[from Poppy's memorial service on 1/17/2009]

In my formative years, our family life was something akin to what you might have seen on television – mom stayed home and raised the kids and tried to keep us on the straight and narrow and out of trouble and dad went to work every day. He left the house most days before we were up for school and came home just in time for dinner. Pretty much like Leave it to Beaver but mom didn’t wear pearls for housework and cooking and dad didn’t wear a tie to dinner.

Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining – it’s just the way it was; not only for us but for all our neighbors on Owen street. Along about the time I was 8 years old, dad got me into little league baseball at Bailey’s Crossroads. Bruce followed a year or two later. Bailey’s Crossroads, wow, back then that was before there were 30 floor high rise apartment buildings one next to the other on the site of our little ball field. Little league was only a few months a year. Bruce and I played ball, dad was one of the assistant coaches, my mother sometimes worked in the pop shack and my sister, Dawn hated every minute of it. What did she know or even care about baseball?

We took summer vacation trips; mostly by car to upstate New York. We’d load up the family wagon and not 10 minutes out of the driveway, someone was looking out the wrong window, or someone touched someone else, or someone was crowding our space – I’m certain you get the picture. This went on for at least 8 hours and after perhaps 5 or 6, we start in with how many more miles until we’re there? As I recall, the pat answer was something like “not many so sit back and relax” or something to that effect. And for good measure, “if we didn’t behave, he’d have to pull the car over and we’d be sorry”. That never happened. Anyway, our families hailed from the Schenectady NY area and we’d take annual trips by car for a couple of weeks each summer to visit relatives. I remember one summer, Bruce and I stayed with my mom’s mother and father for a few extra weeks. Then, as Bruce and I got older, dad introduced us to fishing; both in Northern Virginia as well as the more rugged outlying areas that surrounded Schenectady. We’d go to Burke Lake, somewhere in rural Virginia (back when there was anything rural within 50 miles of DC), probably a small pond by regular standards but to us it was like one of the great lakes. We’d get a row boat and take turns trying our hand at rowing. Dad usually took over – had he not, we wouldn’t have had much time for fishing.

And, you know how sometimes unpleasant experiences tend to purge themselves from memory? One such time that I can only recall in my subconscious was a fishing trip to the fabled Whortleberry Pond, fondly referred to by Dad as a trout fishing nirvana or something like that. One thing my dad never did was exaggerate much. So, when you’re 13, and it’s really hot, and the pond is at least a mile hike in, and the deer files are biting like they after their last meal, all you can think about is the cold crystal clear water teeming with trout. I don’t remember catching anything that day and I don’t remember exactly why but I can paraphrase – It was too hot, there was too much/not enough wind – you choose which. We had the wrong bait, the fish weren’t hungry and on and on. But, to this day, while I don’t remember the particulars, all you have to say to me is Whortleberry Pond and you’ll get a smile.

Let’s fast forward to the mid 70’s. I’d completed my one year of US Army prep school at Old Dominion University, was drafted, served a tour in South East Asia and returned home. I spent some time in Florida, where dad and Marty would eventually settle. Banged around job after job and eventually settled in at American Airlines at the then Washington National Airport (now know as Ronald Regan). Up to this time, I didn’t really feel like I knew my father – we grew apart and infrequently spoke. After I met my future wife, Mandy, things changed.

We’d drive to their slip on the Chesapeake Bay and they’d have steak and baked potatoes on the grill. We talk of plans, goals, the stars, the one that got away and anything else that came to mind.

The one that got away reminds me of another story. I don’t recall the specifics but dad and I took the boat our for some fishing and sailed out of Annapolis, MD. I think. We headed out into the Chesapeake Bay in search of hybrid stripers or blue fish. We were chugging along (by the way, their boat was no dingy – it was 28 or 32 feet long, slept four or more, had a galley, and a head); dad had his charts out not only making sure we were headed in the right direction but knowing were we were was paramount in getting us safely back to shore where we launched. Getting to shore wasn’t necessarily a problem but the bay waters were deep enough to handle large cargo and tanker shipping and the currents were very strong.

We finally got to our destination in the bay where Dad had caught bunches of fish in that very same spot not long before he and I set out. Anyway, we readied the lines, got them in the water and started our wait. It wasn’t 10 minutes and we had our first strike – felt like a 200 pound tuna hit the bait and I was almost sure it’d straighten the hook. Then dad had a hit and we were having a ball fighting those fish and all the while not realizing that a fog had started rolling in – not just a fog mind you, one of those that remind you of pea soup. We couldn’t see the front of the boat. I don’t remember if we landed the fish or not but I do remember hearing signal horns from the main channel. The thing with fog is that it makes it almost impossible to know where the sound is coming from so now I’m a bit more than uneasy. But, sailor Bud had every conceivable safety accessory on board so we’d be just fine. We upped anchor and immediately started drifting in the current. He fired up the engine and we were under way although it was very slow going. Then, more signal horns. Dad tried to reply with whatever was appropriate on his fog horn but the darn thing wouldn’t work. And it kept not working so there was no way to signal other boats about our position.

A little troubleshooting and he found the culprit (while I got to drive; mind you, I couldn’t see the front of the boat so if something got in the way, I wouldn’t know it until 2 seconds after smashing into it). It was a loose connection – one of the wires to the horn had somehow wiggled loose. The water was a bit rough so a correct fix was out of the question, besides; we’d been running for awhile without the horn and any further delay might impact where we wind up. So, dad suggested that I go out on top of the cabin and hold the wire to the horn so when he pressed the horn button, it’d send it’s fog horn kind of blast. Know what? It worked. Know what else, it was real loud. No harm though; we found our way home and all was well on the Foxy Lady.

Here’s one you can add to Whortleberry Pond – Fog Horn; it too will bring a smile.

Awhile after settling in Florida, Dad and Marty took the Time Share plunge. I don’t remember where their original place was but I do remember them telling us how wonderful it was and that we should think about spending some time there. That never happened but we did join them for a week in a place that they traded for in Puerto Vallarta MX. As I recall, it was really exquisite; 4 or 6 bedrooms each with a private bath, completely furnished and outfitted, a wonderful terrace in the back with a breathtaking view – a real paradise. And, with a full kitchen, we decided to shop locally so we wouldn’t have the additional expense of eating out all the time. What an experience that was – the four of us went to the local supermarket. Nothing, I mean nothing, was in English – labels on food; Spanish, signs at the meat counter; Spanish, the people that worked there; spoke only Spanish. So the only thing we had to go by were things we were familiar with – pictures of food on labels, meats were could recognize like hot dogs, ground beef, steaks, etc. All things considered, we did pretty well.

We didn’t have a car so when we needed to go somewhere, we’d flag down a local taxi and for $2 American, we could get a ride to town or to one of the local restaurants. And those cab rides were pretty exciting – the driver would weave in and out of traffic, dodge pot holes like a pro, play the horn like it was a piano, and surprise of all surprises, get us to our destination in one piece. Our greatest challenge on those excursions was communication with the driver. We knew where we wanted to go but it wasn’t always easy getting him/her to understand. The drive’s pat answer was something like adonde? I think that means where to? One time, Dad must have felt like the great communicator – he told the driver where we wanted to go. The driver said adonde and dad replied with the same answer only a bit louder. Again the driver said adonde and again dad replied the same again only a bit louder the third time. It wasn’t until the 5th or 6th exchange when dad was actually yelling that one of us chimed in that the driver wasn’t deaf, he just didn’t speak English. We had a great laugh at his expense but, as always, he was a good sport. We had a great time in Mexico; did all the tourist stuff. What sticks in my mind though was dinner one night. We had hotdogs and rolls, French fries, and baked beans, and all the traditional condiments – all purchased at the local market. Everything was fine until we tried eating the hotdogs. They were the toughest I’d ever encountered. Eating them on a bun was out of the question because we actually needed a steak knife to cut them. And that’s what we did until we figured out they still had the casings on them. That one wasn’t Dad’s faux pas – we did have a good laugh and because of that, that trip to Mexico will always be special.

Now you have the big four - Whortleberry Pond, fog horn, cab ride, and hot dog and each and every time I hear any one of them, it will conjure up fond and wonderful thoughts about my father.

I think I’m past grieving about his passing but I will never get over missing him.