This one is rather short.  The names are real because it is an historic event that you may have heard about.  I've seen it depicted in documentaries and movies like The Birdman of Alcatraz.

Tragedy

Peter Miller's father was a guard at Alcatraz.  

Peter lived on that little island in the middle of San Francisco Bay.  Each morning he would board the launch that would bring him to the pier at the foot of Van Ness Avenue.  He would ride the bus up Van Ness to Broadway, get off, cross the street, and walk the half block to Saint Brigid's.  Peter was the only one in our class who lived on Alcatraz.

Peter was not in our 'gang', but he was one of my friends.  Sometimes he would invite me to meet him at the pier on Saturday morning, and we would ride the launch to Alcatraz.  We would play around the small housing area on the East side of the island until it was time for me to take the launch back to the city.

Inside the launch was screened area the prisoners rode in.  On one trip I saw a man in a dark suit  handcuffed to another man in a dark suit sitting in the screened area.  I don't know who was the policeman or who was the prisoner, but I'm sure I stared with boyhood curiosity at both of them.  But  most of the time the launch just ferried prison officials and their families.

One morning in May of 1946, Peter came to school with a worried look on his face.  There was riot at the prison.  Peter had not been able to go home the previous afternoon, and he was staying with the family of another schoolmate.

Sister Mary Catherine told us about the riot, and our morning prayers were offered for Peter's father.

Peter stood alone that day.  No one knew what to say to him.  We didn't play ball or tag at recess.  We just sort of sat on the ground in little groups and talked about the riot, and about Peter.

Lee and I walked to the end of Larkin Street after school.  Larkin Street ended at the top of a big hill.  There was a big empty lot that sloped down to Polk Street.  On the other side of the lot was a large covered reservoir.  From the top of the hill you could see the entire bay from the Golden Gate Bridge to Telegraph Hill and Coit Tower.  Alcatraz was the centerpiece of this vista.

There wasn't much to see.  A lot of small boats were cruising around the island, and a couple of small airplanes were flying over it.  We had heard that Marines were going to land on the island to help quell the riot.  But, as small boys are wont to do, we stared at the scene anyway, and imagined what we couldn't actually see.

A couple of days later Peter's desk was empty.  Sister Mary Catherine told us that Peter's father had been killed by one of the convicts. I was stunned.  I knew Peters father.  He was the first person I had ever known who had died.  I kept thinking about this man who patted me on the head, who had tossed a ball to me a couple of times, who I sat at the supper table with, who had smiled at me, who had shaken hands with me.

That morning the whole school filed into the church, and Monsignor Cantwell led us in prayer for Peter's father.

I never saw Peter again.  I don't know where he went, or what ever happened to him.  But whenever I think of him, I also think of his father, and of the first time I felt the emotion of sorrow. 

Noel

Thanks again Peter.

Another excellent insight to your life.

Very Best....  Phil

Noel,

I'm sorry for  calling you Peter,

My neighbor, Peter is outside nattering and I got waylaid!

Phil

In grammar school I had a teacher who was a kid at that time also & he told us what he saw. Said the same as you, the planes flying overhead & the talk about the Marines.

My sister had a friend in high school whose father was also a guard on the island, and how she had to take the boat back & forth every day to attend school.

A little followup to your story, Noel!

https://www.bop.gov/about/history/hero_miller.jsp

Thanks Charlie.  I recognize him from the picture.  Reading that article and re-reading the story I wrote when I posted it here brings back the sad memory after 78 years.

I wrote these stories over 20 years ago for my grandkids,  They are in their 30s now.  Things were fresher in my mind then.  My grand children are now sharing them with my great grandkids as I am sharing them with you.  

Some told me I should have them published.  But they have become sort of a family heirloom.  They are not for sale although two of them have been published in magazines.

I would encourage people to write about their childhoods for later generations to read.  Give your grandchildren a glimpse into your lives as you lived them when you were their age.

Noel