This is an excerpt from Bobby's Memoir, if you would like to read her entire memoir, I would be more than happy to send you the pdf file. Email me at; marlow.mercer@gmail.com


One evening shortly after I arrived at the Army Training Base in Grand Island Nebraska, a fellow nurse, Lt. Garfinkle, walked into my room and said: "I missed dinner, do you want to walk over to the officers club with me and get a sandwich? Sure, why not. It was my first chance to see the club. We ordered sandwiches from the cook and walked into the large empty dining room.

Two officers were eating at one table, chatting, so I walked over to the next table, sat down and Garfinkel followed. One of the officers was brown haired and my heart did a flip flop when I turned and looked at the other handsome, black-haired lad. Little did I know that one day one of them would be my husband. The one with the brown hair put down his half-eaten sandwich and pushed his plate away. Loud enough for them to hear, I told my nurse friend: " A willful waste is a woeful want."  

The man with the brown-hair turned to me and said: "what kind of evangelist are you?" We started to talk, the usual stuff to get acquainted, but I noticed the attractive other officer didn't partake much or seem very interested.  

The brown-haired guy was loquacious and seemed very interested but I didn't care much for him. He was good looking with large hazel eyes, a straight nose and beautiful small white teeth, but I didn't like his attitude. He oozed self confidence and had a sharp wit but he kept a constant smile on his face which might mean friendliness but I felt he was mocking me and being supercilious. I asked Garfinkle if she was ready to leave and as we started to go- the brown-hair chap said "My name is Lyle Mercer, wait a minute and I'll walk you back to your barracks."  It isn't really necessary," I replied.  "I'm officer of the day" he replied- "and I must see that you get to your barracks safely."

As we walked along he said to me "So you're a nurse; I know some nurses and they're pretty hot stuff.  -"Well," I said huffily, I'll have you to know that I'm 22 years old and have as much modesty as any other girl my age, even if I am a nurse!" He talked on but I didn't say much and when we got to the barracks Garfinkle walked inside. The Lt. grabbed my hand and said, "Why not stay outside and talk a while?  My response was-  " Lt., you are the most sarcastic man I've ever met and if I ever meet you again - and I hope I don't -  I will call you Sarky.  Goodnight!  His mouth closed, he looked at me in astonishment, and then his eyes opened wide and he started to laugh.  I went in the the building and shut the door. Garfinkle said: "Say, I think that guy likes you." "Well, I don't like him." was my response. 

 And the rest was history.

Because so much has been said about Lyle, the drum major for a better

world, I just want to add a few vignettes about Lyle, the father.

I’ve had a lot of hero’s in my life, and naturally, mom and dad were the

first. Then, inevitably, came Sgt. Preston of the Yukon, Rin Tin Tin and

Dr. Kildare. Well, I never worshiped my father, but I always thought that

he was uniquely equipped for the role. He was kind, he was happy, he was

bright, and he was sincerely interested in sharing his life with his wife and

children.

And what a life! It makes me tired just to think of all the unbounded energy

that animated his long, productive days. It also makes me want to apologize

to my own children for my own apparent lack thereof.

I suppose that most offspring in my place must struggle to make their

fond memories sound like something a little more credible than a crusade

for their deceased father’s beatification to sainthood, no matter how big a

bastard he was in life. But consider the difficulty of my task—trying to find

imperfections in a dad whom my sisters and I always agreed was the ideal

type!

Here’s one example of what growing up a Mercer kid was like: from the

time we could stand we were drafted to attend every protest rally ever held

in Seattle, no matter what the cause. We children were shy, but Lyle loved

to schmooze and mingle.

Other families went on picnics—we manned the picket lines. Instead of

being given little American flags to wave at 4th of July parades, we held Ban

the Bomb placards to our chins and tried to look in earnest of that message.

After one such rally, I asked my dad, ‘where is Russia, and why do they

want us to go back there?’

Other father’s took their kids to ball games. We slipped and slid down

brushy banks to tiny streams, and dipped with fresh-cut sticks the three-foot

lines he’d tied with wriggling worms, into the bubbling pools where six-inch

trophies hid.

No sweeter flesh we ever fried.

Yeah, it was kind of fun. As was the bullfrog hunt he organized one spring

day. The three of us were armed with small, long-handled nets--but the only

frog we ever saw jumped out of the puddle where dad was making water—

and he got away.

When football season started, instead of going to a game, mom would pack

a lunch and we’d head across Chinook pass to two little bends in the road

above Yakima: Tieton and Cowiche. There, between the sagebrush fields

and apple orchards, he would take aim, as the startled quail and pheasants

exploded just out of range. When that old J.C. Higgins shotgun neared his

shoulder we children reached for our ears.

One warm October day, I remember, Simone, Michele and I followed him to

the top of a large outcropping of rock. Just as I stepped on a hornets’ nest,

he spied a flock of ducks oncoming. He crouched down and motioned us

to do the same. “Shhh,“ he whispered, “hold still and don’t move.” Still

searching memories of our conversations since, I think that that was the most

ridiculous statement he ever made in my presence.

By the age of ten or twelve, my sisters had given up on the chase. But long

before, I was hitched. Until he hung up his guns in favor of less deadly

sport, he and I and his best friends Max and Harry; later my near-brother,

Duke, spent each fall stalking game, and each summer catching fish.

Then he turned to mushroom hunting. The scenes of deer and ducks came

off the walls and were replaced with charts and posters of fungus.

Never one to make a casual entry into any activity, Lyle signed up for

mycology classes at the U., and joined the mushroom society which

sponsored field trips to gather and identify the dozens of species native to

the pacific northwest. Soon he and Bobby were crisscrossing the Cascades,

and, as always, sharing all their enthusiasm and knowledge with friends and

family.

As we kids entered our adolescence, there seemed to be less turbulence

in our family than in others, except for that which mostly I precipitated.

Cigarette packs disappeared from his cartons, liquor evaporated from corked

bottles; the family car broke out in dents and dimples. Mostly he ignored

these phenomena, or asked a question here and there to show that he might

be paying attention.

Once we reached adulthood, the family home was still a hangout, and a

place where we gathered weekly for dinner. You know, despite all his

faults, the old man was always good for a laugh. I remember once at the

dinner table, he let slip the F-word. Bobby shrieked, “Sarc!”

He protested, “But I never used that word until after the kids came home

from college!”

So many memories, so much to say, so wretched the knowledge that he is

gone; and yet, so wonderful that he was here to light our days. But now has

gone away.

This was taken at our oldest son's 1st Birthday party in August of 2009.  I'll never forget Lyle laughing his great laugh and telling me that he and Bobbie had just gone to a friend's 100th birthday party the day before.  He got a smile and said "I bet not many people here can say they were part of helping to celebrate someone turning 100 and 1 within 24 hours!"  So, true!