Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines

REMEMBERING A SPECIAL MAN

by      Louise Dubrule

      For more years than I care to count, my morning prayer has been “Thank you, God, for another day and for the love of my life to share it with.” I haven’t quite figured out what to say now, beyond the first part, for the love of my life departed on August 21. The published obituary reads in part: “He will be remembered for his total honesty, his generous heart, his cheerful whistle, his love of Big Band music, and his wicked sense of humor.” That’s just the tip of the iceberg.

      Maurice (known to everyone as Moe) and I grew up in the same little town of Richford, Vermont. If truth be told, he once had a great crush on my older sister, Simone, and I always teased that he had to settle for the little sister with the pigtails and scabby knees.

      Moe worked at one odd job or another from the time he was eleven or twelve, doing chores that were always up for grabs in a small town and surrounding farming area. He was a fixture at the local movie theater, he helped install TVs when television came to our area, and he worked at the Sweat Comings furniture factory. Early on, he developed a strong work ethic, striving to do any job well the first time. His philosophy was that any job worth doing was worth doing well, and no honest labor was demeaning.

      Moe spent one year at St. Michael’s College, entertaining the idea of maybe entering the priesthood, but God had other plans. As fate would have it, we fell in love at a dance in the pavilion at Franklin Pond and the die was cast. He was fond of saying that I eventually made a father of him anyway.

      Moe entered the U.S. Army in November of 1954 and spent the next twenty-plus years in the guided missile field because he had such an aptitude for the complexities of circuits and wiring. That choice of career would come back to bite him badly. He saw postings in Germany and Korea, but most of his service years were spent here at Ft. Bliss.

      Along the way, we were married in July, 1956, and we had two lovely daughters, Michelle and Monique. Those little girls were the apple of their daddy’s eye in every way possible. They quickly figured out that he was the pushover, and they fought over who would ride in his cart when the commissary shopping trip necessitated two carts. Was he generous? We had to be careful about expressing an admiration for something, because to him “I sure like” was synonymous with “I want.”

      After he retired from the Army in 1975, he went to work at the new Montgomery Ward store in a big mall. He started as a commission sales associate, but he quickly fell into management until he had nine departments. He was careful to call me every day when he left work so I’d know when to expect him. Equally important, if he was going to be late, he let me know so I wouldn’t worry. One day he interrupted a sale to make such a call, and when he turned back to the customer with an apology, she smiled and said “If my husband had been that thoughtful I might still be married to him.” When he left management, it took three people to take his place.

      When he was finally retired for good, we made two trips to Britain, visiting every cathedral and photographing all the beautiful landscapes. He became a huge fan of Celtic music, not surprisingly, for his grandmother was Katie Byrnes from County Cork. Every Tuesday was ‘our’ day, and for nearly twenty years, we went to the historic town of Mesilla, New Mexico for lunch at the famous Double Eagle Restaurant. We were such regulars that they saved ‘our’ table for us, and our favorite waitress became a good friend who shared her life with us. During a period of several years, there were many families with young children that sat around us at Sunday Mass, and all the little ones were eager to sit next to Papa D or on his lap, to read their books to him, to admire his Mickey Mouse watch, and to behave well enough to earn a piece of candy after Mass.

      Moe was the rock of our home, strong on the outside, tender-hearted on the inside. He fixed everything we females managed to break or foul up, and he was the go-to guy for the whole neighborhood. He’d often disappear on an errand of mercy and then come home with a smile and apology for having been gone. Neighbors knew when he was home because he whistled without being aware of it, and the tunes were nearly always Big Band numbers of the 40s. He found joy and humor in everyday situations and he was the master of the tall tale that had you believing right up to the punch line. His repertoire of jokes was huge, and he seemed to have a story for any subject you could name.

      While our girls were growing up, our home became the gathering place for all their friends. We figured that if their friends were here, we knew who the girls were hanging out with and where they were. More often then not, our dinner table was set for several other youngsters who occasionally stayed overnight for one reason for another. At one point, a troubled young man moved in and stayed for over a year. Michelle’s best friend lived with us for two years, and several other young people became unofficial members of the family. Moe was Papa D to them all. Even after the teens graduated and left El Paso, they made it a point to drop in to visit when they came to town. One even joined us on a tour of England and Scotland. We heard from them at the holidays, and they sent pictures of their children when they started their own families. In the meantime, Moe was busy bragging about our own daughters to anyone who would listen, and he delighted in passing around pictures of our grandchildren.

      Three years ago, illness reared its ugly head. There was a triple bypass and two surgeries for bladder cancer. Then a bone marrow malignancy was discovered and it was determined that twenty years of service to his country had exposed him to dangerous radiation that caused great damage. Before we knew it, he’d received 106 transfusions. We learned a lot of new words, the names of several kinds of chemotherapy, as well as the benefits and side effects of various medications. Through it all, Moe maintained his sense of humor. “I turned seventy and all my warranties ran out,” he’d say, “and I didn’t buy the in-home service policy.” One sweet nurse asked him how he could deal with so many different maladies, and his reply was “I’m trying them all out to see which one I like best.” Rather than complain about the frequent trips for transfusions, he expressed a gratitude to the generous strangers who had rolled up their sleeves to donate blood. We were fortunate to have an oncologist who was on the cutting edge of medical advances, and he was able to give us two extra good years.

      On his last day, Moe was in the hospital for a routine procedure. He received communion and a blessing, and thirty minutes later the hospital chaplain was greatly surprised to be called back to give him the last rites. There was no question that Moe had died in the state of grace, and it was easy to believe that he was where he’d worked his whole life to be.

      The funeral at our home parish on Ft. Bliss was a wonderful, holy affair with two priests and a deacon who just happens to be our son-in-law. Moe had said long ago that he didn’t want a big fuss, but he had expressed a preference for certain readings and music. Flowers filled the sanctuary, and I was gratified by the number of people who came after reading the notice in the newspaper. After the Mass I hosted a reception/luncheon at the Officers’ Club and every chair was filled. Then the magic began.

      One by one, people began to stand to describe the way Moe had touched their lives. Those young people who spent so much time in our house are now in their forties and they came from Colorado, Wisconsin, and several cities in Texas to pay their respects. The young man who had lived with us couldn’t attend himself, but he had his sister come as his proxy to speak of Moe’s kindness at a time when he needed it most. The others needed to tell everyone that Papa D had been a role model, a shining example of what a husband and father was supposed to be. With tearful voices they spoke of their teen years when Moe was the father figure they lacked in their own homes. They described acts of generosity that were a revelation to me. They repeated the advice that Moe had given them about the importance of character and self-respect. Former co-workers took their turns to talk about Moe teaching them a work ethic that has now earned them respect and reward. One gentleman revealed that Moe had sold him our little car for $100 rather than selling it to a stranger for $1000. A woman spoke about a time when she was ill and needed medication that she couldn’t afford. He gave her a loan, even though we had had bad experiences in that area. Yes, she paid it back, one of the few who did.

      Friends from Church wanted us to know how much they admired his smile and courage in spite of his illness, and others recalled that the little children at Mass called him Grandpa D because he spoke to them and asked them about the stuffed animals they had brought with them. A beloved nurse remembered his jokes, his patience with procedures, and his seemingly high pain tolerance. One friend was in Africa on safari, still unaware of Moe’s passing, but her mother came to represent her. Friends came from New Mexico to be sure we knew how special Moe had been to them.

      After the party broke up, our home was full of family, as well as all those forty-something youngsters who couldn’t leave town without talking about Papa D some more. Some chose a sweater, a hat, or a bright Hawaiian shirt as a keepsake. We set up a long table, and once again I was surrounded by echoes of the past. We ate, talked, and laughed with fond memories.

      One of the stories told at the reception after the funeral was about a time when I was in Vermont helping my mother after her cancer surgery, and one of our ‘adopted’ children, Ruth, was the volunteer to feed the cats when Moe worked late at Montgomery Ward. One evening she was still here, doing her college homework, when Moe got home. He asked her where the doggone can opener was so he could make some orange juice. She led him to the kitchen and gently pointed out that the can had a tear strip. That became a family joke. The day after the funeral, while all the family members were still here, our granddaughter, Kristi, was going to refill the juice pitcher. With a smug little voice and a wiggle of her hips she chirped, “Look at me. I don’t need a can opener.” She pulled the strip, squeezed the carton to pop the metal cover, which came off…along with a full quarter of the contents of the can, drenching her from head to toe and leaving her standing in a puddle. She let out a loud squeal and said “Pépčre reached down and smacked me for making fun of him!” We roared with laughter at the thought. Of such stuff are legends made.

      Now I’ve acknowledged all the flowers, cards, and e-mail messages. The monetary tributes have been sent to an organization called Food for the Poor, Moe’s favorite charity. Even now, Moe is feeding children. I’m left with fifty-one years of happy memories, and I feel so blessed to have been the partner of this man. My cousin Lorraine sent me this quote which seems to put it best: “Rather than mourn the absence of the flame, let us celebrate how brightly it glowed.”

 

Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines
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Created 1 Feb 2003