Monday, August 25, 2014
Baltic Sea Cruise 2013 by Philip Guillemette
[Editor's note: Everyone knows our maternal Grandfather had been saving for a retirement and trips with Grandmother, when Grandmother died too soon from complications of colon cancer (while I was still a toddler). I love the fact that Philip and Jodi invited the folks along on a cruise like this last year....]
Pictures From the Graveside Service in Fall River by Pete Guillemette
[Editor's note: Some of the pictures involve military honors reflecting his USAF career. Pete said getting the pictures done was a challenge; thanks for the effort, Pete. I noticed that he was seated on the near side of Mom for a couple of pictures and asked who took those pictures; he said Janice (cousin (Uncle Fernand), Mom and Dad's flower girl). Uncle Ray and Aunt Phyllis made it with another couple of cousins (see below). I know Mom's cousin Connie is hosting Mom and Pete during their New England stay, and daughters Jeanne and Melina (with her 2 children) also attended.]
A later note from Pete: "The service was very nice and the attendance was pretty good with 27 in attendance. The picture of Uncle Roger during the service didn't [pan] out because the sun was at his back. Uncle Ray placed a single rose on the casket along with a peach."
Here's a version of the peach story, a variation of the forbidden apple story from Genesis. When Dad was 7 and Ray was 9, they were walking from Somerset to Swansea when they passed by a peach orchard. Dad persuaded a reluctant Ray that they should climb a peach tree and pluck some ripe fruit to eat. The orchard owner caught them in the act and brought them to a place where he placed a large pile of harvested peaches in front of them and encouraged them to eat their fill. When they were finished, the owner said, "From now on, if you want to eat peaches, come and see me; don't go climbing the trees and breaking branches..."
A later note from Pete: "The service was very nice and the attendance was pretty good with 27 in attendance. The picture of Uncle Roger during the service didn't [pan] out because the sun was at his back. Uncle Ray placed a single rose on the casket along with a peach."
Here's a version of the peach story, a variation of the forbidden apple story from Genesis. When Dad was 7 and Ray was 9, they were walking from Somerset to Swansea when they passed by a peach orchard. Dad persuaded a reluctant Ray that they should climb a peach tree and pluck some ripe fruit to eat. The orchard owner caught them in the act and brought them to a place where he placed a large pile of harvested peaches in front of them and encouraged them to eat their fill. When they were finished, the owner said, "From now on, if you want to eat peaches, come and see me; don't go climbing the trees and breaking branches..."
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| The serviceman on the left played taps. |
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| In the center, Janice, her husband, and Uncle Roger |
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| Dad's cousins Donald, Muriel, Nelson |
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| Cousins Celeste, Conrad (Uncle Ray) |
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| Dad's surviving brother, Uncle Ray (Emile), Aunt Phyllis |
Today's Contribution: Batman (AKA Dad) Making Thanksgiving Stuffing by Sharon Forinash
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| Thanksgiving 2013 at the Forinash Home Submitted by Sharon |
If we are really nice to Sharon, maybe she'll share the recipe with us...
Sunday, August 24, 2014
A Week Later
My youngest brother Pete will be accompanying my Mom on a week-long visit to New England this week, the principal purpose will be to bury Dad in Mom's family plot Monday morning. (I'm not sure about Dad's side of the family, except I know the remains of my beloved Aunt Grace, a former religious sister and educator, are stored in a mausoleum: presumably any family plot was full.)
I was not happy about my futile attempts to contact my cousins (all on Dad's side, since my Mom's only sibling is a priest). Brothers #1 and #3 and Dad's other sister had children. Family communication has been challenging; I was particularly close to Jackie (she later changed it to a more Franco variation of Jacquie) in terms of correspondence. I was experimenting with my poetry and had written verses in an apple-like profile; I had solicited her opinion. She had lost her own dad by her teens and her mom (and our grandmother who lived with them) by my early twenties when my maternal grandfather passed. I had gone to visit Grandfather over the holidays while my Dad was stationed in Germany and my aunt used to come and pick me up for the evenings to visit with her daughters. Jackie was the vocalist of a trio (two male friends) which did covers of soft rock hits like the Carpenters; they mostly played at special events like wedding receptions and the like. Jackie and her younger sister earned teaching degrees at Providence College; ironically I made a campus visit to Providence College and was willing to teach at a bargain basement salary, but they ended up hiring a more local candidate. The sad thing is that teacher market was saturated, and the last I heard my younger cousin was working civil service. I don't think my cousins ever got past losing their parents at a young age; Jackie cut off communication when I was not supportive of the cousins getting involved with a Pentecostal group.
(Ironically I lost my first college girlfriend to a Pentecostal group; our first fight was when she got me to come to a Pentecostal service. I didn't have a car, so one of the college's religious sisters escorted us. One of the congregation started "speaking in tongues", which sounded like "Ja-ma-ba-ka-fa...."; I rolled my eyes and told my girl, "Oh, give me a break!" I could tell that she was pissed at me, and I was mortified when she stood up next and started speaking in gibberish; there was no place to hide. The ride back was uncomfortably silent as we sat as physically apart as possible in the car. We eventually got over that; she later got an invitation to join a religious commune and basically tried to use it to pressure me into making a commitment to our relationship. I told her that it was her decision whether to stay in San Antonio; she left for Dallas and I never heard from her again.)
So my Mom wrote to me last night and told me Jackie had passed; they only heard about it when they visited my surviving uncle/aunt last year in Connecticut. The latter couple actually met at my folks' wedding. It's odd that my uncle, roughly 2 years older than my Dad, is the survivor of the family, because he has been dealing with chronic medical issues for years. There's a family kerfuffle over my uncle because somehow my grandparents didn't catch an anglicized version of our surname ("Guilmette") (my Dad would often write it as "Gillmet" at restaurants, because most people will butcher the pronunciation, e.g., "gwill-E-mettee", or worse. I've learned to respond to "Ronald?") We've always called him "Uncle Ray", but more recently, he's gone with "Emile". I do not know why my uncle never corrected the errors, but it would tick me off when my cousins would address mail to me using the misspelled variation.
I heard a rumor one of my cousins might drive her dad to Monday's graveside service. I suspect besides Mom and Pete, my maternal uncle and a close cousin of Mom's will be there. I was conflicted on whether to attend; I would have gone if Mom had asked or if Pete wasn't able to go. Among other things, either TSA or American Airlines fractured my hardside suitcase last Sunday (American changed my arrangements 2 or 3 times Sunday, the last one with just a half hour and I had to traverse different concourses. The gate agent rebooked me through Delta, but I had to recheck my baggage and go through security again. Delta had to heavily tape up the end of the suitcase. Incidentally, TSA wasn't too bad, but they had an obsession with scanning my hands. I was worried, because I didn't know how long I would be in San Antonio, given Dad's critical health status, so I booked one-ways.) I also have to drive to Pittsburgh for flights, and there were budget and travel scheduling constraints, not to mention professional work considerations. (I had to postpone a key interview, originally scheduled the day Dad died.)
It's funny how many times Dad has been popping up in my dreams and consciousness lately. There are some physical characteristics I have from each side of the family. I inherited my double-jointed thumbs from Dad (my thumbs bend back at near right angles), the barrel chest is from my Dad's side, and my Mom once told me I got my high cheekbones from a Cherokee great-grandmother on my Dad's side. I think my looks favor Mom's side, although I think my complexion favors Dad's side.
I think Dad probably found me somewhat enigmatic; I did not share his mechanical interest or aptitude. Some of the toys he bought me over the years went barely used (but I did like this toy bazooka that shot plastic missiles, which probably drove Dad nuts when I shot it off in the family vehicle on our drive down to Florida). I had a moment not unlike that of John-Boy Walton, as aspiring writer, in "The Homecoming" when his hardscrabble dad brought him a supply of writing tablets for Christmas; on occasion during my early childhood the folks would leave us at a day care facility for an evening--and forget all the toys, I thought the coolest thing was when I got a clean sheet of copy paper--the things one could do with a blank sheet of paper staggers the imagination. My middle brother laughs at that and said that my folks should have gotten me a ream of copy paper for Christmas. Everyday when I start my daily political blog post, I feel the same surge of excitement. I'm constantly tweaking my signature format.
There are some things I edited out of my eulogy. One incident that sticks out involves a high school student's dad who involved in Scouts and in baseball. In one game, being a lefty, I was playing off the bag at first base; his son hit a soft liner towards the gap into right field on a hit-and-run. I speared the ball and raced to first for the unassisted double play. I could hear the dad repeatedly screaming, "That was NOT a double-play ball!" For whatever reason, he disliked me and sabotaged the first time in Boy Scouts I went up for Star Scout. (I passed the second time, but left short of my goal of Eagle Scout. My brother and I had worked hard on a trip fundraiser; one of the options was to see our first MLB game at the Astrodome. Our side won the vote, but the troop leaders refused to ratify the result and pulled Tom DeLay armtwisting tactics on a few swing Scouts; I think they were pushing a camping trip alternative (Big Bend?), and they won the revote. Nothing wrong with camping, but as Scouts, we had been on several camping trips. I felt they should never have offered the Astros option if they had no intention of ratifying it. At that point, I was done with Scouts, and I think my brother followed me.)
In any event, there was some interim kerfuffle where this leader was upset at me and he sent a car after me on the way home; my Dad decided to drive me back (we passed the car chasing after me) and have a conversation with the said leader. My folks were a couple of inches shorter than average, but don't let his stature deceive you. (My 6'4" brother-in-law admits that my Dad intimidated him when he first started dating my sister.) My Dad basically told the leader not to mess with his kids or he would have to deal with him. From what I could tell, my Dad did all the talking and left the sheepish leader staring blankly at the ground.
My Dad hadn't been in a position to help me financially through my first 2 degrees, but the family's financial situation had improved in the 1980's; my Mom started working at a local base exchange, and Dad got a stable position with the USPS. It had been a culture shock on my trips home from Houston to see my youngest siblings at will pluck a can of soda or a carton of Blue Bell ice cream from the refrigerator/freezer. When I left home at 16, these were special occasion treats, like for birthdays. I used to deliver around 90 papers a day under the broiling south Texas sun and used to finish up with a swing through the bachelor quarters, which had vending machines (including beer). I would sometimes sacrifice one of my hard-earned quarters (I cleared maybe a dollar a day on my route) to buy a can of Sprite. In Houston, I faced a double whammy; I was working in the dying APL timesharing industry, whose business model had been undermined by cheap commodity computing, e.g., minicomputers and microcomputing, plus the economy and oil business had been in a recession, in part because of Fed high interest policies to deal with inflation. I had started working on an MBA part-time but I didn't have much cash to ride out the layoffs. I think the worst time was just around the time I was admitted to the PhD program and had won a small stipend position as a teaching fellow. I had worked registration one semester to pick up extra cash. I thought I had about $100 in my checking account, but I must have been hit with service charges I didn't know about, and I was not aware my registration check was available. A couple I had befriended through Catholic Newman got married and had invited me to the wedding; I had enclosed a $15 check, only to discover, to my horror, the check bounced (and I think the NSF charge was twice the amount of the check). So, for the most part I had a tight budget through graduate school.
The reason I'm explaining this is to provide context for the following. During all this period I never asked the folks for money. I think the one time I had asked for help is when I needed about $500 to have my math thesis typed and bound. My mom suggested going to my Grandfather; there was a trivial incident in sixth grade where my Grandfather swore I would never see a cent from him for college--and kept the grudge. I was wary--I knew he would give Mom the money, no questions asked. At the least I thought she had cleared it. I was wrong. I was about as eager asking for a loan as someone else might approach a root canal. My Grandfather went ballistic when he got my request; my uncle smoothed things over. Ironically a courtesy copy of my thesis was in transit to him when we got word he passed.
At any rate, when I left home back to UH during that period, as I was leaving and saying my goodbyes, he would often slip a $10 or $20 bill to me.
In later years, we would have different moments. I remember accompanying him to some eye or medical appointment; he had me drive his new truck back home--I was nervous because I had never driven it before, and the last thing I wanted was to have an accident with his truck.
But we had a ritual of sorts with his seeing me off at San Antonio airport. He would buy me breakfast tacos and then see me off through security. I'm usually quite stoic on these occasions; except for brief visits home since 16, I had lived on my own and paid my own bills. But on this one occasion I'll always remember, it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks that I was leaving my home, my own support system, the only people who love me unconditionally. I teared up, stealing one last look at my Dad.
No longer will he be there to tell me almost invariably that I need a haircut and drive me to his trusted barber. No longer will he there to brag to his VFW or American Legion buddies about his son with the PhD. We had very different styles (I'm more blunt and direct, but I've never heard someone say anything negative about my Dad, and his children and grandchildren adored him) but the same values. I knew Dad had back and knee problems and there are risks with surgery. But his oldest brother just passed earlier this year, and I thought we had years. I was wrong. I miss you, Dad.
I was not happy about my futile attempts to contact my cousins (all on Dad's side, since my Mom's only sibling is a priest). Brothers #1 and #3 and Dad's other sister had children. Family communication has been challenging; I was particularly close to Jackie (she later changed it to a more Franco variation of Jacquie) in terms of correspondence. I was experimenting with my poetry and had written verses in an apple-like profile; I had solicited her opinion. She had lost her own dad by her teens and her mom (and our grandmother who lived with them) by my early twenties when my maternal grandfather passed. I had gone to visit Grandfather over the holidays while my Dad was stationed in Germany and my aunt used to come and pick me up for the evenings to visit with her daughters. Jackie was the vocalist of a trio (two male friends) which did covers of soft rock hits like the Carpenters; they mostly played at special events like wedding receptions and the like. Jackie and her younger sister earned teaching degrees at Providence College; ironically I made a campus visit to Providence College and was willing to teach at a bargain basement salary, but they ended up hiring a more local candidate. The sad thing is that teacher market was saturated, and the last I heard my younger cousin was working civil service. I don't think my cousins ever got past losing their parents at a young age; Jackie cut off communication when I was not supportive of the cousins getting involved with a Pentecostal group.
(Ironically I lost my first college girlfriend to a Pentecostal group; our first fight was when she got me to come to a Pentecostal service. I didn't have a car, so one of the college's religious sisters escorted us. One of the congregation started "speaking in tongues", which sounded like "Ja-ma-ba-ka-fa...."; I rolled my eyes and told my girl, "Oh, give me a break!" I could tell that she was pissed at me, and I was mortified when she stood up next and started speaking in gibberish; there was no place to hide. The ride back was uncomfortably silent as we sat as physically apart as possible in the car. We eventually got over that; she later got an invitation to join a religious commune and basically tried to use it to pressure me into making a commitment to our relationship. I told her that it was her decision whether to stay in San Antonio; she left for Dallas and I never heard from her again.)
So my Mom wrote to me last night and told me Jackie had passed; they only heard about it when they visited my surviving uncle/aunt last year in Connecticut. The latter couple actually met at my folks' wedding. It's odd that my uncle, roughly 2 years older than my Dad, is the survivor of the family, because he has been dealing with chronic medical issues for years. There's a family kerfuffle over my uncle because somehow my grandparents didn't catch an anglicized version of our surname ("Guilmette") (my Dad would often write it as "Gillmet" at restaurants, because most people will butcher the pronunciation, e.g., "gwill-E-mettee", or worse. I've learned to respond to "Ronald?") We've always called him "Uncle Ray", but more recently, he's gone with "Emile". I do not know why my uncle never corrected the errors, but it would tick me off when my cousins would address mail to me using the misspelled variation.
I heard a rumor one of my cousins might drive her dad to Monday's graveside service. I suspect besides Mom and Pete, my maternal uncle and a close cousin of Mom's will be there. I was conflicted on whether to attend; I would have gone if Mom had asked or if Pete wasn't able to go. Among other things, either TSA or American Airlines fractured my hardside suitcase last Sunday (American changed my arrangements 2 or 3 times Sunday, the last one with just a half hour and I had to traverse different concourses. The gate agent rebooked me through Delta, but I had to recheck my baggage and go through security again. Delta had to heavily tape up the end of the suitcase. Incidentally, TSA wasn't too bad, but they had an obsession with scanning my hands. I was worried, because I didn't know how long I would be in San Antonio, given Dad's critical health status, so I booked one-ways.) I also have to drive to Pittsburgh for flights, and there were budget and travel scheduling constraints, not to mention professional work considerations. (I had to postpone a key interview, originally scheduled the day Dad died.)
It's funny how many times Dad has been popping up in my dreams and consciousness lately. There are some physical characteristics I have from each side of the family. I inherited my double-jointed thumbs from Dad (my thumbs bend back at near right angles), the barrel chest is from my Dad's side, and my Mom once told me I got my high cheekbones from a Cherokee great-grandmother on my Dad's side. I think my looks favor Mom's side, although I think my complexion favors Dad's side.
I think Dad probably found me somewhat enigmatic; I did not share his mechanical interest or aptitude. Some of the toys he bought me over the years went barely used (but I did like this toy bazooka that shot plastic missiles, which probably drove Dad nuts when I shot it off in the family vehicle on our drive down to Florida). I had a moment not unlike that of John-Boy Walton, as aspiring writer, in "The Homecoming" when his hardscrabble dad brought him a supply of writing tablets for Christmas; on occasion during my early childhood the folks would leave us at a day care facility for an evening--and forget all the toys, I thought the coolest thing was when I got a clean sheet of copy paper--the things one could do with a blank sheet of paper staggers the imagination. My middle brother laughs at that and said that my folks should have gotten me a ream of copy paper for Christmas. Everyday when I start my daily political blog post, I feel the same surge of excitement. I'm constantly tweaking my signature format.
There are some things I edited out of my eulogy. One incident that sticks out involves a high school student's dad who involved in Scouts and in baseball. In one game, being a lefty, I was playing off the bag at first base; his son hit a soft liner towards the gap into right field on a hit-and-run. I speared the ball and raced to first for the unassisted double play. I could hear the dad repeatedly screaming, "That was NOT a double-play ball!" For whatever reason, he disliked me and sabotaged the first time in Boy Scouts I went up for Star Scout. (I passed the second time, but left short of my goal of Eagle Scout. My brother and I had worked hard on a trip fundraiser; one of the options was to see our first MLB game at the Astrodome. Our side won the vote, but the troop leaders refused to ratify the result and pulled Tom DeLay armtwisting tactics on a few swing Scouts; I think they were pushing a camping trip alternative (Big Bend?), and they won the revote. Nothing wrong with camping, but as Scouts, we had been on several camping trips. I felt they should never have offered the Astros option if they had no intention of ratifying it. At that point, I was done with Scouts, and I think my brother followed me.)
In any event, there was some interim kerfuffle where this leader was upset at me and he sent a car after me on the way home; my Dad decided to drive me back (we passed the car chasing after me) and have a conversation with the said leader. My folks were a couple of inches shorter than average, but don't let his stature deceive you. (My 6'4" brother-in-law admits that my Dad intimidated him when he first started dating my sister.) My Dad basically told the leader not to mess with his kids or he would have to deal with him. From what I could tell, my Dad did all the talking and left the sheepish leader staring blankly at the ground.
My Dad hadn't been in a position to help me financially through my first 2 degrees, but the family's financial situation had improved in the 1980's; my Mom started working at a local base exchange, and Dad got a stable position with the USPS. It had been a culture shock on my trips home from Houston to see my youngest siblings at will pluck a can of soda or a carton of Blue Bell ice cream from the refrigerator/freezer. When I left home at 16, these were special occasion treats, like for birthdays. I used to deliver around 90 papers a day under the broiling south Texas sun and used to finish up with a swing through the bachelor quarters, which had vending machines (including beer). I would sometimes sacrifice one of my hard-earned quarters (I cleared maybe a dollar a day on my route) to buy a can of Sprite. In Houston, I faced a double whammy; I was working in the dying APL timesharing industry, whose business model had been undermined by cheap commodity computing, e.g., minicomputers and microcomputing, plus the economy and oil business had been in a recession, in part because of Fed high interest policies to deal with inflation. I had started working on an MBA part-time but I didn't have much cash to ride out the layoffs. I think the worst time was just around the time I was admitted to the PhD program and had won a small stipend position as a teaching fellow. I had worked registration one semester to pick up extra cash. I thought I had about $100 in my checking account, but I must have been hit with service charges I didn't know about, and I was not aware my registration check was available. A couple I had befriended through Catholic Newman got married and had invited me to the wedding; I had enclosed a $15 check, only to discover, to my horror, the check bounced (and I think the NSF charge was twice the amount of the check). So, for the most part I had a tight budget through graduate school.
The reason I'm explaining this is to provide context for the following. During all this period I never asked the folks for money. I think the one time I had asked for help is when I needed about $500 to have my math thesis typed and bound. My mom suggested going to my Grandfather; there was a trivial incident in sixth grade where my Grandfather swore I would never see a cent from him for college--and kept the grudge. I was wary--I knew he would give Mom the money, no questions asked. At the least I thought she had cleared it. I was wrong. I was about as eager asking for a loan as someone else might approach a root canal. My Grandfather went ballistic when he got my request; my uncle smoothed things over. Ironically a courtesy copy of my thesis was in transit to him when we got word he passed.
At any rate, when I left home back to UH during that period, as I was leaving and saying my goodbyes, he would often slip a $10 or $20 bill to me.
In later years, we would have different moments. I remember accompanying him to some eye or medical appointment; he had me drive his new truck back home--I was nervous because I had never driven it before, and the last thing I wanted was to have an accident with his truck.
But we had a ritual of sorts with his seeing me off at San Antonio airport. He would buy me breakfast tacos and then see me off through security. I'm usually quite stoic on these occasions; except for brief visits home since 16, I had lived on my own and paid my own bills. But on this one occasion I'll always remember, it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks that I was leaving my home, my own support system, the only people who love me unconditionally. I teared up, stealing one last look at my Dad.
No longer will he be there to tell me almost invariably that I need a haircut and drive me to his trusted barber. No longer will he there to brag to his VFW or American Legion buddies about his son with the PhD. We had very different styles (I'm more blunt and direct, but I've never heard someone say anything negative about my Dad, and his children and grandchildren adored him) but the same values. I knew Dad had back and knee problems and there are risks with surgery. But his oldest brother just passed earlier this year, and I thought we had years. I was wrong. I miss you, Dad.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
The Guillemette Family Thanks Good Shepherd Parish by Diane Martin
The Guillemette Family wishes to thank Good Shepherd Parish for the many kindnesses, prayers and sympathy after the loss of Armand Guillemette on August 13th. We would especially like to thank Deacon Bob Leibrecht, the Bereavement Ministry, Choir and the Knights of Columbus for their comfort and care during the funeral. God Bless you all.
The 'A' Stands For 'Armand': A Eulogy for Dad
When I bought a copy of pop singer Dan Hill’s greatest hits, I came across “Daddy’s Song”. It begins:
I always knew, this time would comeA separate verse:
still I'm not ready, is anyone?
As a child I believed daddies lived on and on
I guess I was wrong.
As your first son I couldn't have loved you more.Ronald Armand Guillemette. As the first-born I carry his given name proudly; he was the one man I wanted to impress. He set an example for my brothers and me how to be a good, God-fearing man through his unconditional love for our mother Claire, his love and patience with each of his children, his many Air Force buddies, work colleagues, and his friends at the local American Legion and VFW, the way he practiced and lived his faith. He lives on in my siblings and me, his 21 grandchildren, and his 14 great-grandchildren.
I knew someday last Wednesday would come. My paternal grandfather had died years before my folks first met, and my maternal grandmother passed before I went to kindergarten. As a military brat, you always have to be aware about the risks to a loved one. At 12, the oldest of 7, I wasn't ready for my Dad to be shipped off to Vietnam; I didn't go to the airport to see him off. His orders were later changed to Thailand. In my trunk at home is a postcard from Dad where Dad wrote that I needed to be the man of the house while he was away. Then Monday night Mom called unexpectedly. Two hours after my plane touched down Wednesday, he was gone. One of God's blessings is that all 7 of us got to say goodbye and he knew we were there.
I learned a hard work ethic, professionalism and thriftiness from Dad
It was tough raising a large family on an enlisted man’s salary. During the earlier years of his Air Force career, he moonlighted.
Dad had a mischievous, fun-loving side
yes, beyond his signature “tiger bites”. One anecdote involved working on a Massachusetts relative’s farm during his youth. A series of freshly baked blueberry pies had been set outside to cool. Dad and the other boys swiped one of the pies, and they enjoyed it with the cream top layer of fresh raw milk. Naturally someone noticed one of the pies was missing and accused the guys of stealing it. The guys denied it: "Stick out your tongues!"
Dad loved Christmas
I can still hear him tell me childhood memories of going to Midnight Mass, sleigh rides, and snow softly falling down. Dad loved the change of seasons, Mom not so much; this explains why he will be buried at a family plot in his native Fall River. I found out the hard way that Dad wanted kids to enjoy their childhood. If people don’t understand Philip’s reference to Santa Claus and black stubble, there's a story behind it. I was the all-knowing, all-wise fourth grader, my brother asked me about Santa Claus. I was ambivalent; I went with the flow because I got presents. But I had to maintain my facade so I bluffed: I told him that I thought I saw some black stubble under the white beard. My brother knew only one person fitting that description: “Daddy! Daddy! Ronald said you were Santa.” My Dad spanked me saying, “Just because you know, you don't have to spoil it for the others."
Dad Loved Mom
Back to Dan Hill:
Daddy your love for my mother, your wife,My Dad never had an unkind word about Mom. This is not to say they didn’t have their differences as do all married couples. But he genuinely loved my Mom, and one of my big regrets about the timing of his passing was it was just a few weeks short of their 60th wedding anniversary. One particular moment that comes to mind is my last Christmas season visit home just a few years back. My folks and I were alone in the house and I had been in a bedroom on the Internet. I came out of the room and was about to walk into the living room when I spotted my parents standing in the middle of the room, kissing each other, totally wrapped up in the moment, oblivious to all else around them. I found it utterly charming and sweet, after more than 50 years of marriage, my parents were still so much in love with each other.
moves me more deeply than all else in my life.
Dad Loved His Family
Back in 1995, I had just come back from a long business trip to Brazil and decided to join my parents in a visit to New England. (Dad would have preferred to retire in New England, and periodic visits were Mom's compromise.) One day we went to see Dad's oldest brother. As we approached the house, we caught a brief glimpse of someone at the window, probably my aunt, but despite repeated knocking, no one came to the door. Mom and I thought that we should move on, but Dad insisted he had come to see his brother, and he wasn't leaving until he saw his brother. Bottom line: Dad saw his brother.
My Mom jokes that it wasn’t my Dad’s idea to have so many kids. It was hard to make ends meet on an enlisted man’s salary. One moment sticks out in my mind. I was then a resident college student at Our Lady of the Lake. My second year my Dad and the rest of the family left Laredo for his assignment in Germany; when the family returned home to the San Antonio area, they went to Sunday Mass at the OLL chapel with me. As we went up to receive communion, I heard my Dad behind me and asked if something was wrong. It later dawned on me that he was responding to seeing his whole family together.
Dad took time for his kids and was proud of them
I remember how proud I was when my Dad brought me with him to have a powdered doughnut and a glass of milk. However, one of my sisters remembered her Daddy date less fondly: it ended up getting an immunization. I remember Dad going to my high school’s football games with me, and even just a few years ago he flew into Baltimore to help me through my hernia operation. With my brother Pete, it's been about going to college football games, even though stadium seating wasn't great for his knees or back.
When Dad took me or a brother to the local VFW or American Legion, he would introduce us with pride to his friends.
Dad loved kids, even beyond our family. I remember being with Dad shopping at the commissary, and Dad might play peek-a-boo with a little boy as we passed by him seated in a cart. When he distributed clothing and toys to local kids in Thailand, they nicknamed him “Buddha”. When his children or grandchildren came to visit, he often had special treats or gifts for them. Along with my Mom, he would celebrate the special events of his grandchildren—graduations, weddings, and religious events like confirmations; even when Dad’s health issues over the past several weeks made it impossible to make my newlywed niece’s wedding, he and Mom were there by Skype.
Dad Loved God and Lived His Faith
God and Church are part of our French-Canadian roots. There were a couple of religious sisters on Dad's side of the family, including his big sister Grace. Dad is one of those whom live their faith by action, whether it's charity to poor Thai children or as an active member of the Good Shepherd community as a Eucharistic Minister to the homebound.
Dan Hill's song ends:
As a child I believed daddies lived on and on
Perhaps I'm not wrong.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Graveside Service Scheduled For Dad
According to Mom, the graveside service for Dad will be at 11 AM EDT at Notre Dame cemetery on Stafford Road in Fall River, MA this Monday (Aug. 25).
Some of My Favorite Dad Songs
Daddy's Song by Dan Hill
The Living Years by Mike & The Mechanics
Everything I Own by Bread
Luther Vandross, "Dance With My Father"
Jim Croce, "I Got a Name"
Tim McGraw, "My Little Girl"
Harry Chapin, "Cats in the Cradle"
Bobby Goldsboro, "Watching Scotty Grow"
Bob Carlisle, "Butterfly Kisses"
Dan Hill, "I Am My Father's Son"
Eddie Fisher, "Oh My Papa"
The Living Years by Mike & The Mechanics
Everything I Own by Bread
Luther Vandross, "Dance With My Father"
Jim Croce, "I Got a Name"
Tim McGraw, "My Little Girl"
Harry Chapin, "Cats in the Cradle"
Bobby Goldsboro, "Watching Scotty Grow"
Bob Carlisle, "Butterfly Kisses"
Dan Hill, "I Am My Father's Son"
Eddie Fisher, "Oh My Papa"
Eulogy for Dad by Philip with Vivian
Some ordinary people lead extraordinary lives and some very extraordinary people lead very ordinary lives. Armand, Dad, Pepere, or Gil as he was known to his friends was the latter. He was an extraordinary man not by the standards of the world but by the standards of heaven.
Armand Guillemette was a man that loved God, his wife and family, and his country. He was also a man who knew his purpose on this earth even in the smallest acts of humor and kindness.
First his love of God -
Armand, or Armie, as his sister Grace called him, was born on Sept 28, 1933 to a Roman Catholic French Canadian American family in Fall River, MA. As he grew in faith, he demonstrated his love of God through prayer, church attendance, receiving the sacraments, and his love of the Holy Eucharist, as a Eucharistic Minister. His marriage to Claire was a true sacramental marriage with a three way relationship of husband, wife and The Lord. As kids, we thought that he was deeply religious, because he always went to confession on Christmas Eve instead of being with us, when Santa arrived to pass out gifts. Yes, a Santa with a white flowing beard and a little black razor stubble underneath.
Armand loved his wife and family -
Dad met Mom when she was just 15 years old at a dance in Fall River, MA. He captured her heart with his handsome smile, good looks and twinkling blue eyes. They were married on Thanksgiving Day in 1954.
His deep love and respect for his partner of almost sixty years was a shining example of what a marriage should be. His devotion to mom could be seen in the way he looked at her when she wasn’t aware or the joy he got from spoiling her with gifts. Nothing gave dad more pleasure than to see mom beam with delight when she opened a present he had specially chosen just for her.
Together they brought seven children into this world, each with their own unique gifts and talents. First came Ronald (Bryan), Diane and Philip (Otis), Elaine (Fall River), Sharon (Otis), Pete (Tyndall) and Vivian (Shaw). He provided for our physical and intellectual needs but he also nurtured and encouraged each of us through the example he set as a man and a father.
He taught us the values of love of family (through frequent visits with his 5 siblings and Mother), love of faith (church every Sunday), the virtue of hard work and service, and that honesty and kindness was the mark of a good person.
For his three sons, he taught us how to be a man, a father and a good husband. He taught us that real men are patient and kind and not afraid to show their soft side by shedding tears of joy and sorrow. His four daughters were shown what an ideal husband and father should be.
His love for each of us extended to the “outlaws” as each of our spouses are known. For each daughter, dad put their intended spouse through rigorous questioning and tests because only the best of men were good enough for his sweet girls. And dad got his wish, he got four extraordinary men as son-in-laws that he respected and loved deeply.
He was a bit easier on his two daughter-in-laws, no rigorous tests or questions, just immediate acceptance and love. Dad treated them like daughters and took great care to make sure they knew how happy he was to have them as part of the Guillemette clan. As he said once to me, “You done good Philip”.
As a grandfather, Pepere, took great pride in each of his 21 grandchildren and all their accomplishments. He and mom made it a priority to attend every baptism, first communion, confirmation, high school graduation, college graduation, and every other special achievement in their lives. It was so important to dad to be there showing yet again through example that family must be a priority because family is what matters in life; not riches or things but people.
Gil Loved his country -
Dad served his country in the USAF for over 22 years, where he was known by his Air Force buddies simply as "Gil" or "Gilly". He served overseas during the Korean War, Vietnam War and during the "Cold War" in France and Germany. He was a hard working aircraft mechanic, crew chief, dock chief, and maintenance supervisor, and achieved full flight status to provide maintenance support to the RC-66.
He was also a Voodoo Medicine Man for those who know what I'm talking about. He typically put in 12 hours a day without complaint to achieve his mission. He taught all of us the virtues of hard work, teamwork, and service. A few years ago, Diane and Joe put together a beautiful shadow box commemorating his Air Force service for you to view in the Gathering Space.
Most people would think that Armand led an ordinary life, but on the contrary, he was an extraordinary man who loved deeply, lived fully, and showed kindness to everyone he met. He knew that being rich in life had nothing to do with things and money but had everything to do with being there for the people he loved. The world would be a much better place, if there were more men like Armand Guillemette.
Armand Guillemette was a man that loved God, his wife and family, and his country. He was also a man who knew his purpose on this earth even in the smallest acts of humor and kindness.
First his love of God -
Armand, or Armie, as his sister Grace called him, was born on Sept 28, 1933 to a Roman Catholic French Canadian American family in Fall River, MA. As he grew in faith, he demonstrated his love of God through prayer, church attendance, receiving the sacraments, and his love of the Holy Eucharist, as a Eucharistic Minister. His marriage to Claire was a true sacramental marriage with a three way relationship of husband, wife and The Lord. As kids, we thought that he was deeply religious, because he always went to confession on Christmas Eve instead of being with us, when Santa arrived to pass out gifts. Yes, a Santa with a white flowing beard and a little black razor stubble underneath.
Armand loved his wife and family -
Dad met Mom when she was just 15 years old at a dance in Fall River, MA. He captured her heart with his handsome smile, good looks and twinkling blue eyes. They were married on Thanksgiving Day in 1954.
His deep love and respect for his partner of almost sixty years was a shining example of what a marriage should be. His devotion to mom could be seen in the way he looked at her when she wasn’t aware or the joy he got from spoiling her with gifts. Nothing gave dad more pleasure than to see mom beam with delight when she opened a present he had specially chosen just for her.
Together they brought seven children into this world, each with their own unique gifts and talents. First came Ronald (Bryan), Diane and Philip (Otis), Elaine (Fall River), Sharon (Otis), Pete (Tyndall) and Vivian (Shaw). He provided for our physical and intellectual needs but he also nurtured and encouraged each of us through the example he set as a man and a father.
He taught us the values of love of family (through frequent visits with his 5 siblings and Mother), love of faith (church every Sunday), the virtue of hard work and service, and that honesty and kindness was the mark of a good person.
For his three sons, he taught us how to be a man, a father and a good husband. He taught us that real men are patient and kind and not afraid to show their soft side by shedding tears of joy and sorrow. His four daughters were shown what an ideal husband and father should be.
His love for each of us extended to the “outlaws” as each of our spouses are known. For each daughter, dad put their intended spouse through rigorous questioning and tests because only the best of men were good enough for his sweet girls. And dad got his wish, he got four extraordinary men as son-in-laws that he respected and loved deeply.
He was a bit easier on his two daughter-in-laws, no rigorous tests or questions, just immediate acceptance and love. Dad treated them like daughters and took great care to make sure they knew how happy he was to have them as part of the Guillemette clan. As he said once to me, “You done good Philip”.
As a grandfather, Pepere, took great pride in each of his 21 grandchildren and all their accomplishments. He and mom made it a priority to attend every baptism, first communion, confirmation, high school graduation, college graduation, and every other special achievement in their lives. It was so important to dad to be there showing yet again through example that family must be a priority because family is what matters in life; not riches or things but people.
Gil Loved his country -
Dad served his country in the USAF for over 22 years, where he was known by his Air Force buddies simply as "Gil" or "Gilly". He served overseas during the Korean War, Vietnam War and during the "Cold War" in France and Germany. He was a hard working aircraft mechanic, crew chief, dock chief, and maintenance supervisor, and achieved full flight status to provide maintenance support to the RC-66.
He was also a Voodoo Medicine Man for those who know what I'm talking about. He typically put in 12 hours a day without complaint to achieve his mission. He taught all of us the virtues of hard work, teamwork, and service. A few years ago, Diane and Joe put together a beautiful shadow box commemorating his Air Force service for you to view in the Gathering Space.
Most people would think that Armand led an ordinary life, but on the contrary, he was an extraordinary man who loved deeply, lived fully, and showed kindness to everyone he met. He knew that being rich in life had nothing to do with things and money but had everything to do with being there for the people he loved. The world would be a much better place, if there were more men like Armand Guillemette.
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