Remembering Charlie: December 27, 1915 - January 6, 2017

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 18^th, 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 75^th 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.”