Showing posts with label Edward Andrew Orr (1916-2009). Show all posts
Showing posts with label Edward Andrew Orr (1916-2009). Show all posts
Monday, October 19, 2009
Random people leaving from D.C.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
A toast
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Red snapper
On board
Friday, October 16, 2009
Edward Andrew Orr (1916-2009); Part I: History
My grandpa passed away last night, some time between 8pm and 9pm. I have been writing his obituary in my mind for several days. I have been aided by my cousin BDP who took a crack first and knocked it out of the park. I hope to get permission to post his reflection.
In elementary school, there is this great assignment where teachers have kids name their favorite family meal, and then guesstimate/imagine/attempt to write the recipe. It's always funny to see the actual recipe sitting next to the kid-one. I am going to try to write a history of Grandpa's life, in full knowledge that it will turn out like one of these 6-year-old recipes: wrong, endearing, and hopefully telling in the omissions and fabrications.
1916
My Grandpa was born in a section of Brooklyn called Flatbush. I am certain this is true, because the Irish Easter Rebellion happened in 1916, in which a bunch of Catholics tried to take back their country and got shot or hanged outside the Dublin post office for it. In college I was doing some amateur genealogical research and learned that an Orr was one of those rebels executed after the uprising. Grandpa has always been my talisman for Irish things, even though I am fairly certain that only 1/2 or maybe even only 1/4 of his parentage was Irish. After I learned this little bit of history, he always reminded me of the fact that we don't take any garbage from those jokers (those jokers, being anyone who wants to take something for us).
Teenage years
Grandpa grew up pretty modestly. I never heard one word in my life about his father. My grandpa had a sister. My grandpa's mother was called Nana by my mom and her siblings when they went to visit her. She was always described as a stern lady. She made some meal really well; my mom will remember it. My grandpa did some boxing (I am stepping out on some thin memories) growing up, and also swimming. Oh yes. Swimming. Did you know he was almost in the Olympics for like twelve straight years? Seriously, he won an enormous swimming award from his community, or maybe it was for all of New York City. That sounds better.
My grandpa and grandma went to the same high school in Brooklyn for a short time, and then, for some reason, they didn't. Maybe he graduated. Maybe he was moved to a different school Either way, he remembered her, returned to her, and courted her. They were married in 1940. He had become a policeman. Soon enough, they had a son, whom I call Uncle Skip and who carries grandpa's name.
Grandpa went into WWII older than most of the guys going; he was already in his late 20s. I don't know if he was drafted or signed himself up, but he was in the Army. He was trained as a cryptographer because of his high scores on aptitude tests and worked either in sending coded messages for the Allies or in decoding enemy messages. Maybe both. None of grandchildren learned anything about him before they learned this: he was in the D-Day invasion. This is mammoth. Maybe he was a couple of days behind the D-Day invasion. It doesn't matter. He trudged through France with all of his compatriots, liberating people, smiling, cracking codes, and compiling a list of stories in his head. He was on-site in Rheims, France, for the signing of the unconditional surrender by Hitler's generals.
When I was in college, on some strange impulse, I flew down to spend a weekend with my grandparents to interview them about their past. I am going to be looking for the journal where I caught all of those notes for the first part of today, I know it.
Grandpa returned from the war and returned to his post as a beat cop in Brooklyn. He worked at Dodgers' stadium. I always associate this part of grandpa's life with my study of Malcolm X, because it was around this time that Malcolm went to jail and came into his own as an autodidact. Malcolm listened to Brooklyn Dodgers games on the radio in prison for news of Jackie Robinson. So, it's kind of like Malcolm and my grandpa knew each other.
At this point, the entire engine of sibling love and rivalry for the Orr children was complete. Never before or since was there a more perfect machine for generating temporal feelings of jealousy, bitterness, and competition bound by a strong love that just forces you to get over it. The pattern probably looked like this in its genesis:
we are all brothers and sisters and we love each other . . . oww, you stepped on my toes; did you do that because daddy loves you more? . . . no, it was just an accident . . . no it wasn't, you were trying to stand in a better position to receive attention from our patriarchal system . . . no I wasn't, I was just shifting my weight . . . it's more like your shadow, look at how enormous it is . . . hey, what are you guys arguing about over there? . . . butt out . . . hey, you can't exclude me, it hurt me too when your toe got stepped on . . . let's all hug . . . ok . . . [hug] . . . no one is as close as we are . . . no they are not . . . oww, did someone just slam my hand into a glass door? . . . etc.
Grandpa saw all of this pathos. And it was good. Through the 50s and 60s, he was a police officer and father.
The Rest
I always see the rest of grandpa's life, until I bumped into him, as a post-retirement blur. At some point all of the kids moved out and got married. At some point grandpa and grandma moved to Florida. For most of the rest of their time, life is quiet and peaceful, golfing all the time and looking out the screen porch of their condo, watching the Intercoastal Waterway, and waiting for grandchildren. I am sure that's not the case; they may not have installed themselves in that condo until the day before I met them, but in my memory, they were always there until they moved up to Virginia to be closer to Skip. Grandma became ill and passed away in 2003. It hit grandpa pretty hard, though he did his best to have happy years after she was gone. In some ways, he was always living through the sadness of missing her in his last six years.
This catches us up to where I enter the picture, at which point the memories become much more concrete. That post, I will put up later today, in addition to a letter to grandpa, rounding out my triptych blog obituary. I will tell you something -- it feels eerie and sad knowing that he is not going to be on the other end of the phone for me again.
*Special thanks to Cousin CMS for the nicely planned pics.
In elementary school, there is this great assignment where teachers have kids name their favorite family meal, and then guesstimate/imagine/attempt to write the recipe. It's always funny to see the actual recipe sitting next to the kid-one. I am going to try to write a history of Grandpa's life, in full knowledge that it will turn out like one of these 6-year-old recipes: wrong, endearing, and hopefully telling in the omissions and fabrications.
1916
My Grandpa was born in a section of Brooklyn called Flatbush. I am certain this is true, because the Irish Easter Rebellion happened in 1916, in which a bunch of Catholics tried to take back their country and got shot or hanged outside the Dublin post office for it. In college I was doing some amateur genealogical research and learned that an Orr was one of those rebels executed after the uprising. Grandpa has always been my talisman for Irish things, even though I am fairly certain that only 1/2 or maybe even only 1/4 of his parentage was Irish. After I learned this little bit of history, he always reminded me of the fact that we don't take any garbage from those jokers (those jokers, being anyone who wants to take something for us).
Teenage years
Grandpa grew up pretty modestly. I never heard one word in my life about his father. My grandpa had a sister. My grandpa's mother was called Nana by my mom and her siblings when they went to visit her. She was always described as a stern lady. She made some meal really well; my mom will remember it. My grandpa did some boxing (I am stepping out on some thin memories) growing up, and also swimming. Oh yes. Swimming. Did you know he was almost in the Olympics for like twelve straight years? Seriously, he won an enormous swimming award from his community, or maybe it was for all of New York City. That sounds better.
"Love and Marriage"
My grandpa and grandma went to the same high school in Brooklyn for a short time, and then, for some reason, they didn't. Maybe he graduated. Maybe he was moved to a different school Either way, he remembered her, returned to her, and courted her. They were married in 1940. He had become a policeman. Soon enough, they had a son, whom I call Uncle Skip and who carries grandpa's name.The War
Grandpa went into WWII older than most of the guys going; he was already in his late 20s. I don't know if he was drafted or signed himself up, but he was in the Army. He was trained as a cryptographer because of his high scores on aptitude tests and worked either in sending coded messages for the Allies or in decoding enemy messages. Maybe both. None of grandchildren learned anything about him before they learned this: he was in the D-Day invasion. This is mammoth. Maybe he was a couple of days behind the D-Day invasion. It doesn't matter. He trudged through France with all of his compatriots, liberating people, smiling, cracking codes, and compiling a list of stories in his head. He was on-site in Rheims, France, for the signing of the unconditional surrender by Hitler's generals.When I was in college, on some strange impulse, I flew down to spend a weekend with my grandparents to interview them about their past. I am going to be looking for the journal where I caught all of those notes for the first part of today, I know it.
Post-War
Grandpa returned from the war and returned to his post as a beat cop in Brooklyn. He worked at Dodgers' stadium. I always associate this part of grandpa's life with my study of Malcolm X, because it was around this time that Malcolm went to jail and came into his own as an autodidact. Malcolm listened to Brooklyn Dodgers games on the radio in prison for news of Jackie Robinson. So, it's kind of like Malcolm and my grandpa knew each other.The Perfect Machine
My mom was born Jan. 23, 1947. At some point right before or after this, the Orr family moved out to Long Island. My mom won the Ms. Junior Levittown beauty pageant when she was 4. This has nothing to do with grandpa except that he gave her some of those good looks, and because it's a clear story that I remember. My mom's sister was born in 1949. She was everyone's sweet baby, and they dressed her up in the most adorable hats (why do I remember this?).
At this point, the entire engine of sibling love and rivalry for the Orr children was complete. Never before or since was there a more perfect machine for generating temporal feelings of jealousy, bitterness, and competition bound by a strong love that just forces you to get over it. The pattern probably looked like this in its genesis:
we are all brothers and sisters and we love each other . . . oww, you stepped on my toes; did you do that because daddy loves you more? . . . no, it was just an accident . . . no it wasn't, you were trying to stand in a better position to receive attention from our patriarchal system . . . no I wasn't, I was just shifting my weight . . . it's more like your shadow, look at how enormous it is . . . hey, what are you guys arguing about over there? . . . butt out . . . hey, you can't exclude me, it hurt me too when your toe got stepped on . . . let's all hug . . . ok . . . [hug] . . . no one is as close as we are . . . no they are not . . . oww, did someone just slam my hand into a glass door? . . . etc.
Grandpa saw all of this pathos. And it was good. Through the 50s and 60s, he was a police officer and father.
The Rest
I always see the rest of grandpa's life, until I bumped into him, as a post-retirement blur. At some point all of the kids moved out and got married. At some point grandpa and grandma moved to Florida. For most of the rest of their time, life is quiet and peaceful, golfing all the time and looking out the screen porch of their condo, watching the Intercoastal Waterway, and waiting for grandchildren. I am sure that's not the case; they may not have installed themselves in that condo until the day before I met them, but in my memory, they were always there until they moved up to Virginia to be closer to Skip. Grandma became ill and passed away in 2003. It hit grandpa pretty hard, though he did his best to have happy years after she was gone. In some ways, he was always living through the sadness of missing her in his last six years.
This catches us up to where I enter the picture, at which point the memories become much more concrete. That post, I will put up later today, in addition to a letter to grandpa, rounding out my triptych blog obituary. I will tell you something -- it feels eerie and sad knowing that he is not going to be on the other end of the phone for me again.
*Special thanks to Cousin CMS for the nicely planned pics.
That Dude
Cousin BDP composed a reflection about our grandpa last night. I woke up to the email this morning. We both toasted grandpa with Jameson's last night without knowing it -- maybe at the same time. By permission, here is BDP's fantastic piece:
When you work with young people every day, you pick up a lot of slang. Kids are coming up with new words every day, and most of them are gone by the end of the semester. Very few of them stick with me, but sometimes a word or expression comes along that allows me to capture something my current vocabulary would never allow.
As I’ve been preparing myself for the death of my grandfather over the last several months, the expression that inevitably emerges is…that dude.
My grandfather was that dude. He was that dude that knew everybody, every where, that ever did anything interesting. He was that dude that instantly drew you in and made you feel good about yourself, no matter who you were. He was that dude came out of the house dressed something fierce every single time. He was THAT dude.
I never lived close to my grandpa, so we didn’t spend a whole lot of extended time together. But I got to witness, like most of us grandkids did, just how magnetic his charm was anytime we went anywhere with him. For me, I realized it during spring training in Florida, a rite of passage for many of us sports fans in the family. I went down on the spring break of my 5th grade year, and grandpa took me to two games. In the course of those two days, he introduced me to one of the coaches of the Expos; got me a ball signed by the whole team, including one of my biggest idols at the time; got ahold of the bat that Andres Gallaraga broke during the game, and had him sign it; and coaxed me into asking Ricky Henderson, the greatest base stealer to ever play the game, for an autograph. That was one day. It makes me laugh to think about who I could have met had a actually hung out with Big Ed for more than a few days at a time. Jimmy Hoffa?
That dude.
The last day I spent with my grandpa was in the hospital a little over a month ago. He wasn’t doing well, but he mustered some lucidity every few minutes over the course of our couple of hours together. In the midst of me asking him stories about his life, he mentioned that he had been the head of police at Ebbets Field for the Dodgers, and that he’d managed to build pretty tight relationships with several of the players. I think I’d heard it before, but it never occurred to me to ask what the time period was. Then he mentioned the early 50s, and I about jumped out of my seat. “YOU MET JACKIE ROBINSON!!!” Yes, he answered, he had considered Jackie to be a good friend.
Are you kidding me? That one had never come up before?
That dude.
And I don’t doubt that they were friends, because my grandfather made friends with everyone that he ever came into contact with. He was quick with a compliment, a term of endearment, a wry smile. My grandpa had a smile that you had to respond to. He was a flirt. He was courteous. He made you feel good to be in a room with him. Though I’m sure he gave them more than their share of work, my mom and others report that every nurse he had as things got close to the end fell in love with him. We all did.
He was that dude.
And I don’t know what it was like to grow up with him, but I know that he was a fantastic grandpa. He told great stories. He always asked about us. He did all the right grandpa things. Watching him sit in a room with all of us, and watch us, was as big a treat as I can imagine. He was so proud to have had something to do with all of us being here, and he relished the opportunity to bask in it. When his mind grew feebler, and he frequently repeated himself, what I heard most often were expressions of how lucky he felt, how there was nothing better than being in our family, and how much he loved all of us. He may not have always remembered everyone’s name, but he knew that we were his.
That dude.
And he made us proud to call him ours. There was nothing like the anticipation of picking grandpa up and wondering what he’d be wearing. Would it be the plaid pants and sweater vest, or the white slacks and matching cap. Grandpa had style for days, and not even the remnants from his lunch on his shirt could taint his flyness. He wasn’t some fuddy-duddy old dude that you had to cart around and make excuses for. He made you want to step your game up, so that you could match the old guy you were rolling with.
Again, he was that dude.
And he relished it. He knew, humbly, that he was that dude, and he took his cues from the best there ever was. He loved his music, and more than anything, he loved his Frankie. The most fitting way, then, to end this is to use the words of grandpa’s favorite, old Blue Eyes, from one manifestation of that dude to another.
I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried.
I’ve had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.
To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
No, oh no not me,
I did it my way.
Thank you grandpa. For loving us. For making us laugh. For doing it your way.
You were, and always will be, THAT dude.
I love you.
That Dude
As I’ve been preparing myself for the death of my grandfather over the last several months, the expression that inevitably emerges is…that dude.
My grandfather was that dude. He was that dude that knew everybody, every where, that ever did anything interesting. He was that dude that instantly drew you in and made you feel good about yourself, no matter who you were. He was that dude came out of the house dressed something fierce every single time. He was THAT dude.
I never lived close to my grandpa, so we didn’t spend a whole lot of extended time together. But I got to witness, like most of us grandkids did, just how magnetic his charm was anytime we went anywhere with him. For me, I realized it during spring training in Florida, a rite of passage for many of us sports fans in the family. I went down on the spring break of my 5th grade year, and grandpa took me to two games. In the course of those two days, he introduced me to one of the coaches of the Expos; got me a ball signed by the whole team, including one of my biggest idols at the time; got ahold of the bat that Andres Gallaraga broke during the game, and had him sign it; and coaxed me into asking Ricky Henderson, the greatest base stealer to ever play the game, for an autograph. That was one day. It makes me laugh to think about who I could have met had a actually hung out with Big Ed for more than a few days at a time. Jimmy Hoffa?
That dude.
The last day I spent with my grandpa was in the hospital a little over a month ago. He wasn’t doing well, but he mustered some lucidity every few minutes over the course of our couple of hours together. In the midst of me asking him stories about his life, he mentioned that he had been the head of police at Ebbets Field for the Dodgers, and that he’d managed to build pretty tight relationships with several of the players. I think I’d heard it before, but it never occurred to me to ask what the time period was. Then he mentioned the early 50s, and I about jumped out of my seat. “YOU MET JACKIE ROBINSON!!!” Yes, he answered, he had considered Jackie to be a good friend.
Are you kidding me? That one had never come up before?
That dude.
And I don’t doubt that they were friends, because my grandfather made friends with everyone that he ever came into contact with. He was quick with a compliment, a term of endearment, a wry smile. My grandpa had a smile that you had to respond to. He was a flirt. He was courteous. He made you feel good to be in a room with him. Though I’m sure he gave them more than their share of work, my mom and others report that every nurse he had as things got close to the end fell in love with him. We all did.
He was that dude.
And I don’t know what it was like to grow up with him, but I know that he was a fantastic grandpa. He told great stories. He always asked about us. He did all the right grandpa things. Watching him sit in a room with all of us, and watch us, was as big a treat as I can imagine. He was so proud to have had something to do with all of us being here, and he relished the opportunity to bask in it. When his mind grew feebler, and he frequently repeated himself, what I heard most often were expressions of how lucky he felt, how there was nothing better than being in our family, and how much he loved all of us. He may not have always remembered everyone’s name, but he knew that we were his.
That dude.
And he made us proud to call him ours. There was nothing like the anticipation of picking grandpa up and wondering what he’d be wearing. Would it be the plaid pants and sweater vest, or the white slacks and matching cap. Grandpa had style for days, and not even the remnants from his lunch on his shirt could taint his flyness. He wasn’t some fuddy-duddy old dude that you had to cart around and make excuses for. He made you want to step your game up, so that you could match the old guy you were rolling with.
Again, he was that dude.
And he relished it. He knew, humbly, that he was that dude, and he took his cues from the best there ever was. He loved his music, and more than anything, he loved his Frankie. The most fitting way, then, to end this is to use the words of grandpa’s favorite, old Blue Eyes, from one manifestation of that dude to another.
I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried.
I’ve had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.
To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
No, oh no not me,
I did it my way.
Thank you grandpa. For loving us. For making us laugh. For doing it your way.
You were, and always will be, THAT dude.
I love you.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
In which a dog watches over his charge
My daughter gave Bobbie as a gift to Grandpa this summer. He stuck around and is watching like all of us.
The bedside, M. Ward, and the triumph of robots
I talked to my Dad and youngest cousin (who is maybe the most mature of all of us) today who are both at my Grandpa's bedside. Everyone's up there, really. It's hard to be away. I keep telling people close to me who ask how he is, that he is good, peaceful, and getting ready to go. It's not really him that we have to worry about, it seems. Like with Grandma before him, it's the quiet and profound aftermath that descends on the still-earthly folks.
Recently I played a song for my mom that has reminded me of Grandpa for years. It's only just appropriate now, because it's about the passing of an awesome old guy. I have been an M. Ward fan for years and recently saw him play live. Here's a link to his song, "Requiem". The video is interesting, but not that relevant. Just give it a listen if you have time.
Speaking of songs, I love how a song, played once in the car on the way to or from school, can become an anthem for a day or two. My older two have been huge fans of verbal hand-me-down stories and YouTube clips of the Flight of the Conchords guys. Yesterday, their tune "Robot" (video here) jumped onto my youngest's radar. We had to hear it three times this morning (yes, I edit it; sheesh). For a little while, we always had to say "affirmative" in place of "yes".
I'm telling you something: those three people are the funniest people I know.
Recently I played a song for my mom that has reminded me of Grandpa for years. It's only just appropriate now, because it's about the passing of an awesome old guy. I have been an M. Ward fan for years and recently saw him play live. Here's a link to his song, "Requiem". The video is interesting, but not that relevant. Just give it a listen if you have time.
Speaking of songs, I love how a song, played once in the car on the way to or from school, can become an anthem for a day or two. My older two have been huge fans of verbal hand-me-down stories and YouTube clips of the Flight of the Conchords guys. Yesterday, their tune "Robot" (video here) jumped onto my youngest's radar. We had to hear it three times this morning (yes, I edit it; sheesh). For a little while, we always had to say "affirmative" in place of "yes".
I'm telling you something: those three people are the funniest people I know.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Falling and rising
As I get ready to lay down for bed, I wonder: will he be gone from us in the morning? May God protect his sweet soul.
Virginia, our thoughts are with all of you tonight.
Virginia, our thoughts are with all of you tonight.
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