Before I start, I'd like to preface my remarks with gratitude: for my family, of course, my sister, Lynda, Uncle Jeff, Aunt Gretchen, their children, ... and their children, Sissy, the Verandah staff and residents, Lonelle and the staff at the Johnson Funeral Home, but especially to Beki. If you know me, and you know Beki, as most of you do not, then you know what an honor, and what great trust Beki has placed in me in asking me to speak in these closing remarks. And, if you look at Beki, and I ask you do look at her, you will see her power, poise, grace, and dignity, and kindness.
Hello, I'm Doug Auclair, the shy and quiet son of Paula.
I'm going to ask those of you who are willing, to indulge me for three seconds. In a moment, I'm going to become my dad, so, when I ask you to close your eyes, I'd like you to see in your mind me step away from the podium, and a guy who looks and talks and acts almost exactly like me, because I am my dad, except he's 50-100 pounds lighter and he has this lady-killer baby-blues for eyes, so, now, please, close your eyes for three seconds, and let my dad read this letter to my mom.
Hello, I'm Rod Auclair, please open your eyes. I really appreciate you all coming to this gathering. I'd like to take a moment or two of your time and read this letter.
"Dearest Paula,
About 12 years ago I began a letter to you, but did not finish the first sentence.
I had just come back from being with you in Lake Charles while you were going through chemotherapy. You came through those uncertain times, and I took for granted you would outlive me. Once again, and to my regret, you showed me how little I know. But what I do know, and do treasure, are those moments, those memories, you – funny, smart, beautiful you – gave me.
Your first postcard when I was stationed in Thule, Greenland: "Happy Fathers' Day, you no-good bum!" in large print for all the postal chain to read. Your croaky voice on our first telephone call over the complicated military communication network by way of the Presidio Army Base, high above San Francisco, as you were just recovering from a tonsillectomy. The way you would bump me sideways while we walked along, just to make sure I was listening. Introducing me to a grasshopper for dessert at our magical dinner at the top of the Mark.
You, in your glorious hand-made by your friend wedding gown, and me, so proud, in my white and black mess dress officer's uniform at our wedding.
You and me, blushing, when I asked Father as he witnessed and blessed our vows by saying, a little too evilly, "May I kiss her now?" and he smiled, shook his head and said: "Not just yet."
You, so game, about our 3rd floor walk-up apartment on 77 Ann Street, in Newburgh, New York, directly across the street from the city police station where the chief, at the behest of the Mother Superior of Mount Saint Mary's College, where I stopped and asked if I could stay the night, had suggested that I ask the chief of police to stay in the pokey, that was five years earlier on a bicycle trip cross-country from Connecticut to Illinois and back. Talk about deja vu!
That look on our faces as nurse told us in the elevator to: "Say goodbye for now!" as you got on to go upstairs and give birth to our son, Douglas, in April, 1967, seven days before your birthday.
Those tears of joy, release, and amazement when we were together to bring a cranky, bawling, bloody, eyes-shut Rebecca into the world September, 1970, only ten days after my own birthday.
Our two children and your daughter, Lynda, so bright, so beautiful, so different. We are so blessed!
I am grateful for all you brought to all our lives. For the way you gave me insight and perspective into what is just, what is inclusive, boorish, redundant, wise or insensitive.
Two thoughts, and then I'll let you go. One is from Thornton Wilder in his book "The Bridge of San Luis Rey": "There is a bridge between the living and the dead, and that bridge is love." And one from St. Thomas More: "Pray for me, and I for thee, that we may meet in heaven, pritheely."
Much love from,
a no-good bum"
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