Dick Fish, cont.
Son Jeff's eulogy
Technically I worked for the Globe & Mail before he did - throwing papers at 5:30 in the morning. But when I gave that up and was looking forward to spending my summers watching TV, Dad felt it was time his teenage son got a job. So he used a 1/2 teaspoon of nepotism at the paper to land me a spot in the mailroom. In a vast, international organization like the Globe there was no rung lower than my position. When he dropped me off downstairs on my first day, he looked at my future boss, Dan, and said “If he steps outta line, kill him.” And then he walked away. I never stopped working from that day onward.
For all my summers there I introduced myself only as “Jeff” to anyone who asked for my name for fear Dad’s executive status would make things uncomfortable … for everyone. “Jeff…what?”, other staff would ask. “Just Jeff.”
Consider, for a moment, the name “Dick Fish.” Funny? Sure. But no one snickered. When he answered the phone at the office, it was “Fish speaking.” He had a reputation for being tough; someone you didn’t mess with. And his voice! You know how dolphins can stun fish with echo-location underwater? Dad could do that to people with a short shout of “HEY!”. Everyone would freeze: it was his superpower and it was legendary. We used him to play a small role in a student film we were making in university and his line was “Hey…you kids get outta my yard!” He did it in one take — primarily because everyone in our crew jumped three feet in the air when he said his line and no one wanted him to do THAT again.
One of dad’s favourite expressions was “99% of the world is functionally brain dead.” A brutal summation and a cautionary message to stop and think before you do something stupid. It took me years to figure out that dad wasn’t smart. He was wise - wise from the hard lessons learned through messing up — and having to clean up the messes: Drilling holes through water mains; piling too much lumber on roof supports; exploding gas barbecues. Sadly, wisdom rather than smarts is a trait I seem to have inherited. As Dad said, “The solution to every problem is from the guy you see in the mirror when you’re shaving. And he’s usually the cause too.”
Dad had a good job with many perks and yet he never flaunted his title or abused his position. It never really went to his head. After all, when he started at Sears in Chicago decades earlier it was selling shoes. (And he would still get a twinkle in his eye if you asked about how to size a foot properly.) He kept getting promoted because of his work ethic, his affable nature and his innate leadership skills. The latter were probably passed down to him from his father, a Lt. Col. with the US Army during WWII who insisted his son call him ‘sir’. He resented that. And since then Dad never worked with or for anyone who insisted on they be referred to by something other than their given name.
He made his own coffee even though other secretaries made coffee for their bosses. The vast majority of the people he managed were a diverse group of women who, from my observations, seemed to genuinely love working for and with Dad. He had a small fish tank filled with fish-shaped candies on a shelf in his office and anyone could and would drop-by grab a treat - and walk away with a big smile on their face. And his door? Always open.
Dad would drive me to work in the morning and would try and drive me home for dinner. Some nights I’d TTC home because of some meeting or function that got in the way. Sometimes I decided an air-conditioned car ride home was worth waiting an hour and a half for a meeting to end. We didn’t talk much. What does a 15 year old have to say to a baby-boomer when my only skill was a modest understanding of current movies and pop culture? And Dad didn’t talk about his day in case something he said leaked out of my mouth and caused a heap of trouble. But one night, driving back up the DVP, I had remarked that someone way up above me (everyone was above me) had treated someone else badly. He was quiet for a moment, turned to me and said “You can be an asshole… and be successful. But it’s not a prerequisite.”
My dad went through a lot of hardship in his life. Born in Albany, but raised outside of Chicago in Glen Ellyn, by his early twenties he lost both his dad to a heart attack and his brother, who was born with cerebral palsy. His first wife, my birth-mother, suffered from alcohol problems and had a psychotic break (thanks Prozac) when I was four. This resulted in a divorce in an era where couples “didn’t do that.” Then Dad was faced with raising his two boys in an era where dads “didn’t do that.” My brother had a learning disability that was repeatedly and professionally misdiagnosed for decades. Dad never wore any of that on his shoulder. He might have been justified to be a miserable S.O.B. But he wasn’t. He tended to focus on what there was to be happy about. And there was a lot.
When I was seven, Dad dated and remarried a remarkable woman, Marilyn. My brother and I were part of the wedding party and to this day we still call her ‘Mar’ because we knew her as Mar before she was mom. With the marriage we suddenly gained a large Irish family filled with the most warm and loving people I’ve every known. And then we packed up and with a short detour in New Jersey, we found ourselves in Canada - a country Dad remembered fondly from fishing with his father. Toronto was a runt of a city back then: everyone knew that “Montreal was the REAL city to live in.” Moving there was a brave and bold choice. And we lived way, way, way outside the city in an area called Willowdale (now just North York) in a modest condo close to the 401 and DVP that was meant to be temporary but remains home — a choice that any realtor today would tell you was a remarkably good one. What was farmland around us back then is now the center of a megapolis.
At school my American passport added to my uniqueness among my peers and I took pride in it. One day I was sewing two flags on a vest; the US one was above the Canadian one. Dad got angry. “We are guests of this country. Don’t disrespect it by waving a different flag higher.” I took the flags off my vest. And, over the decades, when I realized I was actually Canadian(!) in mind and spirit I finally got my citizenship. This delighted Dad immensely.
He was never too old to change and try something new. (Food especially.) Dad would go on to other various jobs and eventually co-found a very successful property management company. He would eventually retire for health reasons — the only thing that could and would stop him. Yet, every morning Dad would still get up before sunrise, pick up the newspapers from his doorstep, pour himself a coffee and start his day reviewing yesterday and planning today. And now I’m up before sunrise, sitting in his chair, drinking his share of the coffee and writing his eulogy.
Despite some people’s experiences, he loved people. He took great delight in making others smile. I’d watch complete strangers interact with him for just seconds and inevitably be smiling when they parted. In his last years, when was recovering in the hospital from one of his many ‘visits’, I walked into his room and I found him laughing with one of the orderlies who came in to empty the trash. The man left laughing all the way down the hall. There was Dad, sick, old, missing a leg and having just cheated Death another time. He smiled at me and said, “You see that? How easy it is to make someone smile? Never stop trying to do that.”
I was over 50 years old and the lessons, positive lessons, still kept coming. I’ll miss those. And I’ll miss the man who was my mentor, my friend, my constant and my dad. His last words to me were that he was proud of me: I wish that he was still around so that I could try to make him proud every day.
This is not enough. There should be volumes written about this man, his insight and intellect. There should have been a thunderclap: the heavens should have opened up. There should have been something more than a phone call at 6 a.m.
Perhaps that was his final lesson.
⁃ JRF ( Jeff Fish fish@fpsproductions.tv )

°          MORE           °

Continuations

Wendy's tribute to Linnea, cont.
Her birthday was September 11th . . . another interesting factoid about her life. She said she was sitting in a Paris restaurant for a long-planned birthday celebration with her husband Michael and two friends from Seattle. The waiter came up and said to them, "I am so sorry about what happened." They said . . . whaaaat? So that is how they found out.
       So if you have an inclination and see a sunflower or two blooming, think of her. That was her signature flower, because sunflowers are late bloomers, around late August or early September. I have five in my garden sending forth their golden-red rays . . . the variety Velvet Queen. Looking at them today makes me weep. I think a part of me died with her. But I have a rich store of memories to draw upon.

Margie's tribute to Linnea, cont.
Linnea’s message was universal.
       But petite, cute, Linnea could be tough too . . . So tough that she took on our 250 (at least) pound elementary P.E. teacher. (Bonnie has given me permission to relate the story.) Mr. Moran was his name and for some reason, he decided to make snide comments during every gym class about Bonnie’s weight (which was not at all extreme.) Bonnie said that she teared up every time. One day, though, Linnea had had enough and stood up to Mr. Moran on behalf of Bonnie. Bonnie does not recall exactly what Linnea said, but Mr. Moran never bullied Bonnie again. How do you like that for petite, cute Linnea!
       But let’s get back to Linnea’s creativity. John Staedke has had a front row seat to it since they were always in the same classroom at Lincoln School. He wrote, “Linnea and I always had a friendly, funny relationship. “ John thinks that he had a crush on her in third or fourth grade, and even wrestled with John Novak for her attentions as Linnea unknowingly and blissfully walked by. Here’s Linnea’s inscription to John in his ’59 Pinnacle. “Snort! (like a dragon’s) You’ve been a real good sport to put up with my teasing about your webbed feet. (Drawing of webbed duck’s or dragon’s feet.) . . . You’ve got a warm friendliness and happy outlook, and a wonderful sense of humor. You’ll always be happy because you generate happiness. I challenge you to another freckle contest!”
       That 61 year old message from Linnea sums up our Linnea: Creative Genius, Quirky Spirit, and Good Friend.

By Bob Perkins:
I recall Linnea and our first year after leaving Glenbard. She went off to the University of Denver, which seemed like a great choice--but it wasn't for her. I was at U of I and she contacted me to ask how I liked it. I did like it. She enrolled.
       We met for coffee several times. And once drank Portugeuse pink wine in the brown clay bottle--very fashionable at the time. I was a Beta and we talked about Greek houses on campus. She joined Kappa Alpha Theta. The KAT house sisters were super cool young ladies.
       She rode back home with me at Thanksgiving and maybe Christmas. She had formed friends, was enjoying the school and mentioned in passing meeting a fellow called "Riley." I didn't know if that was a first or last name.
       My family then moved to Ohio and I transferred. I never saw her again. She might have been at the one reunion I attended, but our paths never crossed. I still remember her quirky, clever intelligence and postcard pretty red cheeks.
       So, lift your favorite beverage with me and toast, "To old times, and to our old friends like Linnea. We will never forget you."
       All the best, Bob Perkins