michael Zezima Jr, who worked so hard with me to present my story in an informative, entertaining and cogent manner, so that the people I’ve written it for can both enjoy my story, and take something from it for their benefit.

I would also like to thank my dear wife Mary Anne, who helped me so much with my memories and supported me greatly throughout this process.

Introduction

Growing up in New York City to a moderately poor family, where I was the fourth child of five, and the only boy, I don’t think I expected much out of life. My father was making just enough money to struggle through on, and we were living from paycheck to paycheck. I grew up thinking it was normal to live that way. But my childhood was certainly not cruel or that difficult, and my parents tried their best to provide the bare necessities. I had the world of 77th Street to call my own, and that was my universe. I met the best friend I would ever have in my life when I was a teenager, Robin Weis, only to lose him to a traffic accident some twenty years later. I followed the example of my older sisters when I was old enough and got part time jobs to help out a little, and provide myself with some spending money. The trials and difficulties later on in my teens were of my own making, and those mistakes I managed to overcome later on, after a stent in the U.S. Army, only with the help and encouragement of my dear wife Mary Anne. But I also think in some measure the poverty I experienced during my youth made me work harder later on in life on every job I had, not wanting to experience that poverty ever again. This was especially true when I had the responsibility of supporting a wife and two boys.

The one thing I hope you get out of this book is the realization that any success in life is only brought about by hard work, and hopefully having someone beside and behind you as I did to support you the way I had. Once you have set on the right path, you must never give up. Keep struggling toward your goal, and I am sure success will be your ultimate reward.

Prologue

Better safe than sorry

Call me Bernard. Or Bernie. Or even Butch (which was a nickname for a chubby baby back then). I’ll answer to all of them! This isn’t the first time I’ve attempted to sum up my life in a document I hope will outlive me.

Upon being drafted and learning I’d be shipped off to Vietnam in January 1968, I decided to write a letter to my sister Ann. Since my Mom passed away in 1961, Ann had become much more than a big sister. She was my best friend, my confidant, my surrogate mother. So it was to her that I penned a goodbye note that began with these words: Going over to Vietnam means no one knows what could happen. There is a chance I might not make it back, so I want to take this time to say a few things to you.

Obviously and thankfully, Ann never had to read that letter but my time in Vietnam was not without its close calls. The closest of those calls took place while I was filling sandbags with platoon-mate named Jimmy.

We had just pulled into a new position, after being mortared by the enemy (or Charlie, as we called ‘em) more than once in our previous location. The sandbags we were filling were to be placed over the corrugated metal plates atop all the bunkers every artillery section dug in front of their hooch (tent) so the six or seven guys in each gun section could dive into the bunker for cover.

The filling of sandbags was a chore we tended to take a lot more seriously right after a mortar attack so this time, one layer of sandbags was simply not going to cut it. Jimmy and I were busting our asses to create a second batch. Better safe than sorry.

So, how many more do we have to fill? Jimmy asked.

As many as it takes, I replied.

This friggin’ ground is dry and hard, he complained. How are we supposed to fill the bags, with rocks?

Just shut up and dig.

We’d switch off about every 10 minutes or so. When was Jimmy’s turn to dig, I’d hold the sandbag open as he filled it with dirt. We were about halfway through this arduous task when I felt a bee buzz quickly past my head. I’ve always hated bugs of any kind, so I immediately dropped the sandbag and swatted around my ears and head.

Damn, the bees are a pain in the ass, I muttered.

Bees? Are you sure it was a bee?

What else could it be?

It was almost my turn to start doing the digging when another two bees buzzed right by my ear.

Shit, I yelled, more bees!

I couldn’t see them but I could sure hear ‘em. I turned to say something about it to Jimmy and immediately saw his face was locked into an expression of fear.

Geddown, you sonovabitch! he screamed. They’re firing at us!

In a flash, he and I dove to the ground as many more bees buzzed past -- this time, a safe distance above my head. Charlie had been aiming for my head but fortunately for me, Charlie was a poor shot.

Our guys started firing back and in no time, the threat was over. As I cautiously raised my head, I saw Jimmy rolling around on the ground, seemingly in agony. Oh shit, I froze, he’s been hit! Then I realized it wasn’t cries of pain I heard coming from him.

Bees?!? he yelled, pointing at me and laughing. You thought it was bees!

In a less lethal situation, I’d probably have been worried about never living it down but, I thought, I’m alive and well and hey, it was kind of funny. I joined in and soon, we looked like a couple of weirdos rolling on the ground and giggling hysterically about a bee attack. Jimmy was a good guy though. The entire episode stayed between us and most importantly, my goodbye letter remained unopened.

Making it home safe and sound from the battlefield (and the bees) was one of many times fate would benevolently intervene upon my existence. If not, I might never have gone to college or moved to Maryland or been a grandfather. I might even be Father Bernard today! I’ll get to those stories later but for now, let me tell you about my parents.

Pop

March 17 was and will always remain a day of celebration for the proudly Irish Cullinan family, but St. Patrick’s Day 1978 was a little different. Yes, my father Bernard (or Pop as I called him) was there. Yes, Mary Anne cooked up some corned beef and cabbage. And yes, I had a mug of beer in my hand. What was different in 1978 was what -- I mean who -- I was holding with the other hand. My eight-month-old son!

Sean Patrick Cullinan was born on July 13, 1977 and I was beaming as I held him on his first St. Patrick’s Day, showing him off to my own father. When Sean reached out to grab the handle of my beer glass, it seemed clear he wanted a slug for himself!

Go ahead, said Pop. He’ll enjoy it. That’s the Irish in him, you know.

Pop stood by with all the pride of a grandfather, an Irish grandfather, watching his grandson enjoying the suds, as they called it. Three generations of Cullinan men there together, one hundred and fifteen years in all. Past, present, and future.

PopandSean1978.jpg

My Father Bernard Pop Cullinan with his Grandson Sean Cullinan 1978

***

Pop was one of four children born to Peter and Delia Cullinan. He came into the world on July 8, 1898, in the small Irish town of Bruree, in County Limerick, Ireland. Yep, that’s Bruree. Years later, I’d kid my father about being born in a Brewery. He’d patiently correct me each time. It’s "Bru-ree, Bru-ree" (with the emphasis on the second syllable).

More than a century after Pop’s birth, I’d get my chance to visit Bruree when I along with Mary Anne, Sean and his wife Kerri, and my second son, Matthew, visited Ireland. As we walked through the small town of Bruree, we passed a church. It seemed too new to be the one my father attended but I still couldn’t help but recall him once telling me about being kicked out of the confessional by the priest. He wouldn’t tell me what he said, but it must have been a doozy!

My father’s father was Peter Cullinan, a member of the Irish police force under the command of the English, who controlled the whole country of Ireland at the time. The police force -- nicknamed the Black and Tan after the colors of their uniforms -- were hated by the everyday Irish. This reality feels important to keep in mind when you consider how my grandfather Peter died in a bicycle accident while on patrol.

Peter’s wife Delia, my grandmother, had no means of support upon losing her husband, so she opted to head for America, along with her daughter Mary. Her three sons, Edward, Michael, and my father (in his teens by then) were placed on farms where they worked for room and board -- sort of like indentured servants. My father often told me how he hated this arrangement, but since the farmer he stayed with had a pretty daughter, he