Bob

We lost my husband’s brother yesterday. It was unexpected in nature, yet after a month in ICU with no physician being able to really give us a definitive answer as to why, it was not all that unexpected. My ramblings today are not about doctors, hospitals, nurses, or family, but random thoughts about Bob after knowing him since 1976 when I first went to work for his father.

Bob was Bob. If you knew him, you’re probably grinning after that statement and know exactly what I am saying. He was an extremely unique individual. He was in his early 20’s when I first met him, and honestly, I had no idea how to read him. He could be funny. He could be maddening. He could be irresponsible. He could be the one you counted on when the chips were down. No matter what he could be, he was always fiercely loyal to his family, and an ardent protector of his brother and sisters.

He doodled little German helmets with spikes sticking up

He loved to barbeque. In the eighties, Tom and I would receive an invitation for 6pm in the evening to grill out. We’d get there, and no one would be home. Twenty minutes later, he would arrive, and then say, let’s go to the grocery store. He preferred the indirect grilling method and we’d be sitting down to half raw chicken at 11:30pm while listening to Richard Pryor albums. Indirect and method are now two words fondly used in quotes within the family

No one could do a better impression of Grandma Heitz – “You vill do dis MY vay!” I can still see him performing.

When my son was a toddler, he’d giggle when he knew Unc Bob was coming because it meant two things – Unc Bob would say “Give me a dollar” and then he would throw the kid on the sofa and proceed to use the bottom cushion to press him into the back cushion, amidst Eric’s protesting and laughing. He never would tell Unc Bob to stop.

He lost things.  Frequently and without care.

If you smoked, your lighter was not safe. He’d lose his, then walk off with yours and lose it too.  Once, Tom and Bob were at the airport heading off to ( or returning from) a sales meeting.  They had quite a bit of time before the plane was to board, so they stepped outside for a smoke.  Bob reached in his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, then started looking for his lighter.  He looked again.  And again.  "I just had it," he said.  "It's like traveling with a monkey."

At one time, we had five pairs of sunglasses on top of our refrigerator – all Bob’s.

When he left your house, you'd find every beer can he abandoned had 1/4" to 1/2" of beer left in it.  We don't know why.

Back in the days when he had been working with his dad for a few years, one of their lines was Beneke, who make toilet seats.  There was also a Woody Allen film at the time in which his characters childhood was examined in flashbacks.  One such was in the schoolroom of maybe 8 to 10 year olds, where they each got up and announced to the camera what they ended up doing 30-35 years hence. The 'now' careers were impressive:  neurosurgeons, Nobel prize winner, cure for cancer - a true class of geniuses.  When Woody Allen's childhood self stood up, he announced, "I sell toilet seats."  Bob loved that line.  LOVED it.  He was also into dark humor, so based on that, we had a mock newspaper made with the headline that said something like "Toilet Seat Salesman Slays Four But Does Not Take Own Life."  He about split a gut laughing.

Kids loved him. His kids. His step kids. His grandkids. His nieces and his nephews. They knew that deep down inside, Bob was one of them. A couple of Christmases ago, he took all the kids somewhere in the house and taught them some goofy song, then lined then up on the stairs and directed his choir. Typical Bob.

Tom's words (borrowed from Churchill) on understanding Bob:  "He was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a conundrum.  "That's my brother."

Fly high, Bob.  Have a beer with your dad.  Watch out for your mom and the garden hose.  Tell hello and give our love to all who are waiting for us Yesterday, I took your brother to a pub, bought him a few rounds of beer and whiskey, put some bucks into Touch Tunes and we played music you would love as we toasted your life.  You made an impact, and we will always love and miss you.