Almost
without fail, when we were out with Dad, typically at Outback or the
Plaza Diner, you could hear waiters, waitresses and even some diners
call out “Hey Charlie” when we walked through the door. Often
someone would walk over to say hi or have a quick chat. They either
worked at GE, bowled, golfed at Tashua Knolls or played bingo with
him. Sometimes they would ask what his secret was, since he had
reached 100 years healthy, happy and living the life he wanted. He
used to say “Dewars and soda.” But Tim believed, especially
lately, that it was his attitude.
Charlie
enjoyed simple things nearly up to his last moment. Hallmark movies
and sports on TV – in particular golf, football and of course UCONN
girls basketball. He watched with delight and enthusiasm; remembered
scores and which teams were playing when.
On
December 18th, the night he fell at his house, Tim and I
had just left him watching football after our traditional dinner at
Outback where he had clam chowder, fillet mignon, and garlic mashed
potatoes. Bob Gadys, someone he hadn’t seen for over 20 years,
stopped by our table to say hello to Charlie. He lived behind the
Clark family on Asylum Street for years, worked with Dad at GE and
bowled with him on the GE league. His parting words that night were,
“Charlie, you are my hero.” That was a common theme. The week
before, Tim’s nephew Ryan and his wife, Lindsey, joined us for
Sunday dinner at Outback. Ryan later told Tim, “Charlie is my role
model.”
Dad’s
mind was sharp, a better memory than most. Over the past several
years he would text me every morning on his iPhone to let me know he
was up and about, usually by 8 a.m. In fact, he used his phone,
always attached to his belt, to text his neighbors Russ and Janice
when he fell and that he needed help; then called us. He knew how to
get from point A to point B better than any nav system. He helped run
Saint Gabe’s bingo for years and the staff there continued to seek
his help when there were problems with the equipment.
He
loved his family certainly, but he loved no one more than his wife of
60 years, Marion, who he called Clarkie, which is what he
subsequently called his great grandson, Clark. He missed her every
day, visited her grave often, but never complained. He just kept
going.
For
those of you who don’t know, he was the eldest of 15, born to
Nellie and Charles Adam Clark. Sadly many of his siblings have
predeceased him. He was a veteran of World War II, serving in the
Army. Most recently, we texted each other while watching the History
Channel on the 75th anniversary of Pearl Harbor. I asked
where he was when the attack occurred. He wrote back that he was
stationed at Fort Wright off of New London. Like most of that
generation, he said little about his service overseas. When I asked
who was his favorite of the 17 presidents who held office during his
lifetime, not surprisingly he said without hesitation, FDR.
Dad
was always there for us – whether for directions, to make sure my
tires had enough tread, or tell us what was happening around town or
the world. And ultimately, he helped me deal with the inevitability
of this day. He was a gentleman, tipped his ball cap and held doors
open for others. When he drove, which lately was only to the diner up
the street, a cigar was a constant accessory.
His
special, indescribable manner endeared him to all he came near,
although he seemed unaware of the effect he had on people. Many of
the nurses who cared for him at Bridgeport Hospital and Cambridge
Manor would say to me, “He’s so cute.” When I told him that,
his reply was “horsefeathers,” his strongest curse word.
His
support and strength have meant everything. When the surgical team
was wheeling him into the operating room to repair his hip two days
after he fell, we held and squeezed hands right up to the OR door.
When finally I had to let go and walk away, one of the team called
back, “He’s lucky to have you.” I replied, “No, I’m lucky
to have him.”
