A Eulogy

Russell Smith (1940-2005)

Russ had no children of his own, but his sisters, Wilifred and June, gave him eight nephews, one niece, twelve grand nieces and nephews, and a great grand niece and nephew—nearly two dozen Corks and Fords, Lopezes and Arnolds, who called him "Uncle Russ."

I'm Bill Cork, Wilifred is my mother, and I'm the oldest of the nephews. I've been asked to share with you some of our combined reflections.

Yesterday, I took my brothers and sister on a tour of some significant places in our family history. We went to Ansonia, where our grandfather, Frederick William Smith was born to Frederick William Smith and Domithilde LeBlanc. When my grandfather, known as Bill, was five, his mother died of tuberculosis. His father abandoned him and his sisters, and they ended up in Mt. Carmel Children's Home. The building still stands, high on a hill overlooking Mt. Carmel. We stopped there yesterday, too.

Bill languished in the orphanage after his older sisters were able to leave. He learned skills that would serve him well in later life; he learned to cane chairs and to play the trumpet, but he only got out when he joined the army at the beginning of World War I. He returned with a chestful of medals including purple hearts for wounds from shrapnel and mustard gas—but none for those wounds sometimes carried by vets which lay deep and hidden. He stayed in the army for some years after the war, playing French horn and trumpet in the band, and was often called upon to play taps at funerals at Arlington National Cemetery, to honor his fellow veterans.

When he got out he worked odd jobs, married, had a son, and soon divorced. He later met Gladys, whom he called Glady. They were married in 1937, and he found a little white house at 76 Ives Street in Mt. Carmel, outside of which he hung a sign, "Chair Caning."

Bill and Gladys had three children; he would have loved to have continued the family tradition and name his son Frederick or William, but their first born was a girl, and so he named her Wilifred—Wilifred Alberta. Then came a son, Russelll Richard—his mom called him "Bunny," because as a baby he was so soft and cuddly. Finally came a daughter, June Alison.

Bill never recovered from his war injuries, either the physical or the psychic. He had frequent stays in the VA hospital, and died in 1961 on his way back for another visit. He, too, was 65. By that time Russ had left home to join the Navy—he was 19; Wilifred was 23, June was 16. As the family grew with marriages and children, we all lived together in that little house for a time; Russ is said to have exclaimed, "It's so crowded here it's like Ma and Pa Kettle's"—after that, everyone called Gladys, "Ma."
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My grandfather died a few months before I was born, but I think I can see glimpses of him in Russ. He taught Russ the repair of furniture—and perhaps it was his own woundedness that taught Russs the importance of looking after our veterans. Bill's alienation from some of his family taught Russ the importance of maintaining ties, despite the distance.

One of Russ's friends, and ours, Mike Mele, has said on many occasions that Russs was the smartest guy he knew. "He could build you a house, refinish the furniture, and then sit you down and serve you a gourmet meal he had cooked."

Uncle Russ defined the term, "Jack of all trades." He was a carpenter, an electrician, a roofer, a plumber, he could put up siding and gutters, install or repair your heating system, make fishing nets, and weave rush and cane seats. He enjoyed fishing and clamming, gardening and making pickles, and could smile and joke while pouring concrete.

But more than that, he loved sharing these skills and crafts with us. He had the gift of being a patient teacher. He had an enthusiasm for the things he enjoyed, and he passed that on to us. A rite of spring for two generations of nephews was the first day of fishing season, which began with breakfast before the short walk down to the Mill River.

He always had time for his family, whether the form of a quick visit while he was in the garden, a summer stay, a phone call, e-mails with his favorite jokes, or visits to us in our scattered homes from Illinois to Germany.

He was generous with his gifts, from bags of quarters to some at Christmas to work on homes. Some spoke of feeling embarrassed that Russ was doing so much, and had moments when they thought they'd call another plumber for this job, another carpenter for that—that was the kind of thing that would spark his wrath. "Call me. I'll do it. I want to do it."

He had a great sense of humor, whether through playing a practical joke or teasing. We grew up hearing stories of the time that he and his sisters stuck peanut butter and crackers on the nose of their sleeping father—and running for cover when he roared to life.

I heard yesterday of a time when he dropped a live lobster into a woman's lap, and laughed uproariously.

Yet this jokester was also the epitome of the strong silent type. He sometimes spoke in grunts—but those grunts carried more meaning in their subtle inflections than entire speeches spoken by others. And he picked up more than he let on at times. Yesterday I heard repeatedly that he was constantly telling his friends about all of us, about our accomplishments and our lives.

Russ taught us much about love, not only in his relationships with us, but in his relationships with two women. Those of us who knew him in his twenties and thirties marveled at the transformation that came when he met Barbara. They weren't kids, but they sometimes could act like it. I'll never forget the sight of them on the dance floor at their wedding—a moment of joy and magic that gave way to years of ordinary life, in which she joined Russ in his love and generosity to us.

Barbara's illness showed us another side of Russ, of steadfast devotion in the most difficult of circumstances. He taught us how to grieve. He showed us that tough guys do cry.

The time following Barbara's death was a dark time in Russ's life, but we learned from him that life goes on, must go on; that though we must not and cannot forget those who meant so much to us, and can never replace them, we can, nevertheless, find continued meaning in life through those virtues that St. Paul tells us endure through all things: hope, love, and faith.

Faith led Russ to the final stage of his life, a life that in these last years has turned him ever more outward, ever more giving himself to others.

We have told many stories to each other about Uncle Russ this week, and these are the major themes we kept coming back to. Russ was a man who was gifted, and generous with his affection, his time, and his gifts to us, loved as an uncle—even as another father. Yet he was humble, and didn't go telling others about what he was doing. He did it quietly, for his own joy and ours.

I remember as a child of three or four idolizing my uncle the fireman. There's a picture of me trying on his hat, and being hoisted with both of my legs in one of his giant boots. I had a collection of fire trucks and loved visiting him at the firehouse. I remember being hospitalized at the age of three for an operation; lots of people visited and brought presents, but I remember one—the giant Tonka dump truck he gave me. I remember when he had a pony cart, and gave Russ, Pam and me a ride.

I remember when he came out to Illinois when I was a teenager and lived with us for several months. He returned for a visit a couple years later accompanied by Walter Ford; they decided to make us lasagna, one of Russ's specialties, but Walt had a fit at the grocery store when they discovered that they didn't sell Ricotta cheese. I won't tell you what Walt said (not now, anyway), but Russ was petrified – "Shut up Walter! You're gonna get us thrown out or arrested!!"

In high school I came back and stayed with him and Ma for a summer, and then for half a year after my graduation. These were great times filled with memories of fun with my cousins and him; clamming in Rhode Island, fishing in the Mill River, painting the house. He got me a job with his old friend Billy Scott. He got me a bicycle so I could get to work. He introduced to me to Mike Mele, and took me and Walter and my cousin Russ to help pour the concrete for the basement of Mike's cabin.

These few examples are my own memories, but they echo what he did for each of us. He would sometimes tell me, after a drink or two, that I was the nephew most like him. But I wasn't the only one he said that to.

As we look at each other today, we see many traits that Russ passed on to us. His sense of duty, of service, of patriotism, were among his greatest gifts. He received these gifts from his dad, Bill, after whom I was named, who was so proud of his World War I service, and from his great-grandfather, Joseph Crowther, who fought with distinction with the 128th New York Infantry in the Civil War at Cedar Creek and Fisher's Hill. Russ carried on this tradition; he joined the Navy, and served on the carriers Forrestal and Independence. He then served the local community for many years as a fireman. My cousin Russ followed in his steps as a firefighter; my side of the family went the military route; I was an Army chaplain, one of my brothers an Army clerk, another an Air Force avionics technician; my sister married a Vietnam Vet who later re-upped with the Army and went airborne; two of her sons are now active duty with the Army, one in Iraq and the other in Afghanistan.

Russ's patriotism and generosity combined in the aftermath of 9-11 to spur him to selfless and constant action on behalf of the American Legion and military men and women of this country. He taught us being a Legionnaire is not simply to be a member of a club that hangs out at the post, but is to be devoted to acting consistently on the ideals we learned in the military: Duty, Honor, Country. I was last out for a visit this past April, and he grew excited when I told him I had joined the Legion. He began to tell me of the projects he was involved in, of sponsoring a speaker in an oratorical contest, of preparing packages for the troops (including my two nephews), of making himself available to their families. This is what he was doing when he died. My Legion membership to date has consisted of little more than paying my dues for three years. Reflecting on his generous service, I thought of that picture of me swallowed up in his giant boot. He was a man who walked in very large boots, and none of us fit them completely. But like kids playing with their dad's shoes, we, each in our own way, have slipped his boots onto our feet and are trying to follow in his steps.

We're proud of him. His passing has brought tears to the eyes of even his nephews with graying hair—and he'd say that's OK. Tough men can cry.

We love him and we miss him.

Rest eternal grant him O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon him.