Showing posts with label Obituaries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Obituaries. Show all posts
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Brad Delp, 1951-2007
The voice that made Boston unique among the Camaro-rock bands of the late '70s died last night in his southern New Hampshire home. He was 55. More from the Boston Globe here. More from me later.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Relaxing under the family tree
This past weekend in Missouri wasn't nearly as somber as I expected it to be; perhaps not even as somber as it should have been. That's OK, though. Nobody is particularly worried whether that's the way Grandpa would have wanted it. That's just the way we are.
We said our goodbyes to Grandpa in proper fashion, complete with taps and a 21-gun salute to honor his time in the Navy. The service was in a beautiful setting; out in the hills of southeastern Greene County, in a tiny little cemetery bounded by what could only be described as a meadow. There were even butterflies, dozens of little yellow butterflies flying about. It was bright, and quiet, and peaceful, the way a peaceful rest should be. My dad's father was 89, and he had earned a peaceful rest.
After the service, we repaired to the home of Grandpa and Grandma's fifth son, the Uncle Who Made Good. Downstairs, a pool game broke out; upstairs, 20 or 30 family members, many of whom I actually knew, were eating, talking, occasionally shrieking with laughter, and generally enjoying each other's company. This is a very, very good thing. Frankly, it's hard not to enjoy yourself around this group of people, no matter the circumstances.
"Diverse" doesn't even begin to describe the family into which I was born. My dad was one of eight children (the oldest died very young, several years before my dad was born.) Six boys, two girls. Seven of those eight produced 20 grandchildren. Ironically, the first-born of my generation also died young. Born in 1964, he died in his late 20s of cancer.
Among the remaining 19 are a doctor, a TV reporter turned marketing guy for a worldwide poker outfit, the journalist-turned-software-guy, a banker, a receptionist turned mortgage processor, at least three high school dropouts, a vice president of a renowned national museum (thanks to the wonders of Google, I just discovered this fact a few minutes ago; more on that later), a couple of good ol' boys, and a few who are still struggling to find their places in life. One of them actually has no biological connection to the rest of us (yeah, we'll come back to that one, too.)
All of us have a talent of some sort that sets us apart from the rest of the world:
Two of the high school dropouts, sisters in their early 20s, are fantastic singers; one of them is a very good mandolin player.
Cousin Otis's writing speaks for itself, but I'll speak for him to remind you of his National Headliner Award from a few years ago.
The banker has a great deal of technical acumen, more than the one of us who actually makes his living as an IT guy.
At least two of my cousins are capable of growing ZZ Top-style beards (I, meanwhile, can barely grow facial hair at all). My sister is an uncommonly beautiful woman who graduated from college with a GPA that was within a short reach of 4.0.
Pretty much any of the boys can pick a guitar. All of us, with the possible exception of my sister, are comfortable speaking in front of large groups of people. I guess we came by that naturally.
And I can say this with little fear of contradiction:
I haven't talked to the ZZ Top-bearded cousins or the mortgage processor cousin or the high school dropouts more than maybe five times in the last 15 years. We're not people who would associate with each other if we weren't related. But: If I called one of those people in need of something, they'd do whatever they could to help. As I would for them.
That undeniable bond is what Grandma and Grandpa left behind. That's a success that can't be measured in dollars or square feet or any other of the empty units of measure to which we too often attempt to ascribe importance.
-----------------
A couple of mentions above begged further explanation. I'll try to explain here.
My two oldest living uncles are, shall we say, men of mystery. Each has been married several times; one of them, well, a few more than several.
This particular uncle, T, is not somebody who has lived life by the book, unless that book was written by somebody like Hunter S. Thompson. He is emphatically not a role model. Where there is family controversy, T is at the center.
Uncle T is 63. He is currently on (we think) his eighth marriage, to a woman who is younger than me. About a year ago, she gave birth to a child. Said child is credited as Grandchild No. 20, despite the fact that he very, very obviously is not biologically related to us. None of us tans like that, nor is any of us capable of growing an afro, and amidst all the diversity of my cousins, one common thread is blue eyes. But, the conventional wisdom goes, she had the kid while she was married to one of us, so he's one of us too.
Among this black-sheep uncle's other children is M ... who is the aforementioned VP of the renowned national museum.
I don't know her; she grew up with her mom in a town 100 miles west of Anytown. She's three years younger than me. Grandma sent her Christmas gifts every year, and occasionally received pictures from M's mom. (As I pointed out in my tribute to my grandmother, one of the most striking aspects of her funeral service was the number of her sons' ex-wives who came to pay their respects.)
The last time I thought about M was 17 years ago, when she graduated from high school. Grandma proudly told me that she recorded one of the highest ACT scores in all of Missouri. M is now 35; she lives in a large city on the East Coast under her maiden name, behind which there are many letters. I'm not sure if she's married.
None of my cousins nor I have seen M since probably 1972, if even then, which means she would have been a baby and none of us would be old enough to remember having met her. But if she had been at Grandpa's funeral -- or if she came to Anytown for Christmas -- there'd be a seat for her, and she'd be immediately mobbed by 20 people wanting to hear about her life and asking her opinions and making sure she had plenty of food and drink. Somebody would say, "You're a lot bigger than last time I saw you." One of the ZZ Top Beards would give her a big, vaguely frightening hug and tell her he loves her.
It's an undeniable bond. Fascinating, sometimes infuriating, occasionally a bit unnerving ... but always undeniable. It outlived my grandparents, it will outlive all of us, and it will always be one of my favorite things about being me.
We said our goodbyes to Grandpa in proper fashion, complete with taps and a 21-gun salute to honor his time in the Navy. The service was in a beautiful setting; out in the hills of southeastern Greene County, in a tiny little cemetery bounded by what could only be described as a meadow. There were even butterflies, dozens of little yellow butterflies flying about. It was bright, and quiet, and peaceful, the way a peaceful rest should be. My dad's father was 89, and he had earned a peaceful rest.
After the service, we repaired to the home of Grandpa and Grandma's fifth son, the Uncle Who Made Good. Downstairs, a pool game broke out; upstairs, 20 or 30 family members, many of whom I actually knew, were eating, talking, occasionally shrieking with laughter, and generally enjoying each other's company. This is a very, very good thing. Frankly, it's hard not to enjoy yourself around this group of people, no matter the circumstances.
"Diverse" doesn't even begin to describe the family into which I was born. My dad was one of eight children (the oldest died very young, several years before my dad was born.) Six boys, two girls. Seven of those eight produced 20 grandchildren. Ironically, the first-born of my generation also died young. Born in 1964, he died in his late 20s of cancer.
Among the remaining 19 are a doctor, a TV reporter turned marketing guy for a worldwide poker outfit, the journalist-turned-software-guy, a banker, a receptionist turned mortgage processor, at least three high school dropouts, a vice president of a renowned national museum (thanks to the wonders of Google, I just discovered this fact a few minutes ago; more on that later), a couple of good ol' boys, and a few who are still struggling to find their places in life. One of them actually has no biological connection to the rest of us (yeah, we'll come back to that one, too.)
All of us have a talent of some sort that sets us apart from the rest of the world:
Pretty much any of the boys can pick a guitar. All of us, with the possible exception of my sister, are comfortable speaking in front of large groups of people. I guess we came by that naturally.
And I can say this with little fear of contradiction:
I haven't talked to the ZZ Top-bearded cousins or the mortgage processor cousin or the high school dropouts more than maybe five times in the last 15 years. We're not people who would associate with each other if we weren't related. But: If I called one of those people in need of something, they'd do whatever they could to help. As I would for them.
That undeniable bond is what Grandma and Grandpa left behind. That's a success that can't be measured in dollars or square feet or any other of the empty units of measure to which we too often attempt to ascribe importance.
-----------------
A couple of mentions above begged further explanation. I'll try to explain here.
My two oldest living uncles are, shall we say, men of mystery. Each has been married several times; one of them, well, a few more than several.
This particular uncle, T, is not somebody who has lived life by the book, unless that book was written by somebody like Hunter S. Thompson. He is emphatically not a role model. Where there is family controversy, T is at the center.
Uncle T is 63. He is currently on (we think) his eighth marriage, to a woman who is younger than me. About a year ago, she gave birth to a child. Said child is credited as Grandchild No. 20, despite the fact that he very, very obviously is not biologically related to us. None of us tans like that, nor is any of us capable of growing an afro, and amidst all the diversity of my cousins, one common thread is blue eyes. But, the conventional wisdom goes, she had the kid while she was married to one of us, so he's one of us too.
Among this black-sheep uncle's other children is M ... who is the aforementioned VP of the renowned national museum.
I don't know her; she grew up with her mom in a town 100 miles west of Anytown. She's three years younger than me. Grandma sent her Christmas gifts every year, and occasionally received pictures from M's mom. (As I pointed out in my tribute to my grandmother, one of the most striking aspects of her funeral service was the number of her sons' ex-wives who came to pay their respects.)
The last time I thought about M was 17 years ago, when she graduated from high school. Grandma proudly told me that she recorded one of the highest ACT scores in all of Missouri. M is now 35; she lives in a large city on the East Coast under her maiden name, behind which there are many letters. I'm not sure if she's married.
None of my cousins nor I have seen M since probably 1972, if even then, which means she would have been a baby and none of us would be old enough to remember having met her. But if she had been at Grandpa's funeral -- or if she came to Anytown for Christmas -- there'd be a seat for her, and she'd be immediately mobbed by 20 people wanting to hear about her life and asking her opinions and making sure she had plenty of food and drink. Somebody would say, "You're a lot bigger than last time I saw you." One of the ZZ Top Beards would give her a big, vaguely frightening hug and tell her he loves her.
It's an undeniable bond. Fascinating, sometimes infuriating, occasionally a bit unnerving ... but always undeniable. It outlived my grandparents, it will outlive all of us, and it will always be one of my favorite things about being me.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Grandpa, 1917-2006
It wasn't easy to find prosperity in northwest Texas in the late 1930s. It wasn't easy anywhere, really, as the Depression still had most of the world in its firm grip. Those of us who grew up in the world those people fought to build will, hopefully, never fully understand.
It was in this environment where a 21-year-old man with a bit of a reputation for trouble married a sweet young redhead, and, with very little in the way of raw material with which to work, began building a family.
The sweet young redhead who grew up to be my grandmother went on to the next place two years ago. Wednesday, my grandfather joined her.
The first few of his 89 years were pretty hardscrabble. I don't know a lot of the details of his childhood, but he once shared with me some stories of his teenage years. They made mine look pretty tame and boring by comparison. Tales of freight-train rides, of dodging the law (sometimes not so successfully) in Bonnie-and-Clyde era Texas, of never turning down an opportunity for a fight.
He took his attitude to the Navy just in time to wind up on a ship in the Pacific during World War II. He told me about getting in trouble for fighting and gambling. He was able to channel the former into a bit of an amateur boxing career while he was on the ship. My grandfather was not at all a big man, but what he lacked in size was apparently made up for in scrappiness.
He was father to three boys when the hostilities began in earnest in 1942. One more came along during the war, and one more was born a little more than a year after V-J Day. The oldest died in 1943. My dad was the second of a set of twins born in 1950, bringing the child count back to six when the decision was made to leave Texas.
At the end of the road was Springfield, Mo., home to Baptist Bible College and a newly opened paper cup factory. Grandpa spent his time studying at the former and working at the latter. He put in nearly 30 years at the paper cup factory, while learning the Bible and spending some of his free time as a preacher. It was never easy; two more children, both girls, came along during the 1950s, but the house didn't grow at all; still four rooms, still dirt floors, still outdoor plumbing on the unpaved Kansas Avenue. The poverty didn't really let up until the kids began leaving home.
He had mellowed quite a bit by the time I was old enough to hear his stories. I'd sit in the tiny living room on Thelma Avenue while he sat in his chair facing the TV and Grandma sat on the couch, shaking her head every once in a while at some tale he was spinning. I do suspect that the basis was in truth, but that details might have been altered a bit for entertainment value or might have, um, changed a bit with time. I was OK with that. I loved the stories, loved to hear of the fighting spirit and sheer willfulness that was at the root of my genetics.
He believed every word he said, certainly. He wasn't somebody with whom you were always going to agree. He didn't hold that against you, but you also weren't going to change his mind on most things. You might be right, but you certainly weren't going to prove him wrong.
Even in the last few years, he enjoyed a good debate, and he could battle as well with words in his 80s as he could with his fists in his 20s.
The spirit was silenced two years ago, when Grandma went on. The body, which has a tendency to keep running on sheer willfulness even after the spirit is gone, finally and mercifully gave up today. He's earned his rest.
A better obit can be read here. As for me, well, I continue the fight, in my own way. But I know from where the spirit is seeded.
It was in this environment where a 21-year-old man with a bit of a reputation for trouble married a sweet young redhead, and, with very little in the way of raw material with which to work, began building a family.
The sweet young redhead who grew up to be my grandmother went on to the next place two years ago. Wednesday, my grandfather joined her.
The first few of his 89 years were pretty hardscrabble. I don't know a lot of the details of his childhood, but he once shared with me some stories of his teenage years. They made mine look pretty tame and boring by comparison. Tales of freight-train rides, of dodging the law (sometimes not so successfully) in Bonnie-and-Clyde era Texas, of never turning down an opportunity for a fight.
He took his attitude to the Navy just in time to wind up on a ship in the Pacific during World War II. He told me about getting in trouble for fighting and gambling. He was able to channel the former into a bit of an amateur boxing career while he was on the ship. My grandfather was not at all a big man, but what he lacked in size was apparently made up for in scrappiness.
He was father to three boys when the hostilities began in earnest in 1942. One more came along during the war, and one more was born a little more than a year after V-J Day. The oldest died in 1943. My dad was the second of a set of twins born in 1950, bringing the child count back to six when the decision was made to leave Texas.
At the end of the road was Springfield, Mo., home to Baptist Bible College and a newly opened paper cup factory. Grandpa spent his time studying at the former and working at the latter. He put in nearly 30 years at the paper cup factory, while learning the Bible and spending some of his free time as a preacher. It was never easy; two more children, both girls, came along during the 1950s, but the house didn't grow at all; still four rooms, still dirt floors, still outdoor plumbing on the unpaved Kansas Avenue. The poverty didn't really let up until the kids began leaving home.
He had mellowed quite a bit by the time I was old enough to hear his stories. I'd sit in the tiny living room on Thelma Avenue while he sat in his chair facing the TV and Grandma sat on the couch, shaking her head every once in a while at some tale he was spinning. I do suspect that the basis was in truth, but that details might have been altered a bit for entertainment value or might have, um, changed a bit with time. I was OK with that. I loved the stories, loved to hear of the fighting spirit and sheer willfulness that was at the root of my genetics.
He believed every word he said, certainly. He wasn't somebody with whom you were always going to agree. He didn't hold that against you, but you also weren't going to change his mind on most things. You might be right, but you certainly weren't going to prove him wrong.
Even in the last few years, he enjoyed a good debate, and he could battle as well with words in his 80s as he could with his fists in his 20s.
The spirit was silenced two years ago, when Grandma went on. The body, which has a tendency to keep running on sheer willfulness even after the spirit is gone, finally and mercifully gave up today. He's earned his rest.
A better obit can be read here. As for me, well, I continue the fight, in my own way. But I know from where the spirit is seeded.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Ken Lay, 1942-2006
Another thief bites the dust, and far too soon ... I really wanted to see that bastard suffer as an old, formerly rich man in prison for a while. Too bad Enron pensioners can't be made beneficiaries of his life insurance policy.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
I stand and salute
From our wire services:
Now this dude's a hero. There's a way to be a patriot without killing other people in the process.
CHATTANOOGA, TENN. -- The only U.S. conscientious objector to receive the Medal of Honor in the Second World War has been buried at a national cemetery with a 21-gun salute, although he refused to carry a weapon while serving as an army medic.
Desmond Doss, 87, died March 23 in Piedmont, Ala., where he and his wife, Frances, had been living with family.
A horse-drawn hearse delivered the flag-covered coffin to the gravesite Monday in the Chattanooga National Cemetery. Military helicopters flew overhead in a tribute formation.
Doss was ridiculed for his beliefs but "remained true to his convictions even when it was not the most popular thing to do," said Patti Parks, a retired U.S. navy commander and director of the Medal of Honor Museum in Chattanooga.
Doss, who refused to carry a weapon during his wartime service in the Pacific, was the subject of a book, The Unlikeliest Hero, and a 2004 documentary, The Conscientious Objector.
Medal of Honor Society records show he was among 3,461 recipients of the highest U.S. military honor.
While under enemy fire on the island of Okinawa, Doss carried 75 wounded soldiers to the edge of a 120-metre cliff and lowered them to safety, according to his citation.
During a later attack, he was seriously wounded in the legs by a grenade. According to the citation, as he was being carried to safety, he saw a more critically injured man and crawled off his stretcher, directing the medics to help the other wounded man.
"He wanted to serve. He just didn't want to kill anybody," said a veteran who attended the service, Fred Headrick, 85. "Most all of them (Medal of Honor recipients) received their medal for killing someone. He received his by saving lives."
Now this dude's a hero. There's a way to be a patriot without killing other people in the process.