In 2010, Dad retired at the ripe age of 78.  With his new-found freedom, one of his goals was to write his memoirs.  He wanted to get a computer for this task, so on one of my trips to San Francisco, we took a cab out to Stonestown shopping center to go to Best Buy.  Dad told me he heard “Apple” computers were easy to use, so that is what he wanted.  An impatient shopper, we were in the store less than 20 minutes when he announced he wanted to get a $3,000 MacBook Pro, pointed to a Hewlett Packard inkjet printer, and declared “Let’s get out of here!”

I’m not sure he ever learned to use the MacBook.  I know there were many calls to the Geek Squad for support, and one of his helpers was named Charles, who had a girlfriend living in China.  Somehow, Dad left a small stack of typewritten papers held together with his trademark binder clip.  It was his memoirs.

When I first scanned his memoirs, I was disappointed.  He didn’t write about growing with his young family in California, so I could compare my experience with his.  Instead, he wrote mostly about his time in the Korean War from 1955-1957.  

Over the October 12-13, 2018 weekend, I retyped his hard-copy printouts into his (mine inherited) MacBook Pro.  I also found a fragment he had typed on the hard drive of the computer.  A hidden treasure.  I have published these stories on the “Life” tab of this web site.  Please scroll down the page and read them.

As I typed through the pages, I began to appreciate these stories.  This was a Dad I didn’t know.  Could not know.  It was Dad before he was Dad--before family, law career, cars and houses.  He was all of 22 to 25 years old.  Sometimes when Dad would reminisce, he would talk about his “salad days.” Salad Days is a Shakespearean idiom depicting youth, inexperience, enthusiasm, and industry.  Dad wrote about his Salad Days.

As I continued typing and reading, I remembered when John and I took Dad to the Aviation Museum in McMinnville, Oregon in 1999.  The museum was literally built around the Howard Hughes’ Spruce Goose.  The brainchild of Henry Kaiser during World War II, the Spruce Goose was an oversized plane with a 320-foot wingspan, made from wood due to restrictions on aluminum during war.  Designed by Howard Hughes, it was eventually built, but it was grossly over budget and schedule.  It was flown just once--by Hughes--for just 70 feet above the Pacific Ocean for one minute.  Although Dad admired the Goose, his main interests were in the smaller, World War II planes at the museum in the shadow of the great plane.  We were admiring these smaller planes, when we realized Dad knew their names and features.  “This is a P-40 Warhawk,” and “Oh, a 54 Wildcat.”  John and I read the descriptions posted in front of the planes.  Dad did not. I learned from his memoirs that he had studied all of these planes in his officer’s training, and he studied them in a manner that 45 years later, he still knew them. 

Dad loved learning, and he was good at it.  He learned to be a maintenance officer without being mechanically inclined.  He went to law school at night and passed the bar on the first try.  When he started to take asbestos law cases, he took a community college course on anatomy, and he even studied physics when he started working with pyrotechnic clients.  As I got older, there were many times when Dad told me he appreciated that I had studied Greek and Latin culture and literature, and that I had read “the Great Books.”  He would stop, look my in the eyes and tell me he was proud of me.  Embarrassed, I would shrug it off and look at the floor.  In 2013, when he visited my home in Atlanta, I remember him climbing my stairs and with his unsteady gait walking up to me in my study, and clearly saying to me how proud he was of me.  Thank you, Dad.  As I have had the privilege of reflecting on your life, I am proud of you for moving out west as a young man, for deciding to go to law school to support your family, for living and working in San Francisco (a city you loved), for working hard, for continually learning, and for appreciating those around you--even if they did not know how to accept your appreciation at the time.

Today marks the end of the Major League baseball regular season, and it got me thinking about Dad.

Dad was a big sports fan, though he lost interest in most sports through the years.  But he never lost his love for baseball.  Growing up in Covington Ky, he was right across the river from the Cincinnati Reds, the oldest professional team in baseball.  When I was young, he told me about the times he would go see the team as a kid, and he could remember quite a few of their players from that time.

Dad took me to my first game at around age 7 or 8, just around the time I started playing Little League.  When one of the concessioners asked me if I brought my glove to catch any foul balls, I realized I hadn’t, and was very upset.  Dad did his best to console me, but I was really worried that I’d miss my chance (luckily no balls were hit my direction that day).  Dad taught me how to score a game, and the various strategies involved on offense and defense.  He knew his stuff.

A few years later, my sister and I spent time in Covington with my grandparents, which was the time of a great Reds team known as the “Big Red Machine”.  My parents came later, and I remember seeing a game with Dad in Riverfront Stadium in its first year of opening, which was then a beautiful state of the art sports venue. The Reds walloped the opposing team, hit 3 home-runs, including the first grand slam in Riverfront (Tony Perez I think it was). It was that trip that cemented me, though a California native, as a lifelong Reds fan.

I remember the 1975 World Series, in which the Reds played the Red Sox.  It was a great series which came down to the 7th game.  The Reds fell behind 3-0 early in the game, at which point my family decided to go out to dinner.  I couldn’t understand how Dad could leave at a moment like this – Had he given up hope?  Or perhaps family obligations trumped the Big Red Machine?  I stayed behind, and watched the Reds claw back and win 4-3, taking the Series.  When Dad got home I excitedly recounted in detail how the Reds had come back; Dad seemed surprised, a little happy, but also a bit disinterested – clearly there were other things on his mind that I couldn’t appreciate.

The Big Red Machine era ended in the late 70s, and the Reds became a dismal team in the 80s.  But Dad and I would still see them play when they came to town to play the Giants.  After I moved to Tokyo, the Reds managed to make the playoffs with a relatively weak team, and made it to the World Series, where they were huge underdogs. Somehow, they managed to win the first 3 games.  I was playing tennis with friends during Game 4 but followed the game via a live broadcast on the US Air Force station. The Reds hung on for a close-fought 2-1 win and swept the heavily favored Oakland A’s.  As soon as it was over, I scrambled to find a payphone to call Dad – and was able to get through.  I can’t recall what we said but do remember we just both screamed like little kids.

During Dad’s last few years, he lost the ability or interest to watch an entire game.  I would sometimes play the ten minute game summaries on MLB.com.  Dad would watch them intently, though he wouldn’t say anything.  When I asked if he wanted to see another, more often than not he’d say yes.  He still knew what was going on and enjoyed watching the ever-familiar movements. For seasons to come, when I watch a Red game, I’ll be happy in that it will bring back memories of Dad, our shared enjoyment of the game, and time spent together. 

Over Labor Day weekend, we purchased a new home for Dad.  I went to San Francisco for a long weekend with a mission to purchase for Dad a crematorium niche at the San Francisco Columbarium--one of his wishes.  I was fortunate that my great friend, Charmian, was able to join me on this venture and hosted me at her home.  On Friday, August 31, we went to the San Francisco Columbarium in the Richmond district.  In advance, my brother and I had spoken with a Columbarium representative and with a broker who also had niches to sell.  The main Columbarium building was built in 1895, and it is a restored Greco-Roman style building with three levels and several side rooms to hold cremated remains.  The Columbarium also has a new building for niches as well.  We had viewed pictures and youtube videos online of this historic building and thought Dad would like it.  One thing we learned from viewing the pictures in advance is that some families placed urns in glass fronted niches and many chose to also include memorabilia, such as photographs, jewelry, sports caps, and veteran's flags.

When Charmian and I arrived at the Columbarium, we toured the historic building.  Most of the niches had sold within the historic building, and a representative showed us a handful of remaining sites.  We then toured the new building, called the Hall of Olympians.  In general, the niches were larger in this building.  Our representative named Serena paused during our tour and asked "Do you know these lovely ladies?"  She pointed to a glass fronted niche with two beautiful, matching, hand-crafted, turquoise ceramic urns with a small, 4 x 6 inch framed photograph of two blonde women in front. "Is that the twins?" I asked.  "Yes."  I looked at Charmian and she smiled back at me, and that was it.  We found Dad's new home.

Dad had introduced me to the San Francisco Twins in 2012.  They often came to one of Dad's favorite restaurants--The Nob Hill Cafe.  You could often find Marian and Vivian Brown sitting in the front widow table at the restaurant.  One time, when Dad and I were at this restaurant--which he called "The Pizza Place"--he insisted on introducing me to them.  These two women were gracious and wild.  They wore matching leopard print cowboy hats and matching dresses in another animal print.  I saw the twins a second time when Dad, Charmian, and I ate at The Pizza Place.  This time, we were in the window seat and the twins were walking outside the window.  We waved, and they stopped, smiled at us and blew kisses through the glass plate window.  I had a third sighting with Dad in 2015, again at The Pizza Place.  This time, one of the twins had fallen ill and was placed in a nursing home; the story was published in the San Francisco Chronicle, and I found a clipping in Dad's apartment.  Dad and I were at The Pizza Place again, and we saw one lone twin, walking across the street.  It was very sad.

So, Dad has a new home at the San Francisco Columbarium (1 Lorraine Court, San Francisco, CA 94118, Hall of Olympians, Athena Room, Tier 3, Niche 3).  And, just to be clear, he will be once again in the 'hood with the Twins.  (We plan to inter his ashes in the spring of 2019; if you would like to attend, let Jeanne or Brian Negley know).

After purchasing the niche for Dad, Charmian and I proceeded to celebrate all-things-Dad in San Francisco and the Bay Area.  We immediately went to the Fairmont for lunch (Dad took me to lunch there in ~2005; Charmian and I had salads and Prosecco--one of Dad's favorite drinks).  Over the next few days, we attended a Giant's game (vs. the New York Mets--we enjoyed the bleachers for all 11 innings), an outdoor Shakespeare play and picnic (The War of the Roses by Cal Shakes in the Orinda hills), a Magritte exhibit at SF MOMA (we found it interesting how much the artist's style changed from loose impressionist strokes to the controlled, surreal famous portraits we all know with "prominent apples").  The weekend was topped by a trip to The Big Four, Dad's favorite bar.  It is named after the four tycoons that built the Central Pacific Railroad in the 1800's--C.P. Huntington, Charles Crocker, Mark Hopkins, and Leland Sanford. Yes, on a beautiful, sunny California afternoon, we walked into a dark, mahogany paneled bar, ordered our drinks, ate roasted peanuts, and listened to live piano music.  We decided to stay for dinner, and I ordered a BLT--off menu--like Dad used to do.

I am greatly indebted to my wonderful friend Charmian for supporting me to find the perfect resting place for Dad, for joining me in celebrating my Dad in his city, and for helping me to settle my heart in this great loss.

I didn't know Charles Negley, my father-in-law, as well as I would have liked. We were on opposite ends of the political spectrum (so we avoided talking politics), lived in different states for most of the time I knew him, and--aside from our shared love for Jeanne--had little in common (I am a scientist, he was a lawyer--two very different world views). But Charles was always a consummate gentleman in my experience, who loved to go out for dinner (or lunch) and drinks at one or another of his favorite San Francisco establishments, where he always picked up the tab. And he always had interesting stories to tell about colorful clients or colleagues, unusual cases he had worked on, or an interesting anecdote from his many travels over the years.

While on the outside Charles maintained the image of a buttoned-down corporate lawyer, he never forgot his humble roots or lost his ability to talk to and enjoy the company of regular working folks. And he had a more fun-loving side to him that belied the cautious corporate lawyer image. I got to see this side of Charles when Jeanne and I attended a Pyrotechnics Guild International (PGI) convention with him in Fargo, ND in 2007. It was like this secret tribe to which he belonged, which he clearly relished being a part of. And why wouldn't he? We got to build and fire off 3-inch fireworks shells, help assemble a "megastring" (one million firecrackers that would all go off in under a minute), and watch amazing fireworks displays with front-row seats each evening. I remember that first evening we sat in folding chairs on the racetrack. Perhaps 50 feet in front of us was a row of perhaps 6 buckets and one larger barrel in the center that I learned contained a firework consisting, in part, of Cremora coffee creamer. At the start of the show (after the national anthem), the buckets on each end erupted in fireballs, progressing inward to a much larger fireball when the barrel in the center went off. I could feel the heat on my face and the concussion of the blasts in my chest. I turned to Jeanne and said, "Holy [bleep]! Can the DO that?!!!" Later in the show, a particularly spectacular firework (exploding at a safer distance and altitude) burst into dozens of sparkler fountains (probably not the correct technical term) that gracefully descended toward the ground on parachutes. Some of the fountains failed to go out before they reached the ground, causing the apparently well-prepared ground crew to dash out to subdue the resulting brush fires. I looked over at Charles and said, "I'm sure glad I'm not insuring these guys!" He just smiled, clearly in his element.

I will always remember my Uncle Charlie. Through the years we spent many events together. Holidays, vacations, weddings, and just the about time to see you visits. Uncle Charlie always had a story to share. He loved talking about the firework firm he worked with. As Jeannie said, HE LOVED WORKING WITH THEM. I remember visiting one time, and Uncle Charlie turned on a old time gangster movie. We both watched intensely and talked about other shows like the Untouchables. I always found him to be interesting.

There was a TV series which I loved back in the days. Dark Shadows was its name. It was about vampires, witches, and werewolves. I used to tape the lead in of each episode and put it to memory. I could recite each one and Uncle Charlie was just amazed and entertained when I would ramble them off for them.  "Night fell on the great house of Collinswood. A storm was approaching. It was a full moon and the curse of the wolf would soon find another victum."   He would just laugh.

I will miss him greatly!     

When I lived out in the avenues in SF, Dad and I would sometimes go to a bar in the West Portal area called the Philosophers Club.  Contrary to its name, it was an absolute dive, with an old wooden floor, aging pinball machines, and a blue-collar crowd.  We used to go there just to catch up and have a drink, and often watch sports.  Every time we'd go there, Dad would say "Oh, the Philosophers Club - we're going to be talking about some heavy stuff there" - we always got a laugh together out of that line!

I'd like to share with you some stories I told about Dad at his Memorial.

I was a fairly typical teenager, with hair down to my shoulders (you wouldn’t know it looking at me now), with the attitude that I’d already figured out most things worth knowing, and life was pretty easy pickings.  I got along well with my dad, but he often seemed distant and tense to me – I didn’t understand why he was this way, and I thought I didn’t wind up like that.  For some reason – neither one of us were what you call fighters – we’d sometimes wind up in these wrestling matches. We’d be on the living room carpet just going at each other, and every time I was surprised at how strong and agile he was, and how ferociously he’d come at me. We’d go on for minutes at a time, and he always managed to get me to quit.When we were done I was completely worn out, just spent.  Looking back – the message - unspoken of course - was:  You’re not quite as good as you think you are, and what awaits you isn’t easy.

I went away to college a few years later.  Like young people finally getting a taste of things of being away from home, I was excited about being on my own, being able to do what I wanted when I wanted, living life on my own terms.  At the same time, I remember this strange sort of gnawing feeling of a large expanse and emptiness, a kind of a void – I wasn’t sure what it was, not sure what to do about it.  I also remember feeling the big loneliness that the adult world can sometimes cast upon us.  Dad came to town once on business, and we met for dinner.I don’t remember where we ate, or what we spoke about over our meal – I only remember when we said goodbye.  The look on his face, the tone of his voice, was something that I hadn’t seen from him before: it was just this curious mixture of sadness, yet but also encouragement, and even a hint of pride.  I distinctly remember feeling that dad was recognizing me as an adult, and in his own way was saying – Yes, Welcome to this adult world – it’s tough, but it’s also exciting, and you’ll find your way.

I think you all know dad was an attorney.  But when many people asked him what he did, he’d often reply “Lie, Cheat, and Steal”.  Curious to know more, I took a business law in college.  The instructor was a practicing attorney, with a really gruff demeanor.He’d spend the class calling randomly on students to answer questions about cases we read about, and inevitably before we’d finish answering he’d yell out “Wrong”, “Wrong Answer” and go on to his next victim.  1 instructor and 80 students cowering under their desks.He never wavered from his tough guy approach.  Once, he brought in and introduced a reference book he said contained the names and specialties of law firms in the US.  After class, I went up to him and asked if he could find my dad’s firm.  When he did, he looked up at me, and in a barely audible whisper said – “You’re dad’s firm has the highest rating” – I asked that that meant, and he said “They’re in the top 5% of all firms – this is a very prestigious designation”.  Of course dad never mentioned that, and I would have never guessed – but he had risen to the absolute peak of a highly, highly competitive profession.

Years later dad came and visited my family and I when we lived in Tokyo, on his way to visit his old Air Force base in Kyushu.  One day Dad and I went into town, visited the famous Yasukuni War Musuem.  We then somehow made our way to Tokyo Dome, where a baseball game was playing.  Neither one of us were that interested in going, but a couple of Japanese Yakuza gangster types approached us and tried to sell us tickets.  I’d become fairly fluent in the language, and together Dad and I toyed with them to see if they’d lower their prices – we went back and forth awhile, but in the end they didn’t budge, so we walked away.  I remember dad looking at me and saying” I didn’t know if they were going to give us a discount, or take us around the corner and cut our fingers off!” We spent the rest of the afternoon just walking – Tokyo’s a fantastic place to stroll around, and dad found it exotic.  Later that night we all had dinner in a local restaurant we frequented, run by a sole proprietor and his wife.  As is custom in these kinds of places, the owner is simply addressed as “master”, so naturally that’s how we introduced him to dad.After dinner Dad kept saying – “I had dinner with Master, I had dinner with Master”.As he was leaving Tokyo, he said to me “Brian, you’re a wild man”. This life that you have here in Japan is really great -”.Dad was acknowledging that I had found my place in the world, and that he was proud of me, and perhaps even a little envious.

When our kids had gone off to college in Michigan, one winter my wife and I decided to go see them there for x-mas break.I asked dad if he would like to come – though not really knowing why anyone would leave California for the harsh Michigan winter.  But he came.  We spent our days together darting outside for as long as we could brave the cold, and managed to enjoy ourselves.  On the last night, we stayed in a hotel close to the airport.  Dad and I were in the bar after dinner, having a drink and watching a game.  Two young ladies came in and sat a few tables away.We didn’t pay much attention to them, but then a few minutes later after a pause in our conversation, Dad looked at the women, and then at me and said: “Well, should we make a move”?  He and I had come full circle – just a couple guys having drinks in a bar together, watching sports and saying silly things.  At the same time, sharing the unspoken bond of men of a certain age who are close: comfortable with what we have achieved in life, tinged with an acceptance of our shortcomings and failures.

I have thousands of memories of dad, many of them of happy and laughter-filled.  But as time continues its inexorable march forward, just as the earth slowly takes our remains back into her fold, these memories will sadly fade and disappear.  Yet these stories I’ve shared go beyond the stuff of memories for me.  For they’re are not only stories I remember, but events that have shaped me, have somehow become embedded in my flesh and blood, part and parcel of who I am.  And perhaps the one glimmer of solace I can take from Dad’s passing is the hope that I can continue to contain within me - and even hopefully pass on some of what - in his understated yet impactful way - showed me:

• How to overcome the curious mix of overconfidence and pain of young adulthood and face the world and find your way;
• How to sacrifice and work hard, rise in one’s profession, and make a good life for you and your family;
• And ultimately - How to become your son’s best friend. 

In 1995, Charles separted from his wife of 32 years.  He was living in a two bedroom apartment in Pleasant Hill, California, which was a bachelor's apartment.  One bedroom had a non-hooked-up washer and dryer and three large moving boxes that would remain unpacked for over 15 years. It was, as he called it, a goat's nest.  He still enjoyed running and maintaining a journal of his runs, and he went to movies alone.  In 1996, he went to see "Shall We Dance?"  Not the remake version with Richard Gere; rather the original, highly acclaimed Japanese film.

The film is about a middle-aged Japanese businessman.  He has a wife and child, you observe him at work and taking the train, always late at night in the dark, to his home in the suburbs of Tokoyo.  There is one stop on the way home where he can look out the train window and see a ballroom dance class being held.  One night when going home, he steps off the train and goes to the dance class, and he changes his life.

Shortly after Charles raved about the film, he stepped out of his San Francisco office one day and encounted a supernumerary.  (He liked to tell this story as if everyone knew what a supernumerary was, and he wanted you to ask him to explain.  In this context, a supernumerary is an amateur actor in an opera that does not sing.)  So, on the streets of San Francisco, here was a man in ornate costume with a sign "Opera Appreciation Classes."  So, Dad took a flyer, started attending the classes by Robert Goodhue, and changed his life.  As Charles would put it--"I'm not a bug in a rug."  Soon, he started chattering about Wagner leitmotifs, citing his favorite arias, and regularly attending the opera.  

His new-found appreciation of opera at age 65 extended to other forms of entertainment.  He renewed his symphony subscription, attended live theater, and live musical events.  His musical tastes were ecclectic: opera, classical, ragtime, and choral sacred music.  When I would come to visit him, he would insist we attend an musical or theatrical event.  His apartment was as messy as ever, but we stepped outside every chance we had.   As we bumbled around San Francisco, him in his cap and black raincoat and me trailing behind--sometimes we went to fancy places (like the Sheraton for lunch) othertimes we went for not-so-fancy, like Harringtons (an unpretentious 1930s Irish pub) or John's Grill (which was made famous by its reference in the Maltese Falcon).  I knew this joy would not last long, and I did not know how I would get through any change.

Things changed in the spring of 2015.  Dad had problems walking and could no longer write checks.  First to step up was my brother.  I called him at 5 in the morning, as I cried walking down the streets of San Francisco.  Next was my mother, who came to visit during the summer.  A series of events led Dad to Oregon Veteran's Home in February 2016. A unique place; Dad had his own room and bathroom and lived in a neighborhood with 13 other veterans with an open kitchen and living area.  But a building does not make a home.  The Veteran's Home and caregiving staff we brought in were extraordinary.  Although I had a hard time leaving him after each visit to return to Atlanta, I knew I could not duplicate this care at home.

When my dad passed, there were 11 people in his room.  My plane was landing.  As much as I wanted to be there, I am consoled by the people that were with him.  That wanted to be there for him and loved him.  And so, as I began this story with the thought that music can transform; it is really people that have the power to transform--to change, to see beauty in life, and to endure what we believe is unendurable.

Here's what Dad wrote about his law career:

"The best part of practicing law was the seventeen years I spent action for London Underwriters that insured pyrotechnicians people that made, sold or shot fireworks.  There was nothing wrong with the corporate people that I worked with, but the fireworks insureds were refreshingly different.  They loved their work and were especially happy to show off a new shell and say to you 'Look at those colors.""

I know Dad greatly appreciated  all of his colleagues and clients from his law career and Bob Schiff for recommending him to Haight, Brown and Bonesteel after his firm had closed.

Dad loved the fireworks business and being a member of the Pyrotechnics International Guild (PGI). He looked forward to the annual convention to meet colleagues and clients and to attend sessions.  Yes, he would build his own shells and would later (in the evening) light the fuse to set it off; he would also attend safety training and technical classes on the physics of fireworks, purchase and set off Class C fireworks and watch elaborate firework displays with computer-supported timing to music.  Dad liked to tell me that you could easily spot a seasoned fireworks professional in the summer by looking at a person's shins.  Those with a lot of scars on their shins were committed, experienced pyros.  I got to go to two PGI conventions with Dad in 2001 (Gillette, Wyoming) and 2007 (Fargo, North Dakota).  I remembered Dad would giggle when he saw pyros board the plane after the convention.  This was pre-9/11, and we knew their clothes would have black powder on them and some might have been carrying Class C fireworks.  Long live the pyro spirit in all our hearts and to Dad for sparking that spirt in many.