Mourning with the Medveds

The father of my favorite radio talk show host passed away this week. He is eulogized lovingly by his daughter-in-law and it makes me sad that I never met the man. He served in the U.S. Navy during World War II, among many other interesting achievements. Mostly, he embraced life completely, and loved greatly. May he rest in peace.

R.I.P. Everyday Hero

Dear friend of this blog, Sippican Cottage, reposted a lovely tribute to his father, a ball gunner from World War II. His father, an everyday hero, passed away on March 1, 2009 after 80+ years doing what he was supposed to do. We mourn with our friends in the Swamp and know that the dignity, the daily heroism and the honor of the father was definitely inherited by the son.

Tony Snow, R.I.P.

I was profoundly saddened, by not entirely surprised, by the news this morning of Tony Snow's death. I never met him, but I loved this man. I heard him first as a substitute for Rush Limbaugh and found him charming and affable. Then, when I could finally put a face with the voice, I thought hubba-hubba, this is why they call it Fox News. Grrrraaaaooooo.

But I felt a lot in common with him. He was a philosophy major from a small private liberal arts college, just like me. I recall the epic saga of his home renovation. I loved watching him on Sundays, choosing him over Tim Russert's Meet the Press. The final moments of the show, Tony's little time to give sermon, could become a nice book by themselves. I cheered when President Bush made him press secretary. I took perhaps too much delight when he put Helen Thomas in her place. I know there won't be the outpouring of gushing praise for him like happened with Russert's death. But I didn't cry for Russert. I do for Tony. Please read the graduation address he gave just over a year ago.

Rest in peace, Mr. Snow.

I Sympathize With Harvey...

...who loses his composure in the face of the comedic genius of Tim Conway.




Thanks for the reminder, Pastor Jeff!

"That's Hedley!"

R.I.P. Harvey Korman. Say 'hi' to my dad. You made him laugh himself silly every time Tim Conway got you to break up on "The Carol Burnett Show."

Reagan, Heston, Dad

Thoughts of my dad have burbled up a lot in the last few weeks. I most miss Dad on Sunday mornings when the political chat shows are on [he got me watching them as a kid], when Mom is here, and when I think of men of good character because my dad is the man of good character who made the most profound impact on me.

Today I heard the news of Charlton Heston's death after years with Alzheimer's. When President Reagan died of the same disease, I mourned deeply for him and watched Nancy shattered at his loss. I grieved for being the snot-nosed kid who didn't vote for him the first time I had a chance and I grieved the loss I anticipated of my dad from the same disease. Today's loss of Heston makes me sad for his wife of many years [over 60] who has been devoted to him in sickness and in health until death.

And then I had a happy thought: what if there's an Alzheimer's wing in heaven? Might people who died from that memory-robbing disease have an extra helping of eternity to savor the memories they misplaced here on earth? Might my dad spend a moment with Reagan and Heston on the other side? He might indeed.

Into the Jaws of Death

Actor Roy Scheider dies. He was widely known for his role in "Jaws." He did not win the Academy Award the year he was nominated for "All That Jazz." Dustin Hoffman won that year for "Kramer v. Kramer."

Actor to actor. Oscar to Dust[in].

Heath Ledger, R.I.P.

I'm just shocked by this news of young Heath Ledger's sudden death. I loved him as William in "A Knight's Tale," and was impressed with his role in "Monster's Ball," and adored him as Mel Gibson's son in "The Patriot." So sad. So terribly sad.

Crypt Suz[anne Plesh]ette?

The beautiful, talented, and husky-throated actress, Suzanne Pleshette, has died. Tammy Bruce has a lovely tribute, which I join. May she rest in peace and may eternal light shine upon her.

Here's some Suzanne Pleshette trivia: she was married thrice and widowed twice, and all her husbands' names began with T--Troy, Tom, and Tom, the last being famous "Newhart" actor, Tom Poston.

Wham-O!

Dead-o. Co-creator of the Slip 'n Slide has now up 'n died.

R.I.P. Mr. Knerr.

Headline Double-take: "Hillary Dies"

No, not the Clintonian Hillary, the Sir Edmund Hillary. R.I.P.

Marguerite A. "Muggsie" Thompson, R.I.P.

The strangest thing: I found out about Muggsie's death by reading my own SiteMeter referrals.

A wonderful, kind, generous lady has died. I knew Muggsie through her husband, my religion professor, Jerry Thompson. Every year, after the Ripon College Easter sunrise service [held at the pond in the park], we would go over to Jerry and Muggs' for Easter brunch. She had the best darn food every year, all home-made, including these stupendous cinnamon yeast rolls and egg casseroles. She would feed the marauding hordes of college kids who got up early [or just stayed up late from their Unholy Saturday revelry] without an RSVP or even a nosecount prior to it. She was a joyful, bubbly personality who effervesced with love of life, love of family, love of learning. It was so obvious to me that she had a passionate love for her husband, Jerry. I couldn't quite explain it, because as a balding, older, bespectacled man, he had warmth [and nice stocky legs], but not one ounce of sex appeal to my teenaged eyes. I often thought, however, that theirs was such a fine example of Christian marriage. She was a doting grandma and a patient soul who watched endless tennis matches while her husband played. She was kind to everyone and I can never recall an unkind word or deed attributed to her.

According to her obituary, she lived a good long life. May she be accompanied by angels to her final reward. I bet there'll be a banquet in her honor.

Remembering COL Jerald L.Thompson, 1945-1994

~~~~~

I was reading comments on a blog I frequent and one of the more nauseating commenters remarked that we lost zero American lives in Iraq between April 1991 and March 2003 [really, it's only a tangential point in his mostly pointless ramblings, which I don't recommend you bother reading for many reasons]. He is quite wrong, but rather than waste pixels on him, I'll write a tribute here.
~~~~~

COL Jerald L. Thompson commanded a group of U.S. servicemen [jointly with Turkish forces] in the Kurdish area of Iraq, north of the Northern No-Fly Zone. He had served his tour of duty and was doing a change-of-command helicopter flight to acquaint his replacement with the area. They [all 26 souls on board two helicopters] were shot down by U.S. Air Force fighters who mistook the two blackhawks for enemy craft. I never met Jerry in person, but I knew his wife, Eileen. I attended his memorial at Fort Bragg at the Special Forces chapel on post and there was an outpouring of mourners that filled the chapel to overflowing.

Others who knew him will attest to his sterling character as a soldier. As I said, I never met him in person. I only knew him as a beloved husband to Eileen whom I met through Mary Kay Cosmetics. She and I shared a room at Career Conference in the early spring of 1994, while Jerry was still in Iraq. She is older than me, quite graceful, a lovely woman and a gentle mentor. During our time together, she found out that married life agreed with me, even only four years into our journey. She told me about a Worldwide Marriage Encounter that she and Jerry had made, years earlier, in a castle in Germany. She described how that one weekend changed their marriage and she encouraged us to make the weekend. I went home and sold David on the idea. We signed up for a weekend in the Raleigh diocese. That weekend was cancelled because of a military operation to Guantanamo Bay that pulled away several of the soldiers. I was righteously miffed. Eileen told me that the one we were meant to take is the the one we would take.

The news of Jerry's death spread quickly through the Mary Kay world. I went to see Eileen. That day she had received in the mail a gorgeous Persian rug that Jerry had selected for her and sent just before he died. She pointed to the bookshelf full of their dialogue books--daily love letters--that they shared for many years. She had no doubt of his love for her. She mourned him greatly, but never regretted anything about their relationship. She and Jerry made a choice each day to love each other. They fulfilled their marriage vows and were together until death parted them. She knows that he awaits her in Heaven. What a privilege it will be for me to meet him someday over there. I am profoundly grateful to him for his sacrifice to our country and his example of how to truly love your wife. That weekend which we made in October 1995 changed our marriage.

Thanks, Colonel Thompson, for everything.

Answer: Prostate Cancer at 82

Question: What did in Griffin?

Robert P. Ashley, R.I.P.

A beloved college professor of mine died in November, 2006. Today, at Ripon College, they held a memorial service in his honor. I knew him well, having him as a professor and then as a landlord for a summer and my final semester of college. His daughter asked me to deliver a tribute to him. Because of travel and family obligations, I declined to be there in person, but I wrote the following tribute to Dr. Ashley which my sister Peggy delivered.

Dr. Ashley's reputation preceded him when I entered Ripon College in the fall of 1981. I'm the fourth of four children, all of whom attended Ripon College. All three of the Gero girls graduated from this esteemed institution; brother Paul enjoyed three years here and figured out that his degree would be in journalism from Marquette. My sister Mary had freshman English with Dr. Ashley just one year prior, in 1980, and that was the year that he became a widower. She spoke of him with respect and she spoke of Mrs. Ashley's passing in hushed tones. I believe that was the year that Dr. Ashley became Emeritus. And it was the year he began taking in roomers. Oh, not the whispered tales, but the students who would live at his home rent-free. The price of their keep was to clean his Watson Street home each week.

I knew of Dr. Ashley but only had the privilege of being his student once. I took his English novel course as a sophomore. For my money, that was the best bargain in all the curriculum----one night a week for three hours, earning 4 credits. My science friends would lament their several hours in lab for a measly credit and I knew we had it sweet. In that course, we learned of Dr. Ashley's love of the written word and also film. He was the authority on the novelist Wilkie Collins. As a consequence, I don't miss those Collins questions on Jeopardy.

I loved Ripon so much I stayed here year round. The library crew hired a few of us to work full-time during the summer, and if you could find a cheap place to stay, you could maximize the profit. My first summer, I lived in what was then called Hughes House. The next summer, I stayed with Dr. Ashley. You can learn a lot about a man by cleaning his house. Treasures of all kinds are hanging on the walls, or needing dusting on the shelves, or chilling in his freezer, or wagging their happy golden retriever tails. That was the summer that Dr. Ashley became known to me as "Da",the name his children called him. I once asked its origin and it was a shortening of "Dad." As I already had a father whom I loved, in my mind, "Da" became an acronym--D A--Dr. Ashley. I, too, took on a nickname with Da that summer. After taking a phone message for him and signing it with my initials---R A G-- from thenceforward, I was to him "Rag"....or my full official title: "Rag, the charwoman."

That summer I met most of his family as they visited and learned that he bestowed nicknames on darn near everyone from the Romans [Junie's bunch], to Arpy and Squish [Robert P. the Third and Jacqueline]. He would spend many an evening in that front study, reading books he'd read dozens of times before or enjoying new crime fiction and filling the home with the heavenly aroma of his pipe tobacco, petting Katie-dog and possibly plunking out a note or two on his ancient typewriter. He usually had a stash of ice cream in his freezer and I learned that he loved Sealtest Heavenly Hash ice cream. He never even offered to share that and in fact made sure my fridge was in the basement so I wouldn't be tempted.

He would stroll to the cinema once a week and often I would accompany him. He played tennis year round and made it a point to play mixed doubles with the best [and prettiest] young woman on the college team. He and Jerry Thompson played doubles and were dubbed "The Sexigenerians." Da turned 70 in April of '85 and I knew he hated losing that clever moniker. For his birthday present, I had a t-shirt made for him which read "Septuagenarian" on the front, and "But Still Sexy" on the back. I continued rooming at 504 Watson my senior year. He took on me as well as my mostly English major pals. We called ourselves his harem and he took us all out to dinner at graduation. I got to shovel show and walk the dog and paint my room. More than the free rent, however, I got to spend time with this wonderful man. He was a scholar who was always reading. He was the well educated Easterner who was no snob around us unassuming Midwesterners. He was the widower who loved his family. He was wry and funny and always had an opinion. You had to ask for it, but he always had it. He was, to me, the joy of wisdom and maturity.

I found my replacement and trained her as I went off to law school in Madison. Da used to tease me that Dianna got into and did much better at a tougher law school. He consoled me, however, with the observation that no one could clean his toilets like me. One summer, I clerked in Appleton and he was an "Attic Angel" at their theatre. He came for a visit and we had dinner and a show. There were several times he took me out to dinner in Madison, including one Valentine's Day when "the professor I lived with" was the better prospect to anything the law school had to offer. And he joined my family and dearest friends at my graduation party.

When I went off and joined the Army and met my husband, I felt it was important for my southern gentleman to see my haunts and lurks. Da was no stranger to the military, having been a colonel in the reserves and having taught at West Point. So he and my Citadel man got on famously---mostly making jokes at my expense. My life moved South and my visits with Da grew rare. But every Tax Day triggers a memory of his birthday. Most Christmases brought a letter and card from him. My mother often sent a package of fudge his way. My memories of Ripon are inextricably tied to Dr. Ashley. He was the rarest of adults. He could listen without judgment. He could disagree with great civility. He laughed often. He never stopped learning. He will be remembered fondly and sorely missed.

I learned of his passing near Christmas. To console myself, I found one of his books online and bought it, ostensibly for my young son to read in a few years. It's a juvenile novel all about a Civil War train caper and based on an actual event. It was even made into a Walt Disney movie. When the out-of-print treasure arrived from the used bookseller in the northeast, its yellowing pages crackled with a familiar smell. The dedication was simply "To Arpy." I held in my hands the tangible proof of his life well-lived--a book he wrote and dedicated to his only son.

Thank you, Da. Thanks for everything.

I am very grateful to Peggy for giving the tribute. Mom called on Peg's cell phone from the audience and I could hear that they laughed at all the right places. She did a great job and it was a fitting final time to recall a wonderful man.

President Gerald R. Ford, R.I.P.

May President Ford rest in peace. Here's a photo that bemused me.



It's the president with two of his advisors. Do you recognize them? Hint: Think less hair and grayer hair and still on the national scene.

9/11 Memories 2006

Last year I wrote about my 9/11 memories. They remain the same.

Today, I learned the sad news that my friend's father died today. Five years ago, this friend and I and others from our workplace, mourned the death of our compatriots at the hands of hell's minions. Today, I mourn my friend's loss as well.

Uncle Timmy, R.I.P.

My mom phoned last night to tell me that her oldest brother, my Uncle Timmy, died yesterday. Uncle Tim wasn't named "Timothy". He was named "Francis J." after his father. The "Timmy" came in because he was, as a youngster, quite small. Tiny Tim.

He was a widower for almost my entire life. His wife, Aunt Kay, died when I was little. That left Uncle Tim and his daughter Kathleen. She was nicknamed by the Schneider contingent "Teeny Weeny Katha-leeny." In a family of ton-of-fun aunties, she was a waif. And so they did what a large, loving German/Irish family did to show its love: they teased.

I got acquainted with Uncle Timmy and Kathleen several years ago when I attended my cousin's funeral. They had a lovely father-daughter relationship. He still lived alone well into his 80s, but he needed looking after. Kathy was devoted and she and her husband made it so that Uncle Tim could live in his own house.

He was a carpenter. He loved his wife. He loved his daughter. He was a funny, sweet soul.

I bet my dad is showing him around his new place.

Robert B. Gero, R.I.P.

My father died on July 3, 2006, at 11:15 p.m. in Columbus, Wisconsin, after several years with Alzheimer's disease. He was 77 years old. He is survived by his wife of over 50 years, Anne, and four children and six grandchildren.

My sister, Peggy, was with him at the end. His departure was quite peaceful. I'm on my way to Wisconsin later today. I'm taking my laptop and my hotel room has free wi-fi. I tend to process major things in my life through this blog, so I believe this will be no different.

The requiem prayer we say in the Roman Catholic Church goes like this:

Eternal rest grant unto him.
And let perpetual light shine upon him.

May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

My brother has more on his blog as well.

Uncle Charlie, R.I.P.

Mom told me today that her brother, my Uncle Charlie, died today. He was one of nine children in my mother's very busy Philadelphia Catholic girlhood home. In that home, you were very much loved and you knew it because you were very much teased. He married Aunt Joan and they went on to have and raise eleven children. On my mother's side alone, I am one of about 50 first cousins. Large thanks to Charlie and Joan. I barely knew that wing of the cousins. There were only three daughters in the whole crew and all I remember were rambunctious, loud, fun-loving boys being all elbows and knees everywhere.

Several years ago I attended my cousin Marianne's funeral. Uncle Charlie was there as were all the aunties and uncles. Dave and I didn't have any children just then, but we were fixin' to start a family. I earnestly asked him, "Uncle Charlie, what was the hardest thing about having 11 children?"

He raised an eyebrow, paused and broke into a bawdy grin, and replied with a hearty laugh, "You really have to ask?"

It seems fitting, somehow, that this larger-than-life and full-of-good-humor man would leave on Fat Tuesday. Ashes are for mourners. Here's hoping that he's enjoying a reunion with Aunts Mary and Margaret, Uncle Joe, Grandmom and Grandpop and many, many others.