Group I

Family and Friendship

"This fast-paced society of ours offers many fleeting attractions. There is not much, it seems, that is permanent-but family endures. That is to say, our relationships, with our loved ones and friends, are what matter in the end and what we come back to."

—From "A Father's Legacy"

* * *

"But how fortunate to have had such a once-in-a-lifetime comrade and confidant in a fellow human being. What a treasure it has fashioned. What a storehouse of memories remain. What a blessing to have known such enduring qualities of true friendship—in a world that can be fickle and harsh."

—From "The Treasure of a Friend"

A Father's Legacy

Friday, November 17, 2006

To: Cheri, Walt, Mike, Sharon, Maria, Diane, Craig, Antonio, Ava, Samantha, Carolyn, and Kari-Lyn; and Mahdi; and Matt and Mamie, Scott and Jodi, Don and Cindy, Bill and Patty, John and Marianne, Bob and Linda, Doug and Jackie, Bill and Judy, Larry and Carole, and Bob and Betsy; and Chip and Tess, Bill and Iris, and Dave and Anna

Subject: Thank you

Dear Shipmates (or as Craig aptly put it recently in an e-mail—"Shiftmates"):

Thank you each for your condolences regarding my father's passing on Wednesday. For what it's worth, here are a few thoughts so far. For those of you who have had a similar occurrence in your lives, perhaps we can compare notes.

My first impression: A degree of shock—like being pushed into a swimming pool unexpectedly. One's life has changed, and behold, the great mystery—death—presents itself. It's an "in-your-face" kind of thing.

The next morning: It appears to be just another day. The earth turns, impassively, the weather is unconcerned. The trees, the surroundings, all the same. It becomes oddly apparent—life simply, indifferently, goes on.

Now ahead is the funeral, on Monday. It certainly will be peculiar to see my father lying in a casket. In September my folks celebrated their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary. I will be wondering what thoughts are going through my mother's mind.

Well, there is no stopping this. No ignoring or denying it. So we will travel to Wisconsin, my family and I, to attend.

Thank you all again for your kindness.

Richard

Friday, December 1, 2006

To: Cheri, Walt, Mike, Sharon, Maria, Diane, Craig, Antonio, Ava, Samantha, Carolyn, and Kari-Lyn; and Mahdi; and Matt and Mamie, Scott and Jodi, Don and Cindy, Bill and Patty, John and Marianne, Bob and Linda, Doug and Jackie, Bill and Judy, Larry and Carole, and Bob and Betsy; and Chip and Tess, Bill and Iris, and Dave and Anna

Subject: Follow-up

Dear Shipmates,

Regarding my father's funeral, thank you all for the lovely plant my mother received, and for the beautiful cards, and for your thoughts and prayers. Life has pretty much returned to normal now.

The funeral service on November 20th was very nice. In addition to relatives, some of my dad's golfing buddies and former colleagues attended.

My father served in World War II, so the local VFW honor guard was at the graveside with a twenty-one-gun salute and "Taps."

The weather cooperated nicely. It was a sunny, pleasant day.

My overall impression of the experience: This fast-paced society of ours offers many fleeting attractions. There is not much, it seems, that is permanent—but family endures. That is to say, our relationships, with our loved ones and friends, are what matter in the end and what we come back to.

Thank you all again.

Sincerely, Richard

One year earlier: September 27, 2005

It seemed strange to be dialing the new digits. For over fifty years, and my entire life up to this point, the home phone number for my parents had not changed—until recently, when my brothers and I helped Mom and Dad move into an assisted-living center. Now they had a different number. It was odd not to be entering the ever-so-familiar one, the one I had grown up with, the one that was for so long a part of each of our lives.

Dad answered on the third ring. "Hello."

Isn't it intriguing that, besides having unique fingerprints and other features, our voices are each different as well?

"Hi, Dad. Happy anniversary."

And isn't it remarkable the extent to which a person's voice, particularly that of a loved one, touches our lives?

"Thank you. Your mother isn't here. She's ..." There was a pause. Dad had grown frail, and now, at age eighty-eight, conversing required some effort. "... at Bible Study, so ..." Another pause. "I'll tell her when she comes in."

Although Dad's voice had weakened as his strength and stamina had declined over the years, it was still the familiar sound that had been in my life since my earliest memories.

"All right. And I hope you're having a wonderful day."

Learning to ride a bicycle. Working in our garden. Weekend walks in the woods. The voice had been there.

"The weather's nice. Just like it was ... sixty-four years ago."

The reference was to September 27, 1941, the day Mom and Dad were married.

"It's beautiful here, too." I tried to imagine the view out the window there in Wisconsin, testing my memory of the climate. "You've got, what, sunshine and—seventy degrees?"

"I don't know what we have for temperature ... but the sun is shining."

Shoveling snow together. Ice fishing. Supper every night at five o'clock. So many memories of home and growing up, so many of which included the voice on the other end of the line.

"That sounds good. And Mom's at Bible Study. Well, any advice for us"—I tried to think of a fitting term—"young whippersnappers who have only been married for twenty-four years?"

As a practical, down-to-earth person, Dad had been, through the years, an ever reliable source of guidance and reason. Perhaps he had a gem to pass along this special day, as well.

"No."

We spoke then about Robin, who was training with the Army, at Fort Benning, Georgia. Robin had fractured his wrist, Marcy and I had recently learned, and Dad and I discussed the circumstances of the injury.

Then we returned to the occasion at hand—Mom and Dad's wedding anniversary. I was still hoping for some sage words.

"So you don't have any advice for us younger group? You have sixty-four years to draw from. Give us a word of wisdom."

We often spend a lot of time interacting, with family, friends, and acquaintances, yet devote very little of it sharing what we have learned about that which is most meaningful in our lives. Sometimes, though, there are moments that surpass the everyday interaction. This became one of them.

"We still don't have all the answers."

Dad's response, though simple and brief, struck me as profound. And it gave me something to work with.

"So the advice is, hang in there, and keep searching for answers?"

There is a Scripture verse urging simplicity and integrity in one's speech—to "let your `Yes' be yes and your `No' be no." That was Dad.

"That's about it."

An Army of One

2007

Isn't it good to be reunited with a loved one after an extended period of separation?

It's a sunny Thursday morning in March. We are driving from our home in northern Virginia to nearby Reagan National Airport, adjacent the Potomac River near Washington DC. Robin, who is on active duty with the Army, and who has been deployed to Iraq for seven months in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom, is arriving home for fifteen days of leave.

I drop Marcy and Alexandra at the walkway in front of the airport terminal. As arranged, they go to meet Robin in the baggage area. Meanwhile, I pull away to establish a holding pattern. Driving past the cell phone waiting area and leisurely continuing, I note the traffic signs directing one back to the terminal. I return once, twice.

On the third approach, there he is—the light gray camouflage of his Army Combat Uniform incongruous with the external airport surroundings. Broad-shouldered, erect in his carriage and confident in his stride, our Army of One appears the epitome of fitness.

I pull up, stop, and pop the trunk for Robin's luggage—a large, green duffle bag. It is tightly packed, and heavy, I discover, as, during greetings, I briefly struggle to maneuver it into the trunk space. Then I receive a firm hug—and my God, such solid musculature of arms and chest! Twenty-four years old, 190 pounds, Army trained, combat ready—and as healthy and fit as one can be.

I am released, and as I climb back into the driver's seat, I marvel at his strength, his youth, his vitality.

"I can't believe how fast we're going."

It's Robin speaking. We're on the highway, driving home. We are matching the general traffic flow.

Robin explains.

Duties in Iraq include frequent missions. The mode of transportation for him and his platoon is an armored Humvee. Due to the ever-present danger of encountering an insurgent-planted improvised explosive device, or IED, and in order to maintain an effective lookout, the Humvee is driven at no more than twenty miles per hour during the day, and half that at night.

Pondering this, one can understand that, after months of conducting missions under such restricted driving conditions, sixty-five miles per hour on the open highway would indeed seem a very fast pace.

We are home, and our family is complete. Lianne is back from work and Robin has settled in. He has eaten, showered after his long journey, and has accessed his duffle bag to transition to casual shirt and jeans. He looks almost like a teenager again.

Robin spends a few days at home. He enjoys a carefree weekend. Operation Iraqi Freedom becomes temporarily distant as he relaxes and recuperates. He sleeps late. He has friends to visit, and a social life once again to pursue.

On the Monday following his arrival, Robin and his longtime best friend from high school, a friendly, outgoing Muslim named Masood whose family is from Afghanistan, travel together to vacation in the Bahamas. They spend a week partaking of sun, sea, and tropical nightlife.

During Robin's absence, Marcy and I, too, are on leave, of sorts. Gone is the anxiousness of the last seven months, and the parental concern for our son's safety.

It's a welcome reprieve.

Robin's leave ends, and he returns to Iraq. His year-long deployment is initially due to end in August. We learn that his battalion is being extended up to ninety days.

Robin responds intermittently to e-mails. He calls home from time to time. And, along with the other families, we receive updates from the battalion commander, informing us of the progress being made in combating the Iraqi insurgency and improving the security of the local populace. The commander writes with heartfelt admiration of the unwavering professionalism of our soldiers enduring trying conditions.

We look forward to the day when their time in Iraq draws to a close.

The news comes, finally, in October. Robin phones home for Marcy's birthday.

It's three o'clock in the morning in Iraq and he has just returned from his final mission. Replacements have been arriving and are taking over. Soon the entire battalion will have departed, flying to Kuwait and then on to Hawaii and their duty station at Schofield Barracks.

The news is the nicest birthday present Marcy could ask for.

A week later we learn that Marcy's birthday present is complete. At 0430 local time, his deployment in Iraq over, Robin and his fellow soldiers arrive at the Honolulu International Airport.

Our prayers for a safe return have been answered.

We are grateful.

The Treasure of a Friend

2008

Have you ever met somebody, and it seemed as though you'd known the person all your life?

It was the summer of 1975, during college. I had a job as a lifeguard, was off duty for two days, and was returning from visiting my folks, having hitchhiked the approximately hundred miles home the day before. I was in the Wisconsin Dells area, just north of my destination of Devil's Lake State Park and the tiny cabin I was renting for the summer.

It was a sunny day, warm and humid. The rides had been good, but now I found myself semistranded along Highway 12. The tourist traffic of the Dells area apparently was just not as hitchhiker-friendly as the rest of rural, southern Wisconsin.

Until finally, a car pulled over and stopped. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but I was about to meet my best friend of the next thirty-three years.

His name was Victor Ramsey. He was a lifelong bachelor in his early fifties, thirty years my senior. He was not a large man—his height was below average, his frame slender, with a bespectacled appearance that was neat and tidy. He didn't normally pick up hitchhikers, not since a bad experience some years earlier, when his generosity in giving a lift to his fellow man resulted in an attempted carjacking.

However, when he spied me with my thumb out and discerned a nonthreatening demeanor, he allowed himself to make an exception to his rule. It was a comment I heard with some frequency on the road: "I don't normally pick up hitchhikers, but you looked clean-cut and respectable, so I decided to stop."

We drove and talked. My ride had a rare authenticity about him, devoid of any pretense. He was a workingman, as down to earth as one could be. He had grown up on a farm in the area, the younger of several siblings. He had lived in Milwaukee for more than twenty years, eventually deciding to return to the rural area of his roots. He was kind enough to drop me off almost at my doorstep, my little cabin being among those at the corner of County DL and Old Lake Road, comprising a quiet haven called Silverdale Resort—my home for the summer.

Isn't it interesting how a single, seemingly chance circumstance can affect our lives?

I had enjoyed meeting the affable Mr. Ramsey. Apparently the thought was mutual. When I returned from work the next day, I found a note on my cabin door from my new acquaintance, inviting me to give a call.

I did, and soon after we enjoyed a genial dinner together, with Mr. Ramsey—Vic—as host. I was introduced to his specialty—home-cooked pot roast. It was superb.

In spite of the difference in our ages, we easily related. And although Vic got along well by himself—there had been a prospective lady friend at one point, but it never became serious—it did get lonely for him. But now, by way of a serendipitous encounter on the road, a remarkable friendship had begun to form, one that would significantly enhance both of our lives.

How does one summarize over three decades of memories?

Vic became more than a friend. He was like family.

The following summer he invited me to upgrade my standard of living, and share accommodations in his clean, comfortable, two-bedroom condo. He helped me get a job in the factory where he worked, as I continued to lifeguard on weekends. Weekdays we commuted to work together, and during our lunch breaks frequently retreated to his car to rest, eat our sandwiches, and listen to Paul Harvey on the radio.

Vic's longtime coworkers and former lunch mates observed this curious revision to his bachelor routine, and as the summer progressed, one finally asked him, pointblank and good-naturedly, "What is he, your illegitimate son?" The query became for us a lifelong source of humor.

Time passed.

I finished school. Joined the Navy. Was stationed overseas on a ship.

Vic and I kept in touch throughout.

During my years overseas, Vic was a living link to my own Wisconsin roots. He sent letters, and occasional tapes of my favorite music, recorded off the radio. He would add his own narrative, of news, humor, and inspirational quotes and passages. One Christmas, spent at sea, there arrived from my friend a small package containing a green, needle-covered sprig from a Wisconsin pine. It became for my shipmates and me a tiny Christmas tree in our bunkroom.

After I met Marcy, got married, and settled ashore at Pearl Harbor and started a family, Vic traveled twice to visit.

He became a second father-in-law to Marcy, and an additional grandparent to Robin and Lianne—and later, Alexandra. He watched them grow, and was involved in the process. In Wisconsin, after the Navy years, we were next-door neighbors for a time.

By now, Vic considered us his family, just as much as he was part of ours.

And indeed, it was so.

More time passed.

Vic retired. The condo was sold. There was a transition to a tidy, one-bedroom apartment.

Vic grew elderly, and I became middle-aged—a few years older, in fact, than Vic was when we first met.