| General Non-Fiction posted October 23, 2016 |
  |
A toddler's love and her missing grampie...
Where's Bob? (Conclusion)
by Mary Wakeford
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
I was forty years old -- my mom was about to lose the love of her life; my siblings and I were about to lose our father-- our children--their Grampie. Emily, my youngest, was about to lose her "Bob."
Dad and my two-and-a-half year old daughter enjoyed an indelible bond. Emily preferred to address him by his first name "Hi Bob" or "Bob, open pweeeeeze" when handing him something of interest to eat or play with. "Bye-bye, Bob" when leaving for the day, and finally, "Lub you, Bob."
Dad would retort in an exaggeratedly off-put, miffed corrective tone emitting from a faux scowl expression-- "You're not supposed to call me Bob, I'm Grampie to you!" He would confine laughter as she blew him off with another reference to his moniker "You Bob". Dad would smile with pride at his sassy, independent little buddy.
In the days following my father's death, Emily continually searched my parents home and yard, repeatedly asking a house full of friends and family "Where's Bob? Where Bob Go? Emy miss him." Emily must have thought her Bob was the bomb at playing hide and seek. This brings us to the conclusion of "Where's Bob."
♦♦♦♦
My father was raised Protestant, but did not attend Sunday church services in the forty years I shared life with him. That being said, my father was a prayerful man with a belief in God and driven by an inner discipline to always do the right thing. Before his 1945 marriage to my mother, Dad was required by the church to sign a document of intent to raise their children Catholic; a requirement for the times. Dad was faithful to his pledge, going so far as to send three of their four to parochial school which claimed a significant chunk of their one-income family budget.
Dad furthered his commitment by taking on the duty of Scoutmaster for the St. Vincent de Paul boy scout troop #369 for sixteen years, achieving the highly acclaimed Silver Beaver Award at the conclusion of his reign. Stifle the inside jokes, please.
Our parish pastor, Fr. John O'Malley Sharpe, had come to know my father decades earlier and greatly respected him for his dedication to family; and his exemplary work and dedication as scoutmaster for the parish. Fr. Sharpe often bragged dad up. The priest had been assigned many parishes across the country before returning to ours once again in his retirement years. In his opinion, no one ran a better scouting program with effective leadership than Bob Lewis's Troop 369 at St. Vincent de Paul.
The good Padre tried unsuccessfully over the years to convert Dad to Catholicism. Dad didn't agree with certain aspects of the religion. Take confession for starters--he didn't understand the need to declare one's transgressions to a middle man behind a screen in a cloistered closet of shame. Dad believed in taking matters straight to one's God.
Fr. Sharpe was at least ten years Dad's senior, and had to be approaching his 90th birthday at the time he served as officiant for my father's services. Quite an honor for a non-Catholic. His age did not betray his mind. Nothing got by Fr. Sharpe.
Because my father did not have a church affiliation, his services were held at a mortuary not far from home. The structure began as a Methodist church in 1908; nine years before my dad came into the world. It seemed a perfect fit. With the historical brown church and chapel still intact, later construction connected a building that hosted the lobby, sales offices and the embalming/beautification lab, for lack of a better term.
Dad's viewing was scheduled on a Sunday evening, with the funeral service and burial the following morning. As we entered the lobby and headed for the chapel holding dad's open casket, we noticed the mortuary staff had put together a refreshment of coffee, cookies and lemonade for the mourners. My four children, ages 14,11,7 and 2.5 at the time, along with their young cousins, lit up at the sight of sweets. It's a genetic thing--compliments of Dad.
Being raised Catholic, I attended many open casket rosaries that as a child, left impressionable nightmares . Accordingly, my husband and I took turns reining Emily at the back of the chapel with books and small toys in avoidance of carrying the tradition of night terrors. Our remaining three children were in and out of the chapel throughout the two-hour reception as it bustled with life with the arrival of friends and family honoring Bob Lewis and supporting his family.
An hour into the meet and greet, I was approached by a well-meaning elderly woman who expressed concern that my seven-year-old daughter, Katie, along with a friend's daughter, Molly, had hijacked the complimentary refreshment stand in the lobby, turning it into a 'pay to pray' capital adventure.
I tried to contain my "WTF" mortified eye-popping expression as I frantically searched the throngs of the assembled to alert my husband that he needed to quash the entrepreneural takeover going down in the lobby. As my husband tells it, he rounded the corner to find quite the line-up of paying customers to the delighted squeals of the girls resplendent in their mourning attire of black lamé dresses and tights, busily attending to the money and the pour-miss-pour-splash delivery.
The operation was shut down immediately and the girls were off to the ladies room to remove the slopped lemonade residue from their hands and lacy black ruffles.
Fifteen minutes later with 'The Emster' still successfully contained at the back of the chapel, I was visiting with a group of close family friends at Dad's casket when up the middle aisle came my determined seven-year-old entrepreneur trailed by her animated cohort obviously trying to cut her off at the pass, "DO NOT ASK YOUR MOM OR YOU'RE GOING TO BE IN T.R.O.U.B.L.E.!"
By this time, the dynamite duo had my attention, along with those surrounding me.
When my daughter reached us, she blurted in her best outside voice, "Mommy, is F-U-C-K-Y-O-U a bad word????" Her seven year old inquiring mind wanted to know--right then and there.
This time, I failed in stifling the horrified eye-popping expression as simultaneous gasping took place throughout the chapel. I half expected my dad to rise up and begin lecturing all of us as to the effects of swearing on young minds.
When I was finally able to form words, I stuttered with a tempered, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Katie, why would you ask me that now? And YES, it's a terrible word!"
Her accomplice, a precocious eight-year-old who was obviously more fluent at phonics and definitions than her first grade ex-entrepreneur, piped in matter of factly--"I TOOOOLD her it was a bad word, and she was going to be in trouble if she asked you--she should have just believed me."
I believed I needed to get my drunk on. I was certain my mom was in need of her own cardboard box of refrigerator wine, STAT!
It would seem in addition to the complimentary refreshments provided with our funeral package, the mortuary also served up at no extra charge a Foul Language Arts total immersion class, thanks to someone's very bad day in a ladies room stall. Phonics never sounded so bad as I imagined my first grader sounding out the Ffff--uuu--cccccc---kkkk as she tinkled from behind the stall door. The ensuing conversation between the two tiny enteprenuers must have reached epic heights over restroom handwashing as to what the word meant.
A few of us welcomed the much needed giggles following "my talk" as the mini-Martha Stewarts marched off in their black lame ruffles looking for their next enlightening.
During the commotion over the F-Bomb, the Emster eluded my husband's rush to assistance, making a stealth approach to the front of the altar, and her Bob. As if things couldn't get any more dramatic, Emily's unmistakable sweet voice could be heard emanating from behind us to a delighted, "THERE'S BOB! MOMMY, I FOUND BOB!" declaration from atop a velvet kneeler poised in front of Dad's open casket as she tenderly tapped him on the chest as if trying to wake him from a Barney video enduced nap.
I don't think there was a dry eye in the chapel for anyone witnessing the tender innocence of a toddler and the death of her beloved "Bob."
♦♦♦♦
My father's funeral services took place the following morning inside a chapel filled to overcapacity.
During Fr. Sharpe's eulogy, Emily once again made the break from an inattentive charge, making her way to the altar lickity-split. We sat in the front row frozen in time as she approached Dad's open casket from behind.
All to be seen was her blonde pony tail sticking straight up from the top of her head like a fountain sprout as she bounced, again and again, exclaiming excitedly that she had once again found her grampie..."There's Bob!!I founded him again!! Bob, git up, Emy wants to plllaaaaay."
I could only imagine how much Dad would have loved his services, and how much he was going to miss of his independant, sassy little buddy's life.
♦♦♦♦
Following Dad's burial in the military section of a Catholic cemetery, we returned to our family home for the reception. As Fr. Sharpe rounded the kitchen and headed for the patio, my dad's beloved, horny little Shih Tzu, Teddy, was busy humping an empty gallon milk carton in the middle of the yard, fearless and shameless in front of the assembled. Fr. Sharpe looked at me and without missing a beat announced, "Quick recovery--no grief counseling for the dog!"
Once again mortified, I scanned the backyard for a Candid Camera lens. I could swear I heard my dad chuckling. A month later, Teddy had an appointment with the vet to be neutered--something my dad couldn't bring himself to do. We hoped Dad understood...
I was forty years old -- my mom was about to lose the love of her life; my siblings and I were about to lose our father-- our children--their Grampie. Emily, my youngest, was about to lose her "Bob."
Dad and my two-and-a-half year old daughter enjoyed an indelible bond. Emily preferred to address him by his first name "Hi Bob" or "Bob, open pweeeeeze" when handing him something of interest to eat or play with. "Bye-bye, Bob" when leaving for the day, and finally, "Lub you, Bob."
Dad would retort in an exaggeratedly off-put, miffed corrective tone emitting from a faux scowl expression-- "You're not supposed to call me Bob, I'm Grampie to you!" He would confine laughter as she blew him off with another reference to his moniker "You Bob". Dad would smile with pride at his sassy, independent little buddy.
In the days following my father's death, Emily continually searched my parents home and yard, repeatedly asking a house full of friends and family "Where's Bob? Where Bob Go? Emy miss him." Emily must have thought her Bob was the bomb at playing hide and seek. This brings us to the conclusion of "Where's Bob."
My father's funeral services took place the following morning inside a chapel filled to overcapacity.
During Fr. Sharpe's eulogy, Emily once again made the break from an inattentive charge, making her way to the altar lickity-split. We sat in the front row frozen in time as she approached Dad's open casket from behind.
All to be seen was her blonde pony tail sticking straight up from the top of her head like a fountain sprout as she bounced, again and again, exclaiming excitedly that she had once again found her grampie..."There's Bob!!I founded him again!! Bob, git up, Emy wants to plllaaaaay."
I could only imagine how much Dad would have loved his services, and how much he was going to miss of his independant, sassy little buddy's life.
Dad and my two-and-a-half year old daughter enjoyed an indelible bond. Emily preferred to address him by his first name "Hi Bob" or "Bob, open pweeeeeze" when handing him something of interest to eat or play with. "Bye-bye, Bob" when leaving for the day, and finally, "Lub you, Bob."
Dad would retort in an exaggeratedly off-put, miffed corrective tone emitting from a faux scowl expression-- "You're not supposed to call me Bob, I'm Grampie to you!" He would confine laughter as she blew him off with another reference to his moniker "You Bob". Dad would smile with pride at his sassy, independent little buddy.
In the days following my father's death, Emily continually searched my parents home and yard, repeatedly asking a house full of friends and family "Where's Bob? Where Bob Go? Emy miss him." Emily must have thought her Bob was the bomb at playing hide and seek. This brings us to the conclusion of "Where's Bob."
♦♦♦♦
My father was raised Protestant, but did not attend Sunday church services in the forty years I shared life with him. That being said, my father was a prayerful man with a belief in God and driven by an inner discipline to always do the right thing. Before his 1945 marriage to my mother, Dad was required by the church to sign a document of intent to raise their children Catholic; a requirement for the times. Dad was faithful to his pledge, going so far as to send three of their four to parochial school which claimed a significant chunk of their one-income family budget.
Dad furthered his commitment by taking on the duty of Scoutmaster for the St. Vincent de Paul boy scout troop #369 for sixteen years, achieving the highly acclaimed Silver Beaver Award at the conclusion of his reign. Stifle the inside jokes, please.
Our parish pastor, Fr. John O'Malley Sharpe, had come to know my father decades earlier and greatly respected him for his dedication to family; and his exemplary work and dedication as scoutmaster for the parish. Fr. Sharpe often bragged dad up. The priest had been assigned many parishes across the country before returning to ours once again in his retirement years. In his opinion, no one ran a better scouting program with effective leadership than Bob Lewis's Troop 369 at St. Vincent de Paul.
The good Padre tried unsuccessfully over the years to convert Dad to Catholicism. Dad didn't agree with certain aspects of the religion. Take confession for starters--he didn't understand the need to declare one's transgressions to a middle man behind a screen in a cloistered closet of shame. Dad believed in taking matters straight to one's God.
Fr. Sharpe was at least ten years Dad's senior, and had to be approaching his 90th birthday at the time he served as officiant for my father's services. Quite an honor for a non-Catholic. His age did not betray his mind. Nothing got by Fr. Sharpe.
Because my father did not have a church affiliation, his services were held at a mortuary not far from home. The structure began as a Methodist church in 1908; nine years before my dad came into the world. It seemed a perfect fit. With the historical brown church and chapel still intact, later construction connected a building that hosted the lobby, sales offices and the embalming/beautification lab, for lack of a better term.
Dad's viewing was scheduled on a Sunday evening, with the funeral service and burial the following morning. As we entered the lobby and headed for the chapel holding dad's open casket, we noticed the mortuary staff had put together a refreshment of coffee, cookies and lemonade for the mourners. My four children, ages 14,11,7 and 2.5 at the time, along with their young cousins, lit up at the sight of sweets. It's a genetic thing--compliments of Dad.
Being raised Catholic, I attended many open casket rosaries that as a child, left impressionable nightmares . Accordingly, my husband and I took turns reining Emily at the back of the chapel with books and small toys in avoidance of carrying the tradition of night terrors. Our remaining three children were in and out of the chapel throughout the two-hour reception as it bustled with life with the arrival of friends and family honoring Bob Lewis and supporting his family.
An hour into the meet and greet, I was approached by a well-meaning elderly woman who expressed concern that my seven-year-old daughter, Katie, along with a friend's daughter, Molly, had hijacked the complimentary refreshment stand in the lobby, turning it into a 'pay to pray' capital adventure.
I tried to contain my "WTF" mortified eye-popping expression as I frantically searched the throngs of the assembled to alert my husband that he needed to quash the entrepreneural takeover going down in the lobby. As my husband tells it, he rounded the corner to find quite the line-up of paying customers to the delighted squeals of the girls resplendent in their mourning attire of black lamé dresses and tights, busily attending to the money and the pour-miss-pour-splash delivery.
The operation was shut down immediately and the girls were off to the ladies room to remove the slopped lemonade residue from their hands and lacy black ruffles.
Fifteen minutes later with 'The Emster' still successfully contained at the back of the chapel, I was visiting with a group of close family friends at Dad's casket when up the middle aisle came my determined seven-year-old entrepreneur trailed by her animated cohort obviously trying to cut her off at the pass, "DO NOT ASK YOUR MOM OR YOU'RE GOING TO BE IN T.R.O.U.B.L.E.!"
By this time, the dynamite duo had my attention, along with those surrounding me.
When my daughter reached us, she blurted in her best outside voice, "Mommy, is F-U-C-K-Y-O-U a bad word????" Her seven year old inquiring mind wanted to know--right then and there.
This time, I failed in stifling the horrified eye-popping expression as simultaneous gasping took place throughout the chapel. I half expected my dad to rise up and begin lecturing all of us as to the effects of swearing on young minds.
When I was finally able to form words, I stuttered with a tempered, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Katie, why would you ask me that now? And YES, it's a terrible word!"
Her accomplice, a precocious eight-year-old who was obviously more fluent at phonics and definitions than her first grade ex-entrepreneur, piped in matter of factly--"I TOOOOLD her it was a bad word, and she was going to be in trouble if she asked you--she should have just believed me."
I believed I needed to get my drunk on. I was certain my mom was in need of her own cardboard box of refrigerator wine, STAT!
It would seem in addition to the complimentary refreshments provided with our funeral package, the mortuary also served up at no extra charge a Foul Language Arts total immersion class, thanks to someone's very bad day in a ladies room stall. Phonics never sounded so bad as I imagined my first grader sounding out the Ffff--uuu--cccccc---kkkk as she tinkled from behind the stall door. The ensuing conversation between the two tiny enteprenuers must have reached epic heights over restroom handwashing as to what the word meant.
A few of us welcomed the much needed giggles following "my talk" as the mini-Martha Stewarts marched off in their black lame ruffles looking for their next enlightening.
During the commotion over the F-Bomb, the Emster eluded my husband's rush to assistance, making a stealth approach to the front of the altar, and her Bob. As if things couldn't get any more dramatic, Emily's unmistakable sweet voice could be heard emanating from behind us to a delighted, "THERE'S BOB! MOMMY, I FOUND BOB!" declaration from atop a velvet kneeler poised in front of Dad's open casket as she tenderly tapped him on the chest as if trying to wake him from a Barney video enduced nap.
I don't think there was a dry eye in the chapel for anyone witnessing the tender innocence of a toddler and the death of her beloved "Bob."
Dad furthered his commitment by taking on the duty of Scoutmaster for the St. Vincent de Paul boy scout troop #369 for sixteen years, achieving the highly acclaimed Silver Beaver Award at the conclusion of his reign. Stifle the inside jokes, please.
Our parish pastor, Fr. John O'Malley Sharpe, had come to know my father decades earlier and greatly respected him for his dedication to family; and his exemplary work and dedication as scoutmaster for the parish. Fr. Sharpe often bragged dad up. The priest had been assigned many parishes across the country before returning to ours once again in his retirement years. In his opinion, no one ran a better scouting program with effective leadership than Bob Lewis's Troop 369 at St. Vincent de Paul.
The good Padre tried unsuccessfully over the years to convert Dad to Catholicism. Dad didn't agree with certain aspects of the religion. Take confession for starters--he didn't understand the need to declare one's transgressions to a middle man behind a screen in a cloistered closet of shame. Dad believed in taking matters straight to one's God.
Fr. Sharpe was at least ten years Dad's senior, and had to be approaching his 90th birthday at the time he served as officiant for my father's services. Quite an honor for a non-Catholic. His age did not betray his mind. Nothing got by Fr. Sharpe.
Because my father did not have a church affiliation, his services were held at a mortuary not far from home. The structure began as a Methodist church in 1908; nine years before my dad came into the world. It seemed a perfect fit. With the historical brown church and chapel still intact, later construction connected a building that hosted the lobby, sales offices and the embalming/beautification lab, for lack of a better term.
Dad's viewing was scheduled on a Sunday evening, with the funeral service and burial the following morning. As we entered the lobby and headed for the chapel holding dad's open casket, we noticed the mortuary staff had put together a refreshment of coffee, cookies and lemonade for the mourners. My four children, ages 14,11,7 and 2.5 at the time, along with their young cousins, lit up at the sight of sweets. It's a genetic thing--compliments of Dad.
Being raised Catholic, I attended many open casket rosaries that as a child, left impressionable nightmares . Accordingly, my husband and I took turns reining Emily at the back of the chapel with books and small toys in avoidance of carrying the tradition of night terrors. Our remaining three children were in and out of the chapel throughout the two-hour reception as it bustled with life with the arrival of friends and family honoring Bob Lewis and supporting his family.
An hour into the meet and greet, I was approached by a well-meaning elderly woman who expressed concern that my seven-year-old daughter, Katie, along with a friend's daughter, Molly, had hijacked the complimentary refreshment stand in the lobby, turning it into a 'pay to pray' capital adventure.
I tried to contain my "WTF" mortified eye-popping expression as I frantically searched the throngs of the assembled to alert my husband that he needed to quash the entrepreneural takeover going down in the lobby. As my husband tells it, he rounded the corner to find quite the line-up of paying customers to the delighted squeals of the girls resplendent in their mourning attire of black lamé dresses and tights, busily attending to the money and the pour-miss-pour-splash delivery.
The operation was shut down immediately and the girls were off to the ladies room to remove the slopped lemonade residue from their hands and lacy black ruffles.
Fifteen minutes later with 'The Emster' still successfully contained at the back of the chapel, I was visiting with a group of close family friends at Dad's casket when up the middle aisle came my determined seven-year-old entrepreneur trailed by her animated cohort obviously trying to cut her off at the pass, "DO NOT ASK YOUR MOM OR YOU'RE GOING TO BE IN T.R.O.U.B.L.E.!"
By this time, the dynamite duo had my attention, along with those surrounding me.
When my daughter reached us, she blurted in her best outside voice, "Mommy, is F-U-C-K-Y-O-U a bad word????" Her seven year old inquiring mind wanted to know--right then and there.
This time, I failed in stifling the horrified eye-popping expression as simultaneous gasping took place throughout the chapel. I half expected my dad to rise up and begin lecturing all of us as to the effects of swearing on young minds.
When I was finally able to form words, I stuttered with a tempered, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Katie, why would you ask me that now? And YES, it's a terrible word!"
Her accomplice, a precocious eight-year-old who was obviously more fluent at phonics and definitions than her first grade ex-entrepreneur, piped in matter of factly--"I TOOOOLD her it was a bad word, and she was going to be in trouble if she asked you--she should have just believed me."
I believed I needed to get my drunk on. I was certain my mom was in need of her own cardboard box of refrigerator wine, STAT!
It would seem in addition to the complimentary refreshments provided with our funeral package, the mortuary also served up at no extra charge a Foul Language Arts total immersion class, thanks to someone's very bad day in a ladies room stall. Phonics never sounded so bad as I imagined my first grader sounding out the Ffff--uuu--cccccc---kkkk as she tinkled from behind the stall door. The ensuing conversation between the two tiny enteprenuers must have reached epic heights over restroom handwashing as to what the word meant.
A few of us welcomed the much needed giggles following "my talk" as the mini-Martha Stewarts marched off in their black lame ruffles looking for their next enlightening.
During the commotion over the F-Bomb, the Emster eluded my husband's rush to assistance, making a stealth approach to the front of the altar, and her Bob. As if things couldn't get any more dramatic, Emily's unmistakable sweet voice could be heard emanating from behind us to a delighted, "THERE'S BOB! MOMMY, I FOUND BOB!" declaration from atop a velvet kneeler poised in front of Dad's open casket as she tenderly tapped him on the chest as if trying to wake him from a Barney video enduced nap.
I don't think there was a dry eye in the chapel for anyone witnessing the tender innocence of a toddler and the death of her beloved "Bob."
♦♦♦♦
My father's funeral services took place the following morning inside a chapel filled to overcapacity.
During Fr. Sharpe's eulogy, Emily once again made the break from an inattentive charge, making her way to the altar lickity-split. We sat in the front row frozen in time as she approached Dad's open casket from behind.
All to be seen was her blonde pony tail sticking straight up from the top of her head like a fountain sprout as she bounced, again and again, exclaiming excitedly that she had once again found her grampie..."There's Bob!!I founded him again!! Bob, git up, Emy wants to plllaaaaay."
I could only imagine how much Dad would have loved his services, and how much he was going to miss of his independant, sassy little buddy's life.
♦♦♦♦
Following Dad's burial in the military section of a Catholic cemetery, we returned to our family home for the reception. As Fr. Sharpe rounded the kitchen and headed for the patio, my dad's beloved, horny little Shih Tzu, Teddy, was busy humping an empty gallon milk carton in the middle of the yard, fearless and shameless in front of the assembled. Fr. Sharpe looked at me and without missing a beat announced, "Quick recovery--no grief counseling for the dog!"
Once again mortified, I scanned the backyard for a Candid Camera lens. I could swear I heard my dad chuckling. A month later, Teddy had an appointment with the vet to be neutered--something my dad couldn't bring himself to do. We hoped Dad understood...
Once again mortified, I scanned the backyard for a Candid Camera lens. I could swear I heard my dad chuckling. A month later, Teddy had an appointment with the vet to be neutered--something my dad couldn't bring himself to do. We hoped Dad understood...
 Recognized |
A lifelong friend recently shared in a text her take on dad's funeral; "I remember it being such a pleasant experience and not a sad funeral typically held. We all had such fond fun memories of your dad's organizational events! We shared stories, fishing in Mexico, lost kids on the Verde River, cookouts, him NOT going to church but being the kind of man who walked the walk. His voice always stern but never scary. I don't remember him ever not being game for anything, but it had to have RULES! The girls coming from the bathroom with the F-bomb...Emily's There's Bob, tapping him on the chest at first to our shock, then more tears mixed with laughter."
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