Remembering John Richards Crellin III
By John McGowan

I met John in 7th grade when he came to the village school in Chatham. We became friends and the friendship lasted for 60+ years. We had a lot of adventures and good times in that span. And I respected him and admired him in so many ways.

One memorable time with John was November 22, 1963. We had made arrangements to go bowling that day. After school on most days we had the habit of wandering around the school to see if there was anything going on. That particular day there were students and faculty in small groups talking and some of them were crying. Wow, JFK had been shot and killed! Anyway, we decided to go bowling as planned. We were the only people at Chatham Bowl besides the owner and he had the news reports blaring over the sound system. We only bowled two games, because it was a little depressing with the background news.

John always cared about other people. At some point during college years, we had gone to a party at Queechy at someone’s cottage. We had both gone outside to answer nature’s call when in the dark I tripped over a big rock. My body wasn’t hurt, but the beer can in my hand came up and hit me in the nose breaking it. Blood flowed. John brought me back to Chatham and I went into the 1811 bar to clean up, before he dropped me at my home.

John was very even tempered. One time we were drinking at the Peint O Gwrw. Someone came in to ask if anyone had a motorcycle parked out on Main St. We went out and someone had backed into John’s bike and knocked it over. The mirror was damaged and something else was twisted. I would have been “wild”, but John just took it all in stride and decided he wanted a police report. Boy that old BMW motorcycle weighed a ton!

He was very loyal to people he had relationships with. By that I mean I never heard him say anything negative about anyone he was married to or living with, even when the relationship was over. In fact, in general he never really “ran down” anybody, although he did get a laugh about people doing stuff that was hard to understand.

John’s family “had money”, but he was always very down to earth. He was always put off by people who thought they were better than others due to affluence or position.

I don’t know if John was Best Man for anyone else, but he was supposed to be mine for my two marriages. The first time he happily agreed to stand up for me. A few days later, he said what was that wedding date? It turned out he had planned a cross-country motorcycle trip! He was sorry, but I let him off the hook. The second time I got married, everything was all nailed down with the understanding he would be in France up until the day before. Wedding day morning one of his sisters called to say the flight had been cancelled. Each time I had another friend I could call on to be Best Guy!

John was curious about everything. And we often talked about history, philosophy, books, and people we both knew. He could play and take a joke as well as anyone I knew. But he wasn’t mean or vindictive that I ever saw. Sometimes, I did hear from him about people who had let him down, so it wasn’t like he saw everyone as wonderful. But he accepted people for who they were.

The last time we talked about books it involved “Austerlitz” by Sebald. which I had given him; we exchanged books often. He was very excited about the book and said he loved it, but as he went on I realized he was mixing things up with some other book. It was so very sad for me that day!

One thing I guess he wondered about for years was why I didn’t hang out that much at Queechy Lake when we were growing up. So, one day about 5 years ago he asked me that question. I told him the reason was that in high school I didn’t know how to swim (I learned at college) and I didn’t want to ruin people’s time by drowning. He got the biggest kick out of that.

Tanstafl (there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch)! I think he said he learned that at college.

I’ll miss John for as long as I live and I’m sorry I’ll never again hear him say, “McGowan, you don’t have enough to worry about!”

Dear Wendy and family, I am heartbroken for you all. Your words about John and his life are so touching. Our family grew up near the Crellins in Spencertown and Johnny was our idol. Particularly for my brother Tom who was 5 years younger and looked up to John in the way a 7-year old kid adores a 12-year old boy. We often spoke of John over the years. In the early 1980s I was walking on a sidewalk in NYC and suddenly there was John, pushing his little girl in a stroller. I hadn't seen him in more than 20 years. What a thrill to say hello, in that small town that Manhattan is. 

From Wendy, John's wife, at the memorial service in Chatham on Nov. 25:

I met John on September 2, 1991, at 6pm during the harmonic convergence at King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut on Avenue A and East 7th Street in New York City’s East Village. I was in from Los Angeles. John was sitting in the corner with a Beefeater martini very dry, straight up with an olive. Maggie, the bartender/co-owner introduced me. He raised his glass and said, "Salut.” I brought my martini over and sat next to him. He always said I picked him up; I suppose that’s true.

It was love at first sight for me. He always said he liked my dirty fingernails.

King Tut's Wah Wah Hut was our social club in the late 1980s and early 1990s. It was a bar and performance space. We saw Alan Ginsberg, RuPaul, Wendy Wild, Mr. Fashion, Lady Bunny and more there. On occasion, Madeleine, John’s beautiful daughter, joined us. She twirled on the bar stool and practiced mixology. The Wah Wah Hut was free spirited — like us.

At the time, John practiced architecture at Kohn Pederson Fox; he worked on high-rise buildings. He loved detailing buildings, making designs by his colleagues like those by our dear friend Joshua Chaiken (here today) come to life.

John and I would often meet for lunch near his office at local spots. French at La Bonne Soupe, sandwiches in Central Park, burgers and beer at PJ Carney’s and tortellini in brodo at a little Italian spot.

He loved dive bars and he loved four-star dining experiences. We dined at Boulet and Chanterelle in New York City, among others, and spent a memorable time in Alsace dining at the famed spots, many covered later on TV by Anthony Bourdain (a John favorite). We once celebrated my birthday with a four-star lunch and dinner.

John was on the board of The Howl festival (in honor of East Villager Alan Ginsberg). He helped fundraise, organize Art Around the Park, art auctions and proudly celebrate the East Village. We delighted in painting a mural each year with friends at the festival, including Kate Hixon.

We married on September 6, 1991, at Life Café — kitty corner to the Wah Wah Hut, which had become Niagara. Life Café is part of East Village lore. It is where some of "Rent" took place in Jonathan Larson’s play. Our ceremony was intimate. Madeleine was there, cousins Frank and Esther too.

Columbia County was also center to our lives. This is where John grew up — in
Spencertown, the son of Jack and Cate Crellin, brother to Cathy and to his twin sister, Mary. I met the family — and his beloved friends Jeffrey Lappies and John McGowan. I was warmly welcomed, and I always felt loved.

We were later blessed with the family cottage on Queechy Lake, where John had a spiritual connection.We were so lucky to have spent two long seasons during the darkness of COVID there.

John’s one request was to have a bench in his honor at the shore. We have started a bench committee and plan to debut it and celebrate his life at the lake this summer. You are all invited.

Central to our lives are our beloved daughters, Madeleine (John’s eldest), Juliette and Lillian. They can best share their memories of John as a father.
He also delighted in his two beautiful, brilliant, sunny granddaughters, Josephine and Caroline.

There is so much more to say and share and remember. I want to hear and collect those memories, and I hope you will share them about John the artist, architect, philosopher, voracious reader of history and philosophy, father, friend, brother, husband, son.

I am so grateful that you are here to honor John today and to Rochelle, Phyllis and Nina for traveling from my hometown, Los Angeles, California. I feel loved and supported. And for Mandy, who lovingly cared for John in our home.

Thank you, all, for being here for John.

From John's daughter Madeleine Hoog-Crellin:

RIP Dad

I am my John Crellin’s oldest daughter.

He taught me to whistle, throw a frisbee, and to tie the best knots.

He taught me to sail, drive a motorboat, and to perfectly coast the Queen to her spot at the dock on Queechy Lake.

He taught me to build bird houses, feed the squirrels in the park, and to look for bald eagles even where you least expect it.

He taught me to make Beefeater’s martinis dry straight up with an olive, bloody Mary’s, and that there’s always time for a good beer or a lake beer.

He taught me to appreciate poetry, a good book, and a love of lifelong learning.

He taught me to spin the tilt a whirl just the right way at the fair and to not tilt the pinball machine at his bar Sophie’s.

He taught me that no one is perfect and even parents make mistakes.

For better or worse, I am my father’s daughter. And I am so thankful for what he taught me.

From John's friend Michael "Smitty" Smith:


John R. Crellin the Third was the first Third I had ever met. We first met in East Hall at Colgate University in the fall of 1966, while moving into our freshman dorm, two rooms apart. We were both 18 years old.

We took a fast liking to each other, being both left handed. John confessed he came to college a Big frog from a small pond and now felt like a small frog in a big pond. Having been his High School Class President and playing football, right here in Chatham, he admitted his senior class was very small and everyone at Colgate seemed to be a valedictorian, a class president or captain of the football team. And that was one of the endearing characteristics of John’s soul.

I thought of him as Jimmy Stewart come to life. He was laid back, without a hint of guile, no pretensions, a curious country boy infused with enthusiasm for more worldly knowledge. I arrived from Princeton and did not suffer fools lightly. Over the years of our friendship, when I would blow somebody up or be flippant, John would always say, as only John could, “Come on Smit, that’s Not Nice!”

While in college, we were best pals. We abided together in a double room for three years, which is like 10 years of marriage. John liked to play his recorder to relax. We played vinyl records in the dorm, played Crazy Eights in the lounge and Knee football on the hallway carpet. Although I did not smoke in those years, being in a small dorm room with John, I did consume about a carton a week in second-hand smoke from his favored Kool cigarettes. John was a history major who in his Junior year expanded his repertoire by joining the acting community. I remember his effective performance on the campus green, protesting the Vietnam War in 1969.

I don’t know why, but I always called John, Pooch. A nickname from Chatham, for reasons I never did get the memo on. During every summer, in the Seventies, I would visit Pooch at Queechy Lake, and got to know father Jack, mom Cate, sisters Cathy and Mary. I had the pleasure of helping Pooch build a Queechy Queen raft or two. And also met a neighbor’s son, from next door at the Lake, Jeffrey Lappies. Jeffrey and Pooch became life-long pals as well. Jeff and I could write a book on all the shenanigans and fun we three had in the Seventies and beyond at Queechy Lake. Jimmy Stewart goes to the Big City.

After Colgate, Pooch got his architectural degree from the Pratt Institute. He began his NYC career soon after, working for several well known Architectural firms. He worked on the New York Times building project and the Plaza Hotel rebuild, for two.

In those early New York years, before we started our families, Mitch and Tony, two of our mutual pals from Colgate, would join John and I at night in my apartment on 90th and B’way for a three-hour round of Golf Darts, a game we invented. By day, Mitch and I would often have lunch with John in a midtown Irish pub for beer and burgers during the early 80s, while we all lived in the Big Apple.

I married in 1984 and moved to Connecticut to start my family. John stayed in the city and began his family at the same time. Our time together became a rarity. And now we are here, his friends and family, to celebrate and consecrate the life we shared with John.

Upon learning of John’s passing from Wendy this Saturday, she shared an event that took me aback, to my father’s last day, that I will share with you. In 2007, my 13-year old son Corey called me at work, and asked me to leave work and drive the family to go visit my Dad, who, after a long illness, was on his last legs. My son said he had a premonition, and so we drove to visit my Dad, at his house, to find him in a coma. He was breathing with difficulty and not responsive. My brother, Tim and a Hospice volunteer were already in the room. I remembered that my Dad always said he wanted the 23rd psalm read at his funeral. I found the Bible and turned to the 23rd Psalm. My son, Corey read the psalm while we held Pop’s hands. As we drove home, my brother called us 20 minutes later and said our father had just passed away.

John’s passing this past Saturday morning, was I believe, a similar parting. Wendy, Lilly and Juliet visited John on Friday. No one knew this would be the last time the family would be together. The next morning, he passed in his sleep. John had held on, waited for them, to be with them together, to say fair-thee-well, before he released his soul to the Almighty.

Rest in Peace Our dear Friend. And may your family go on in Peace, knowing what a good man you were on earth. We will all long hold fond memories of John Crellin III.

During one of our many Thanksgivings together, I remember John announcing, "There's nothing too good for my girls!"
That was a perfect John-ism: succinct, revelatory, and expressive of his devotion to his daughters Madeleine, Juliette and Lily.
John was a natural at being a father. He could be sage; his temperament always seemed mild; and perhaps most importantly, he could play as innocently as a child.
John was transcendent beyond his faithful paternal duties to his girls; he was a larger-than-life father-figure to us all. It just may be that it was on Thanksgivings where his quiet decency shone the brightest. For what seems like eons, Wendy and John invited to their table not just families or friends, but friends of friends of friends. Laughter, high spirits, mesmerizing aromas—it all permeated their East Village home.
John, we are all heartbroken you've moved on. But I have a hunch you chose to say goodbye during this season of giving thanks—a time that will always be filled with warm and beautiful memories of you.