With wall-to-wall royal wedding coverage everywhere, today has been a day of homesickness for England and (by extension) for my father. My parents should have been in England today, the second half of a trip that would have began with a visit to Stuttgart to see Julie, Colin, and Nicholas.
For me, oldest daughter equaled first in the lineup:
My whole family is grateful to all of you for helping us celebrate my father's life.A celebration of life -- we arrived at that title for today after realizing it's a tall order to plan a service for someone who detested funerals. I think given his choice, he might have told us to have this at the Nags Head in Sunningdale, where they knew him by name and welcomed him back no matter how many years it had been between visits. A few pints, some racing on the telly, call it quits. Logistically not quite feasible, so here we are. He did love a good gathering -- whatever the occasion, he liked to make memories.In thinking about how to have a gathering that did not seem like a funeral, I also couldn't help thinking about why he didn't like funerals. I think it's a pretty simple answer. He was not someone who dwelled on the past. Sniveling was not on. In my memories of him, I hear him saying things like Go for it! or Get after it! If we were at the racetrack and the horse was making the final turn, it was Go on my son! Even when he coached my soccer teams when I was a kid, it was Chase it, chase it! or You've got to go forward!You've got to go forward. He succeeded in getting nine-year-olds to do that on a soccer field. It's definitely how he lived his life. He knew where things should be headed, what was right to him in any given moment, and that was the direction he went.If you've ever been to a restaurant with him you've probably seen an example or two of that unwavering certainty. He was known to coach food service employees on anything from deboning a fish to properly garnishing an entree, which of course never, ever involved placing a tomato anywhere on the plate.A life spent going forward is rarely dull, and certainly my father's capacity for creating memories impacted my life in more ways than I can count. Earlier this week I reminisced with a high school friend about the backyard Guy Fawkes fireworks parties we had at Gable House. One or two teenage boys were usually conscripted to help out. The marching orders were pretty straightforward: Light it and run like hell. Fortunately his assistants came out of it with all of their fingers, largely unscathed, although the same could not always be said of the yard. The year he blew up the bush, I had one or two people verify with me that it was unplanned. It's a fair question. It would not have been out of the realm of possibility for him to decide to change the landscaping and also to decide that using a shovel was boring.Not that the landscaping at Gable House needed much help. I found all the stereotypes about Brits and their gardens to be true, especially at Gable House. Our flower garden did have a unique feature at certain times of the year -- oversized onions protected by wire rabbit-proof fencing. The Nags Head Pub onion-growing contest was serious business every year.Some of my college friends still refer to him as The Legendary Alan Cocks. If we brought you around Dad, you were fair game. I introduced him to a fairly well-known, fairly shaggy-haired sports writer at our wedding and he remarked that it was a shame the Dallas Morning News didn't pay enough for a haircut. There are an elite few who can get away with that kind of thing, and then there are the rest of us. He could always pull it off. When he took the Mickey out of someone, they went back for more.My sisters and I are boundlessly grateful for the ways our lives have been easier and better and richer because of the opportunities he gave us. If I had never learned to read a racing form or place a bet on a horse, my relationship with my husband might not have been the same. I married a man with a healthy appreciation for the Sport of Kings, the halls of sin in Las Vegas, Australian lager, and the wisdom of Monty Python and Blackadder. Does that sound familiar?In the last decade of his life, he took on another hobby -- his grandchildren. I thought my dad might decide to be called Granddad, since that was what we'd called his father, but he had other ideas. When we got around to asking him what name he wanted, he said he wanted to be Grump. The fact that my mother was slightly appalled when he said it was all the endorsement he needed. And really it took my mother about 30 seconds to realize all the ways that title might be appropriate.And he was a very good Grump to his grandchildren. Lauren particularly enjoyed sitting on his lap reading books. He and Maddie had an ongoing contest about who was the super champion. A couple of Christmases ago Maddie got a Teddy bear, which she decided to name Anthony after her best friend in kindergarten. If we'd been spending Christmas with my mother-in-law, that name would have stuck. However, my father thought a more appropriate name for the bear would be Super Grump. A days-long debate ensued. Guess who ultimately won.When I talk about the kind of grandparent he was to Leah, it gets hard for me to stick to the no-sniveling rule. My parents' devotion and enthusiasm never wavered, even in the face of autism. More often than I'd like, I meet parents whose families don't cope well with autism. I'm blessed to say that has not been true for us. In the first few years after Leah's diagnosis, she was not terribly welcoming to anyone other than Mike and me. On visits, greetings were often returned with 'bye Grammie, bye Grump' or 'no.' To their credit, both my parents instinctively understood what she was saying was less about go away than it was about try harder. The payoff came within a few years, when the dismissals gave way to genuine pleasure in seeing them. Grump in particular had a knack of picking up on her obsession of the moment -- usually a character or a scene from a television show -- and turning it in to an inside joke between them. There was also some friendly competition for the remote control -- Fox News vs. Phineas and Ferb. During every visit she would find him in his favorite chair and drape herself in his lap. She's ten now, so she's kind of a lapful, so to speak, but it didn't seem to bother him. I feel his loss for her, because she would not have outgrown that banter anytime soon, if ever.He was one of the first to teach her about the rewards of developing a relationship with another person. It was a quirky one, but it worked for both of them. He helped her learn a skill that she can take with her, going forward. That's what he wants from all of us. We've got to go forward. Thank you Dad, and Super Grump, for showing us how to do that with style.
From Mike, who reminded me that he was a good writer, before he became one of the gods of newsroom computer systems:
Alison and I had been married a couple of years when she brought me along for my first trip to England. Alan and Kathie were there at the same time, so we met them in London for an exquisite dinner of Dover sole, new potatoes ... and not even the possibility of a tomato. Afterward, we went outside to a perfect summer night and stopped at a pub with outdoor tables for "a" drink.A few minutes later, Alan spotted a betting shop across the street. There was still daylight in Scotland and I was given a three-word directive: Come on, lad.We were just in time for the impossibly prestigious 9:20 from Musselburgh.Alan scanned the list of starters and lit up when he saw Hasta La Vista Baby. He tried to convince me he knew the horse's history and had seen him run many times, but I'm pretty sure the name was the attraction.From his pocket came a fistful of cash, bet on Hasta La Vista Baby to win at odds of 7/5 -- which may have in fact been the longest shot that Alan ever backed. The man did love his chalk.The race went off and Hasta La Vista Baby -- and his jockey, of course -- received the usual full-throated encouragement all the way around. The race tightened up and at the wire ... Hasta La Vista Baby was in a four-horse photo finish. It didn't look like the photo was going to go Hasta La Vista Baby's way, but there was a jockey's objection. Then another.The race replays looked like something out of the Wild West, so Alan and I realized it might take a while to sort this out. We took turns running back to the pub -- supposedly to keep the wives updated but really it was to down a quick pint. And they knew that.After 45 minutes finally -- I shouldn't even have to tell you this -- Hasta La Vista Baby was declared the winner. And 2 1/2 handfuls of cash went back into Alan's pocket.That's my favorite story about Alan, but I have so many to choose from after 18 years in the family -- the toast he gave at our rehearsal dinner; the time we both wore golf shoes into the apparently hallowed dining room at the Dunbar links but only I got kicked out; the time Alison, Julie and I were in the hot tub at the Keith Pointe house and he periodically lobbed big cans of Fosters into the pool from about 50 feet away.It is one testament to the man that we each have a database of Alan adventures. Recounting all of them would take weeks. But we also know he was the exact opposite of frivolous -- and was fiercely loyal to his family and friends. And -- I'm pretty biased about this -- there's no better example of that than somebody who isn't in this room.Our daughter Leah -- Alan and Kathie's first grandchild -- was diagnosed with autism at age 3. As Alison said, it would have been easy for somebody from his generation -- from any generation, really -- to say he doesn't understand autism and give up. But our cause became Alan and Kathie's cause.They helped us set up a home therapy program and other efforts that have helped immensely. They visited often, helping in any way they could and giving Alison and me much-needed breaks from having to deal with this and our young twins, Lauren and Maddie -- who brought us boundless joy but did make our hands that much more full.But there was a lot more to it than that. Leah tries to shut out everybody -- particularly men -- outside the immediate family. But her Grump was always the exception. They had a bond that endured all the way until our last visit at Christmas, as you saw in that memorable picture at the end of the slideshow.He always called her Trouble and she always played the part. Alan would act annoyed with her, Leah would run away cackling then return a few minutes later for another round. Inevitably, the poking finger or the tickling finger showed up, and when she was still small enough to pick up, it ended with a cow-a-bunga! onto the couch.Alan never judged her. He never pitied her. He just loved her. And he understood her. Of course he was the same way with his other five grandchildren, who are all fantastically weird and funny in their own ways.Leah is back at the house because a setting like this isn't right for her. She HAS made significant strides and Alan and Kathie deserve a lot of credit for that. We don't know what the future holds for Leah -- how can you know with any 10-year-old? We do feel like it's brighter than it would have been otherwise. Alison and I are going to do our best to make her Alan's greatest legacy.
From Heather, who reminds us why her writings are followed by a large number of people:
We mentioned the Sport of Kings in my dad’s obituary. The first time I went horseracing with my dad, I was about to turn six. It was fantastic. If you’ve ever been with my dad, you know there’s nothing like the sound of him roaring “GO ON MY SON” at the horses. Late in the day, he agreed to put two pounds on the horse of my choice. I picked Gold and Ivory, because it had such a pretty name, even though at 33-1 it was, shall we say, not the favorite. You can guess what happened: Dad figured out somewhere around the "GO ON" that his son was not going to win, and mine might be worth adopting. You can guess the rest: Gold and Ivory won, I got a crisp five-pound note for my victory, and I will never forget the look on his face when I blinked at it and asked him, “But where are the rest of my winnings?” (You know the one -- single eyebrow arched, deep skepticism, both disapproving and amused.) I think he couldn’t decide if he’d found a kindred spirit, or was in for a world of trouble. Probably both.I loved those years with dad in England, going to the pub every weekend with him, betting on some ponies. He knew I was enthralled with what I called the “fruit machine” in the corner. Never one to miss an opportunity, Dad gave me a couple pounds to put in the slot, then turned it into a weekly enterprise, which my father classified as “valuable lessons in financial management” and explained how using my winnings to buy a few pints for the bar was, in fact, a sensible dividend reinvestment plan.But that was Dad. He always had the most fun and the most creative take on everything. When I was little, he’d never serve leftovers – instead, he’d use them to invent some wild concoction and give it a crazy name so that it seemed really cool, like the GrooRaiChegMuff -- I think that had raisins, and an English muffin, and only he knows what else -- or the Filly Filly Filly Tummy, which I THINK had meat in it…? But it was delicious, as was everything he made. And then there was the time he bid on a deep fat-fryer at a silent auction without telling my mother, and decided that maybe calling it a "German wok" would make it sound more palatable.Sometimes I try to think of how I will describe my father to my sons, who only knew him a short time. There are almost too many words. He was brilliant. He did the Times Cryptic Crosswords every day and he was a genius at wordplay. He was irreverent, as witnessed by the time the balcony of his Miami office flooded and was never repaired, so to make a point he blew up a plastic pool toy that he named Placido Flamingo and floated it on the water. Judging by the two giant screwdriver-sized holes he found in Placido’s deflated neck one day, I’d guess his point was made.Dad was desperately allergic to tomatoes. And Dad was particular. How many men would answer honestly when celebrity chef Wolfgang Punk asks if you’re enjoying your dinner? Based on diners’ reactions, as Wolfie whisked Dad’s plate back to the kitchen like his pants were on fire, this may never have happened before, ever. Dad was gracious, such as when he told Wolfie the new wienerschnitzel was perfect. Dad was spiritual, or at least, that’s what he called it when he rallied the lads around the craps table in Vegas – it was dispensing spiritual leadership. He was stubborn. When we moved from Miami to Canada, everyone told him he'd have to sell that Mustang convertible, until Dad finally said, "Oh, REALLY," and drove that thing through every Calgary winter -- including a few that had him doing 360-degree spins down our icy street.Dad was a master strategist. For instance, the year we won the championship Onion Contest at our pub, it was because Dad personally and painstakingly mapped out a plan wherein our gardener did everything. Dad was generous, like when he let a friend of mine in need live with us for a year. Dad was an artist. Who could forget all those holiday fireworks displays he designed? They were unforgettable to his friends and family, as we watched them light up the night sky over our lawn; unforgettable to a few of our more ornery neighbors, for whom he included a few fireworks that did nothing but make irritatingly loud booming sounds; and unforgettable to the teen sons of our friends who volunteered to help, and were standing next to Dad when he blew a huge hole in our backyard the size of about eighty championship onions.He was a softy, a sucker for his grandchildren, for whom he watched an uncountable number of really awful kids’ shows just because they wanted to cuddle with him. And he was a romantic, such as when he took Julie’s Georgetown pals to a long dinner that ended in him convincing a tispy Joey to propose to his lovely girlfriend. Joey did, he remembered it in the morning, and to this day they still toast Dad on their anniversary. An anniversary they now sadly share with the date of his passing.And he was, above all, an incredible father, who gave us the best life and the best opportunities. Dad wasn’t always the tallest person in the room, but to me, he was the biggest. Everyone gravitated to him. At dinner parties I always wanted to sit next to him, because 1) I knew he’d say about a hundred classic lines, 2) I’d get to watch people laugh at his lines and know that I had the world’s coolest dad, and 3) I might get to make him laugh – that loud, from-the-gut laugh where he threw back his head and gave in to it completely -- and that was the best. To me making Dad laugh was kinda like Einstein saying I was halfway decent at math.But it wasn’t just me that loved him. As I look around at everyone, I realize how many people Dad affected. The outpouring from friends, and friends of friends, and their relatives, has been unreal. This photo to my left is from my wedding, and people who’d never even met him before that night have written to tell me that they remember him as if they’d known him forever, and how brilliant he was. He truly was larger than life, and that’s how I will always remember him. Dad may have been an only child by birth, but he leaves behind a family of his own making that I think was bigger than even he knew.
His obituary can be found at the Sarasota Herald-Tribune and Talk About Curing Autism (TACA).
