The Eulogy

I'm still a bit shocked that my dad, Bill Thorsby, could have passed away so suddenly last Wednesday night. At 82, he was lead trumpet for the Beethoven German Band in San Antonio and passed away during band practice. His band mates said he finished a solo, rearranged some music, sat back and then leaned to the side. A trained paramedic seated right next to him caught him and tried everything to revive him until the ambulance arrived. But nothing worked. He died of a heart attack. I'm in San Antonio with my mom, sisters and brother. Thank you all so much for your sweet comments, emails, calls and Facebook messages — I feel your love and support. I was crazy about him. We all were. This is the eulogy I gave during his service this past Saturday: On behalf of my mother, my sisters and brother, our spouses and children, we very much appreciate your coming. And we know why you wanted to be here with us. My dad was truly one of the sweetest people on the planet. His generosity. His unfailing faithfulness and devotion. His impeccable manners and consideration of everyone else before himself. His smile, his laugh — his face and his whole body would shake when he'd get so tickled. It was just contagious. His adoration for his wife. His love and enthusiasm for his children and his grandchildren. His family and friends. He was just one of those rare people all of us loved and admired, and all of us wish we were more like. He had a long life — though not long enough. He had a big life, and would often reminisce about growing up with two brothers and two sisters of his own in St. Charles, Mich. He was always a worker. He'd earn nickels and quarters working in a grocery store. Or as a golf caddy. He worked at his father's dog kennel – he even showed award-winning Springer Spaniels from Thorsdale Kennels — we have all his ribbons and trophies. He was drafted and served almost two years in the Army in WWII. He served in the 33rd Infantry Division in the Philippines and the 25th Infantry Division in Japan. Some memories of the war he would tell us about, others he would not. He earned his chemistry degree from the University of Michigan on the GI bill, playing his trumpet in the Michigan marching band. And he met mom when he was just 17, married her at 22 and had Linda Lee, his firstborn, while finishing his degree. He worked as a chemist for Firestone Tire — a job that took his new family to Buenos Aires, Argentina — quite a change for my mom, who grew up on a historic Maryland farm. While in Argentina, they gave birth to Susan Elizabeth and then William Collinson, "Bill," and continued their globe-trotting lifestyle in Firestone communities like Christchurch, New Zealand and Lisbon, Portugal. After 11 years abroad, they returned to the United States and had me, Mary Carol, in Akron, Ohio, and dad continued to move us to several communities throughout the South including Tupelo, Miss., Waco, Texas, and Mayfield, Ky., before retiring to San Antonio — a city he loved, with a calendar filled with activities including band practice, his favorite hobby. As a younger man, dad was quite the athlete. He was captain of his high school football team — president of his senior class, too. He played all sorts of sports, he loved hunting and fishing, he was into jogging before Nike even invented the swoosh, and he loved music. Playing music, listening to music. He was handsome. I remember the two of them getting all dressed up for parties — mom in some sparkly long dress, he in a tuxedo. I thought they were the most glamorous couple in the world. He had nicknames for us all. Linda was Rubia, which means blonde in Spanish. Susan was Doll, because she's a doll. Bill was Bud or Champ and I was BooBoo, and more recently, he called me the Little One. When I'd call and he'd answer the phone, he'd say to mom, "It's the Little One." Which when you're always wishing away a few pounds was quite the confidence boost. He and mom paid for our educations, our first cars, they moved us in and out of dorm rooms, apartments — and they've taken great interest in how our lives have unfolded, our careers, our homes of our own — and, the pinnacle of his life, his grandchildren. Dad was extremely active in every community where he took us — the Rotary Club, the Masons, the Shrine, all sorts of bands — he loved the Beethoven Band. Professionally, everyone loved him. He was a pioneer in labor/management relations, running the Mayfield, Ky. General Tire plant at its production peak. I've had several people in my nearby home of Paducah speak so highly of him from his General Tire days in Mayfield. Last year, one gentleman actually teared up, telling me about how much he loved working for dad. Here in San Antonio, he opened one of the first maquiladora plants right across the border in Piedras Negras. He made a difference everywhere he went. In our family, we'll remember dad for his pocket full of $20 bills clipped together. His collection of baseball caps. That ever present black tube of Chapstick — "Pappy's Goop," as we called it. He bought his cars with cash and he alphabetized and cross referenced his hundreds of file folders that filled his upstairs conservatory only to spill into drawers and cabinets in bathrooms, bedrooms, hallways and anywhere else he could find a spot. My two favorite rooms at the house are his conservatory, which is really just a little room with all his stuff in it, and the garage — he has bits of memories hanging all over the walls. He never threw anything away. He always had extra duffle bags, T-shirts, golf balls, socks, batteries, stamps — whatever you'd need, he had it and he'd give it to you. At Christmastime he'd put on a Santa hat and kneel down beside the tree with all the presents and make quite a big production of reading each nametag and handing out the gifts. He'd never read the cards just right and always got the names mixed up. And there aren't that many of us. But it became a funny tradition, and the gifts always got to their intended recipients. Our family trips each summer— most recently, the cruises — those were when he was in his element. He loved to be by the pool, or better yet, on a raft in the pool, covered in glistening suntan oil. I'll never forget entering him in the Mr. Sexy Legs contest on one of the cruises. He won by a landslide. He was always up for pageants and skits. He was the orchestra and the rest of us each had various parts to play. Early on we'd do Christmas pageants that we even tape-recorded. We morphed into the GW Players, named after him, George William, with his 70th birthday being, perhaps, our greatest performance. He loved to tape record things. He even tape-recorded birthday and Christmas greetings from his grandchildren when they were barely old enough to speak. He was an original, and he just loved being around family. He and mom were with the four of us every step of the way — gently nudging us back when he thought we were straying into territory that didn't seem quite right. The fact that on the one hand, he could tell a long and entertaining story and then on the other hand remain very quiet was always a bit of a mystery to me. I'd get excited whenever I could see the mood strike him enough to tell a story or share his thoughts about a particular topic. But he also had a way of saying so very much without saying anything at all. If he didn't want to contribute to an off-kilter conversation, he just wouldn't. He didn't just speak for the sake of speaking. Dad chose his words — and his timing — so wisely and so carefully. And to me, that was one of his greatest gifts. He never said a bad word about anyone. Well, maybe Hillary Clinton. And Bill Clinton. But I don't recall one conversation with him where there were hurt feelings or regretful statements — certainly none that he made. He was our greatest motivator and our greatest cheerleader. So many times we'd go to him overwhelmed for advice, and he'd simply say in that confident way he had, "Oh, well, you can do that. That's right up your alley. Why sure, that's…you can do it." And then when there was something he felt wasn't worth our fuss, he'd clear his throat and suggest: "Can't you get something more constructive on your mind?" It's amazing to me how his simplest of words would have the most dramatic effect on us all. We were lucky to have had him leading the way for us. We have mutual memories, and very individual and very special experiences with him. He was so crazy about all of us, and we certainly for him. Mom. It was wonderful growing up with the two of you. You're so beautiful, and he adored you so much. Your happiness was his happiness. Your pain was his pain. And anyone lucky enough to find unconditional love in this world is truly blessed. I don't know why he had to leave us now. You're now ours and we're going to take care of you the way he would want us to. Many people are reminding us, well he died doing what he loved. He died at band practice. And I suppose that's true. He loved doing so many things, and he always showed to us such a positive outlook, spirit and lovely way with people that seemed to come so naturally to him. Pappy is our reminder that there are many, many things for us to enjoy and do, so that when it's our time, we will have lived our lives as well as he lived his. He died doing something he loved surrounded by his fellow musicians. And I'm absolutely sure he died knowing how much every single one of us loved him and adored him. And that certainly should give us great solace. We will miss him. And we will see him again.

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