Francis, Franco, Fran, Rube (from High School days) what ever name you knew him by, he was always a friend, loyal and true. Since we were born three weeks apart and grew up a couple of houses apart on Bristol Avenue in Lockport, NY we were close friends literally from day one. We grew up in the west end and did everything you would expect kids to do in the 1940s and '50s. Grade school at Charlotte Cross, Alter Boys at St. Anthony's, baseball all summer on the vacant lots around the neighborhood until we were old enough to play on the 8th ward team, The Legion. Big Dave Seekins dad was our coach. We played the parks all over Lockport.  Eight teams in the league; one for each of the 8 wards in the city.  Fall came around and of course football on the grass at Charlotte Cross. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, snow was on the ground and sledding, tobogganing and ice skating took precidence. And it also gave us a chance to earn a few buck shoveling snow around the neighborhood. At the end of Bristol Avenue was Stevens St, a long winding hill that became our go to hill for sledding and tobogganing before the snow plows came by.  It was ideal because the grade was steep enough that cars could not get up in the snow, not could cars not go down without sliding into a tree or telly pole. We took advantage of the situation while it lasted. We had a lot of fun during those days, much of it we had to conjur up on our own. During the war we spent most of our early years,  1942  to 1945, in Charlotte Cross school. Sort of a day care while parents worked...Fran's dad worked at the flour mill on West Avenue and waved to me  and  my brothers every day as he went by on his way home. He was called "Lefty", but we never new why.  He probably never knew how many times Fran would sneak into his pristeen garden to grabs delicious grapes for us. My dad worked at Harrison Radiator which transitioned from GM car radiators to machine guns during the war.  He had to tear up our backyard baseball diamond to have our victory garden. The war shaped all of us in one way or another.

Fran, as he was know while growing up, and I used to sit on our back steps and count the military planes as they flew by on their way to the Niagara Falls Air Base, a  stop over before heading to Europe. We were awed by the many formations flying overhead. This also lent itself to model airplane making. We would collect papers and scrap metal to sell to Mr. Kuglar at his junk yard.  We would pulled our wagons down to the junk yard scales,  get weighed just like the big trucks, and collect our coin to buy a model of our choice. Or we'd sneak off to the Palace or Realto to catch a movie; Little Red Rider, Roy Rogers or cartoons, and of course the news of the day. A simpler age and time.  But during these war years and through the six grades at Charlotte Cross, Fran and I established a connection that grew into a lifelong friendship. After sixth grade at Charlotte Cross, Fran went to North Park Jr. High for 7th & 8th grade and my father sent me to St. Pat's  so the nuns could straighten me out.  But even during those two years of separation we still connected after school and on weekends.  Brothers at heart.  After the 8th grade we connected again at DeSales High School. We played football together for 4 years, I was a center and Fran was a right guard. We were connected at the hip so to speak. "Rube" as we called him then, was one tough cookie. It was also a time when you could be 5'9" and 170 pounds and play. And play we did, winning the Championship our Jr and Sr years, beating the larger Buffalo schools in the Catholic High School league. It was also during these years where Tom Niland (former Bristol Ave kid) and Jim McKnight came into our lives, and the two buddies become four buddies to this day. Tom's and Fran's spirits continue to be a part of me to this day; may they rest in peace.  85 years of friendship is hard to beat. The memories never fade.  And Marcy, know that you and the boys are also in my heart as we remember your Franco.  Love and Regards,

Pat Kenney  

i am thinking about my uncle who went by many variations on his given name, depending on who was speaking. “frank” being one, while “fran” stubbornly persisted among his own siblings and a few older relatives who knew him way back when (old habits and such). 

the name confusion further grew on my first trip to colorado to visit this uncle and his family. still basically a kid, trying to get my bearings in this new environment, i remember being taken aback when i heard him referred to as “franco” for the first time. (who is this mercurial character? how did he end up with this horse ranch again? and he’s about to make us a delicious home-cooked dinner? dang, this franco guy’s alright...)

some people just have that special knack for making you feel at home, which is what i quickly felt on that visit almost 30 years ago and every other time the geospatial stars aligned in our favor throughout the years. i’ll always remember the warmth of his welcoming presence, his generous spirit, his joy for life, and his deep love for his family that weaved through everything. he will be greatly missed.

franco forever 💕

May you Rest in Peace Franco 🙏