The apple's proximity to the tree

The apple and the tree: seeds planted by parental example....

The Parent As A Child

Planted pinks on the parent’s graves last week. Both died in May, 30 plus years apart.  Usually I go with geraniums. Couldn't find any. Too early, or out of fashion, I guess.  

This post is about Mom, who died just shy of 87 years old. She was a life long Republican, but oddly, something of a social liberal who leaned left as she aged, who admired Hillary Clinton.

For 25 years Mom worked as what they now call an "admin" at a state police troop and then when they moved that troop out of town, she worked for a few years at a second one that was closer. She was a discrete and loyal an employee as they could hope, never spoke about work things at home. There was a little hint once.  

While working at the barracks she got a call for jury duty, Years afterwards she said the case involved a motorcycle accident and she relayed a few of the jury selection questions. Had she ever ridden a motorcycle or knew anyone who had? Why yes, her husband. Before they married they rode around on an old Indian machine until they were hit by a car.  Hmm. Because of her job, they asked another question.  Would she always take the word of a police officer over anyone else's?  That would depend, Mom said, on which police officer.  She was dismissed, not sure which side objected.

 Mom had a regular New Years Day Open house and invited relatives, friends and associates from work to stop by. Among the annual attendees was a police dispatcher named Minnie who was usually the only black face in the crowd. Minnie commented on this each year, and she was pretty comedic about it.  To help us see it from her point of view, Minnie invited Mom to a summer barbecue at her house in Bridgeport where Mom would be the only white face in the crowd. Mom agreed to go and asked me to drive.  We were indeed a minority of two. And we were treated  as all Minnie's friends and kin were treated: with mint ice tea and welcoming smiles.  We stayed all afternoon and went away slightly changed.  

It wasn't the first time Mom surprised me. Years before there had been a gay member of the police auxiliary who invited folks from the barracks over to his house for lunch. This was many years ago, another time really and not one of the officers  agreed to go, so the boss asked Mom and the troops only police woman to go. On the day, even the police woman backed out. Unwilling to be so rude, Mom went to his luncheon by herself. 

I was in my early 20s maybe - and I'm afraid I didn't even know what gay was at the time..  She explained without fuss or judgement, very matter-of-factly that it was when certain men liked other men instead of girls, that this man lived with a male friend, and it was like they were married.  She said he was a lovely man, lunch was very nice and she was sad for her host that no one else went. 

There was another thing as well - Mom never voluntarily went to church unless there was a wedding or funeral involved.

I asked her about this several times over the years. She always told me she didn't know what she believed. In later years I pressed her and she said she didn't know if she could know if there were a god or not. Maybe there was maybe there wasn't.  Yet she told me didn't want to fight about it or even think much about it. If someone said 'pray for me,'  she would nod sympathetically.  She would never tell them. And now that she is gone, none of them really believe me. Oh well.

Poem A Week No 1 - At your funeral mass

At your funeral mass
Poem for Peter S. & for Elaine, Sharon, Dan & Nate

.
I am not listening to the priest
not looking towards the altar.
Not saying the words.
I stand up, sit down
when told, but no
song no words come forth at all,
no call and response.
I listen to the resonant soprano singing,
the echo of it in the empty space above.
I look sidelong, avoid the casket in the center isle
hidden under a white cloth and a symbol
that means nothing to me now.
I try to look right through the
vivid stained glass scenes.
I notice the intense blue
red, green, not the figures
or the stories they portray.
I wish instead I could see the sky
or a river, the sea or a mountain
a tree bright in the daylight
beyond those windows.
Or you on the lake in your sail boat
with your boys, family, friends
and your ready nonchalant smile.

This poem is for the exhusband of a good friend who's unexpected death caused a lot of stock taking. First of the group to fall as they say. It's not that we were particularly close - it's that he is my age I guess and I remember him from his hey day. The photo is from someone else's facebook post. I hope they don't mind. 

Things can change so suddenly

Thinks sure took a turn since April. Not with the program even yet though I guess I will eventually be okay.

In May, we found out Mom was at the end stage of one of her conditions. Only 19 days later, under the gentile  in home care of hospice, she died just the way she had wanted to go - at home. Not many get that wish. It was the hardest, saddest month of my life and June was a close second to it.

We didn't have a service right off. To accommodate various folks who wanted to attended but had some problems with timing, Mom's graveside memorial service wasn't for another month, finally held in the middle of June.  It was a service full of difficult poems, thoughtful metaphor, woven together by Master Integral Coach Reggie Marra who officiated. My cousin Jim did a really stellar job on the eulogy, commemorating Mom, not as she was most recently - but as she was in her hey day.  And then there was music by fellow poet and songwritter, Shijin member, former director of the CT Folk Festival - Alice Anne Harwood Sherill. Amazing Grace and Simple Gifts. I cried and cried.

I am doing okay. Finding out what I have to do. Frankly when nobody is around my face is still stuck in deadpan - even when I am not feeling badly - it seems to be the underlying condition for now. I take little steps. I carry little boxes. I breathe in. I breathe out. One foot follows the other. And so it goes.

Can't say enough good things about Regional Hospice and Home Care. I couldn't have lived through May without them. Hugs to everyone.

Poet Guss Stepp

I've been thinking about Poet Guss Stepp who died in 2007. I always have wondered how his name came to be spelled that way, but I guess I am never going to know that now. I didn't know him well but admired his work. He always had a great smile and something engaging to read at his featured readings and at open mics. He sent poems to me when I was editor of Bent Pin Quarterly and subsequently died before he could see his work online in Bent Pin. Today I thought I would collect and offer some links.

Guss Stepp on Wednesday Night Poetry's archive:

http://wedpoetrypast.wordpress.com/tag/guss-stepp/

Guss Stepp passing noted on Stamford Writes:

http://www.stamfordwrites.org/tw/tiki-view_articles.php?find=&topic=&type=&offset=30&sort_mode=publishDate_desc

Guss Stepp's work in Bent Pin Quarterly:

        1)  Existance

        2) The Blues is

        3) Looking For Vincient

        4) The Ghosts Of Halloween

Dan DeRosa - good memories linger

Tonight at Weds. Night Poetry we will be remembering a local poet, and a former WNPS host Dan DeRosa - funny warm young man. I kidded him once that he had a dangerous smile which if trained on the polar ice caps would melt them right away.  That was after he had smiled at someone sad at Molten Java and they lit up like a Broadway marque. His smile told people it was okay to be themselves. He was everyone's friend or brother. Had an uncompromising positive attitude and great compassion towards the autistic and everyone else too.


When he graduated from Western CT State University in 2009,there was a graduation party (see photo at the right) and then at the end of the summer WNPS held a good-bye party for him, as he was off to grad school in Florida. For his going away present - he got to be the poetry feature for the evening. During the open mike portion we roasted him with poems and stories.

For my part, I wrote him a song, "Dangerous Dan" I had it up on Youtube at that time but later took it down because I was a bit horse the day I taped it and hoped to make a better version. I never did naturally. So here is the original verison once again from YouTube. The lyrics are posted below also. Dan died suddenly of cardiac related problems at only 33 years of age. He was a man who embraced life, took it on his own terms, who cared for everyone around him. May we all live even half as well.

 Dangerous Dan 

Dangerous Dan is going away to Florida
Dangerous Dan is leaving this cold state behind
He's going where the water's rising
he'll do well and that's not surprising
Dangerous Dan is a man still in search of his life.

Dangerous Dan is driving the road to his future
and being a poet, he's mapping it out verse by Verse
Life's a poetry slam of four score ten
Practice, edit, the do it again
Blend it into something inspiring no matter the score

Dangerous Dan has a smile like a bright summer day
His smile tells the world You can be who you are
He'll poem on some other page,
Dangerous Dan is turning the page and we'll see
what he will be

Dangerous Dan is going away to Florida
The King of Haiku will soon be expanding the form
We'll miss his wit and that dangerous mouth
 Think of us when you're in the south
Let wisdom guide all your rhyme
You can come back anytime.

Memorial Concert for Sergei Vladimiroff, pianist, woodsman, grandpa

This post was updated on April 7, and April 12, 2011.

A musical tribute and celebration of the life of Sergei Vladimiroff of Brooklyn NY took place at the Valley Presbyterian Church in Brookfield CT on Saturday, March 26.

Players included  Natalya Shamis (violin), Bonnie Aher (violin), Zarchary Paranyuk (cello), Maragrita Nuller (piano), soprano Patricia Hulber, and Sergei's son Maxim (piano). The program, which was played with great skill and deep feeling, included Tchaikovsky's prelude "Autumn Song" Opus 37, "If we live in the spirit" by Clement W Barker, the Largo from the Sonata in C Minor (BWV 1017) by J.S. Bach, two Rachmaninoff works "Moment Musical" Op 16 #1 and "Daisies" Op 38 #3 and finally Sonata for violin and piano in F minor by Eugene Ysaye.

In addition Sergei's two grandsons dedicated performances to their gandpa - Damian on guitar and Luca on piano - both displaying the musicality and feeling of fine beginning musicians. During the Remembrances many spoke of their fond memories of Sergei including Tatyana his wife, with Max translating from the Russian.  Sergei  "would have clapped very loudly," one of his grandsons said of the performances.

Concert pianist, woodsman, showman, grandfather - Sergei died in the midst of living - of  a sudden heart attack while riding the city subway on his way to the beach on March 15, 2011. He was well known in this area as a concert pianist, having performed at the Danbury Music Center on quite a few occassions. For the past ten years he served as organist at First Church of Christ Scientist Katonah.

The official bio:

A native of Klintzi (Ukraine) Sergei Vladimiroff spent his childhood in Saratov, a major port on the Volga river. He began studying piano with his mother, and later became a pupil of Dmitri Serov. While a student at the Saratov Conservatory of Music, he met Tatyana, who at that time was attending Saratov State University. The two of them married in 1962, and a few years later moved to Sochi, a resort town on the Black Sea coast. Sergei worked as a pianist in the local Philharmonic Society, and Tatyana became a TV commentator and producer. They had two sons, Maxim and Frol. During the last decade of his life, Sergei worked as a ballet accompanist at the Steffi Nossen School of Dance in White Plains, NY, and served as an organist at the First Church of Christ Scientist in Katonah, NY. He gave a number of solo piano recitals at different venues, including the Danbury Music Centre and the Valley Presbyterian Church.

He is survived by his wife  Tatyana, two sons, composer Maxim Vladimiroff (and his wife Leisa), of Brookfield, CT and Frol Vladimiroff of Sochi, Russia, and two grand sons Damian and Luca.

Besides his musical endeavors, Sergei was an avid woodsman who loved life, loved to keep moving. He enjoyed leading his grandsons on hikes though the woods, and also taking extended hunting expeditions to wilderness areas. "His hunting trips could fill up a whole chapter," his son Maxim said this week. "Everything he did, he did with great enthusiasm. He will be greatly missed."

The  70 minutes from memory recital Sergei gave on his 70th birthday with photos.

A News Times  review of Sergei's All-Russian-Composers program from Oct 2008

Read about a joint concert with Sergei and Maxim

A Review of an All Chopin program Sergei played in 2007

A Wonderful Slammer: Anne Marie Marra

Anne Marie Marra (June 25, 1953 - March 17, 2009)

We have lost a bright and mercurial presence in the world.

Anne Marie Marra, a fine slam poet, member of the White Plains Library National Slam Team in 2008, a quilt-artist, singer and a holder of an interdisciplinary Master's Degree with a concentration in Creativity, is now giving readings in the 'great beyond' of our memory. She will be missed very much by those left behind. National Slam Poet Anne Marie Marra, seen at the right performing during the 2008 National Slam competition, was a quilt artist, slam poet, wild child, a whirlwind. Anne Marie, also known as ArtisAnneMarie, held a master's in creativity from Vermont College.  She died March 17, 2009 at her Putnam Valley home in New York State. Anne Marie was just a few months shy of her 56th Brithday.

Born to Bridget Eufemia and Reginald A. Marra, Anne Marie was a multi-talented artist She graduated from Sacred Heart High School in Yonkers, studied at Parsons School of Design in New York City, and earned a B.S. in Community and Human Services from Empire State College/SUNY and an M.A. in Interdisciplinary Studies from Vermont College. In order to embrace her life as a musician, singer, painter, poet and quilt-maker, she held a number of administrative and supervisory positions at New York University, College of New Rochelle, Consumer Reports and Empire State College.

The official bio says: "Anne Marie Marra, 55, a resident of Putnam Valley, passed away in her home on March 17, 2009. Born to Bridget Eufemia and Reginald A. Marra, Anne Marie was a multi-talented artist. She graduated from Sacred Heart High School in Yonkers, studied at Parsons School of Design in New York City, and earned a B.S. in Community and Human Services from Empire State College/SUNY and an M.A. in Interdisciplinary Studies from Vermont College. In order to embrace her life as a musician, singer, painter, poet and quilt-maker, she held a number of administrative and supervisory positions at New York University, College of New Rochelle, Consumer Reports and Empire State College. Most recently, Anne Marie's poetry found her reading at venues in New York and Connecticut. She was one of the rotating hosts of the 3rd-Friday Open Readings at the Hudson Valley Writers Center in Sleepy Hollow, and she competed in Wisconsin at the National Poetry Slam this past August, as a member of the 2008 White Plains Poetry Slam team. Anne Marie is survived by one brother, Reggie Marra, of Naugatuck, CT, his wife, Marianela Medrano-Marra, and their son, Noe Jimenez."

 The funeral took place on Monday March 23, 2009 at Whalen & Ball Funeral Home, 168 Park Avenue, Yonkers, NY 10703. Bural followed at at Mt. Hope Cemetery, Hastings-on-Hudson, NY. A life-celebration for Anne Marie on June 27, 2009 was held at the home of Reggie Marra & Marianela Medrano-Marra in Naugatuck. It was well attended.

About the photos: At the top, AM performing her Colonoscopy poem at the 2008 National Slam in Madison WI, photo by teammate James Joseph Buhs. AM reading a poem at Molten Java in Bethel CT, Then two team photos one in front of the Bowery Poetry Club and one in front of the Lizard Lounge, and below: AM in front of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, AM singing a love song at Dangerfields.

A poet lost... Terence Stewart McLain (Terry)

The late Terence Steward McLain: 5/24/51 to 11/24/08  was a poet and a host of the Wednesday Night Poetry Series (which at that time met at Molten Java in Bethel, CT), and a fan of poetry readings around the area.

 Terry joined the series around 2003 or 2004, proved himself to be a a caring individual and a man who thought deeply about both life and poetry. He often read not only his own surreal poetry, but poems by vetted “great” poets of many schools and would offer biographical sketches of the poets along with their poems.

 He was a former exec at a relocation company, then at an online electronics re-seller for a time before experiencing the leading edge of the great economic downturn beginning in 2008.  He was divorced, and had two sons he spoke of with great love.

During his time at Wedpoetry  he lived in what he called, “the stony ex-urbs of CT” in the “penthouse of a stable” where two goats, five horses, and six cats also lived. He occassionally putup out-of-state poets like Jack McCarthy at his diggs there. Terry was a member of the Marathon Critique and attended the Housatonic Friends Society. His death at 57 years of age, in Nov. of 2008 left us all scratching our heads, blowing our noses and wondering why. 

His obituary reads: Terence Stewart McLain passed away unexpectedly, November 24 at the age of 57. Terry was born in Duluth, Minnesota on May 24, 1951 and then moved to Des Moines Iowa where he attended school.  After high school, Terry attended Coe College and received a history degree. Terry worked for many years in the relocation industry and later at Cyberian Outpost as a product manager. Throughout his life, Terry enjoyed playing and coaching basketball, as well as coaching soccer for his sons’ teams. In addition to sports, Terry developed a deep love for poetry and enjoyed writing and sharing his poetry with others. He was also an active member of the Toastmaster’s Club for many years. Terry was a loving and devoted father to his sons Kevin and Gregory of New Fairfield. He is survived by, his mother, Ailie McLain, of Minneapolis MN, his sister Judy (Bob) Dannenberg, of Burlington, Wisconsin, and Sarah McLain, the mother of his boys. Terry will be missed by his nieces and nephews in WI, VT and CT. He will also be missed by his close friends at the Molten Java Poetry Group and members of the Quaker Meeting Community.  Terry was predeceased by his father, Fred McLain.

Click here for the post with extensive comment on the Wedpoetry blog which contains a photo of  a comfort quilt maybe a few of the wed poets for Terry's girlfriend Pamela Yager.

A private funeral for family was held the week that Terry died at the St. Stephen's Episcopal Church in Ridgefield, CT. Click here to visit the Cornell Memorial Website where you can read the obituary and light a virtual candle. A large memorial meeting held for Terry several months later at the New Milford Society of Friends Meeting house. It was attended by many area poets and by his friends at the meeting society.

The Window Accepts Its Brick

a poem by Terry McLain

Kiss me with all your approaching difference,

as you yourself keep arriving to me,

potent like the stone you’re not,

approximately edged like my rectangle

but with a roughed-up surface and

some necessity I have never met before.

.

Can you see me? A subtler presence, maybe,

in this fluid familiar world, clear

but with reflections of sunlit leaves, lawns, and hedges,

street traffic and birds above.

You come closer, as certain as my stance,

with no reason for doubt.

But I think I still do.

===================================================

Apologies Not Accepted

a poem by Terry McLain

Never apologize

never say “sorry--this is a little poem”

when you mean this poem—“my poem

that I will now read”--something made

somewhere else, when it (the poem) is unaware

you would be reading it here, tonight. as if it

merely survives on paper

by the grace of me,

godlike, its deity and creator

judging it’s worthiness.

“sorry” implicates the audience

in this heresy, reveals

your willingness to ignore

the significance of your words

plucked by you from the universe of words—

you encourage us to ignore the hundred errands

you neglected to make this poem,

and that here, tonight, some word or words

you are about to read could change

someone who listens, who

will go home tonight with a new purpose,

living two generations away

from the inventor of healthy ice cream

or the orgasm bomb that will make armies

quaint and unnecessary.

when, later, historians consider how

this miracle happened, do you want

to be remembered as the one who

didn't understand the latencies in your poem?

to be forever derided for falling into that old trap

of saying sorry there will be no "peace in our time",

the "mission remains unaccomplished".

the germ might be hidden in a complaint about a boyfriend,

or the last time you kissed your mother,

or how teenage acne could be suffered easily

by retirees in group homes;

it might be an ode to a basketball, when

some words are united for the first time

and then get added to other lines of sublime words

until ignition so the genetic code of someone in this audience

moves north or west by a micron,

saying “yes” now to the future

saying “hold on for just a little longer”

and you want to apologize?

====================================================

My Easter poem…

Judas Tells All a poem by Terry McLain

Before there was blasphemy, there was only the narrative

without inspiration or instruction, without purpose

or a reason for understanding the final words

of this dying man cleaned of any honor he could still lose.

He remembers the final week of life with Jesus

and the palm-strewn Sunday they arrived, the hosannah cries.

He murmrus of a lifetime and how three years of miracles and ministry

disappeared when He walked through Jerusalem gates, remade

into a series of imperfect guesses no closer to who he was -

not the rebbe or the son of god, not the new king

feared by Roman and clergy, not the son of god asking

each disciple to see him as more than them

not the leader who needed Peter's awkward sword

or a man defined by his denials, not the man scourged and beaten,

mocked before Pilate and washing his hands

certainly not the criminal slowly dying, or the son and friend

too soon taken, or lover of mad wantons, strangely unable

suddenly to make a miracle that would save him.

He understood this somehow, he told me that he was prepared to die

to be everything and nothing for this imperfect world

terrified by the perfect god who judged them always.

His place on the edge, between all mistakes and the only place

where none might be, a soft cold light within each of us,

turned into each imperfect vision, named god's will

in all this. He told me to honor him by never denying who he was

no matter who asked me. And when I did, I called him master and

kissed his cheek in the garden because he had taught me to be true

to that and to be his servant in even this. I took the sack of coins defiantly

before grief tore into my resolve, too late to change what he insisted I do,

and when I threw it away, I felt no cleaner.

After he died, for two nights and one dark day I sat alone

hiding from those who would not understand what I had done,

hanging one of the corpses the Romans were so good at making,

so that I was made dead, already knowing that I had one more miracle

to witness. One more mystery to produce. Not knowing what or anything

but the loss of a friend already lost that last week.

Some might say the miracle was the strength to move that stone alone

or when he vanished forever, his body in a light bundle on my back

to be buried in a secret place in the desert.

I say the miracle was the damning one of personal sight that let me see--

that let me know my name was a new scourge used for any weak traitor

crucified by an imperfect world unable to see he was a vessel of light

no more than anyone else, no more than me.

Halloween 2008 at Wed Poetry

Memorial Garden: For Peter Vicinanza

Peter Vicinanza, a wonderful wry wit, a character in the very best sense of the word, also a writer and a supportive, intelligent and articulate reader of writing and poetry, and died a year ago, on Oct. 4, 2007.

He was remembered by many on Saturday evening at the one year anniversary of his death - at what I have to call the Magic Garden House. Now the backyard of this home already had many stately and venerable vines - plants that have a real presence and entangle arbors, archways and decks in a beautiful way, that were tended and preserved by the home's previous owner. But now --the font yard also holds amazement.

Peter's widow Faith, (poet Faith Vicinanza, of Mother Tongue, Shijin and Hanover Press) in her grief, threw herself into gardening and building garden paths. In the modest sized front yard of this suburban house- there are organically twisting walkways that double back on themselves creating intricate shapes in the process.

These paths enclose planting beds now filled with an amazing array of foliage, figures, garden decorations, oddly shaped rocks and paving stones. The yard is a living work of art, born from a wife's grief, expanded by contributions of plants and ornaments by friends.

.

On Saturday sixty or seventy people arrived, admired, talked, ate, remembered. Some of these performed a little ceremony of remembrance, not as a group but one by one. Faith had asked us each to write something to or for Peter, then to burn it in a metal container in the garden. "It's a very pagan ritual" she said and Peter who was an atheist would likely have appreciated it.

.

When everyone had left, Angel, Faith's grandson brought out his note for Grandpa. And the flames flickered and danced on Angel's note sending little shivers of sparks rising up into the night.

.

Peter we miss you.  Peter's Host entry on the WNPS Wedpoetry website:

The late Peter Vicinanza, who died Oct. 4, 2007, was a major sardonic wit who didn't believe in soft-pedaling reality. Peter often worked as a consultant, was an entrepreneur, a Vice-President of Information Technology at various corporations and a victim of multiple buyouts and take-overs with subsequent down-sizings. Around 1996 he took over hosting duties for a year to give his wife (WNPS founder Faith Vicinanza) a rest for a while when the series was still at Doctor Java's Caffeine Emporium in Bethel and she was its only host. Later, he was a willing participant in a 2,000 mile bicycling trek, an UtterFolly blogger, a poet & prose writer of memoir - particularly his days growing up in old New York. Peter's work has been in The Connecticut Review and in Bent Pin Quarterly. He was an honorary member of the Shijin-SubQ and we miss him still.

Read "The Fisherman," by Peter Vicinanza as it appeared in Bent Pin Quarterly

Boots & Sneakers: A Farewell to Rob Ayotte

This still life, which I did in a college class, is rendered in oil pastel. It makes me think of a friend, who recently died, who had the largest sneaker collection I have ever seen. There were fireworks somewhere a little while ago, and a band is playing across the street. Now though, it's 10:30pm. It has grown hot and sticky. The dog is nervous because of the fireworks. The cat is ignoring us as usual. There are sirens downtown. And I am thinking about the Rob: Robert Bryan Ayotte /

Hometown: Tonowanda, NY / United States You can visit  RememberingRob  on Youtube, a channel setup in his memory at http://youtube.com/RememberingRob It includes clips of some recitals, some from his choir & soloists and selections from his Master's recital for SUNY Binghamton (NY) played on the organ at the First Presbyterian Church there.

  The late Robert Bryan Ayotte, who was Director of Music and Organist for St Mary Parish for seven years, died at home in his Danbury apartment, and was found on June 4, 2008. He was only 34 years old.

Rob earned music performance degrees at SUNY Buffalo and SUNY at Binghamton. At the time of his death, he was in the last stages of earning a DMA in Organ Performance from the University of Indiana at Bloomington. Through the course of his studies, his applied keyboard teachers included Roland E. Martin, David Fuller, Jonathan Biggers, Marilyn Keiser and David Smith. He was known for his devoted work ethic, his skill as a choirmaster and organist, for his dry sense of humor, his generosity of spirit, his willingness to encourage colleagues, his love of chocolate chip cookies and brownies, and for his enormous collection of sneakers and boots.

Besides his work at St. Mary's, Rob served as membership registrar at the local chapter of the American Guild of Organists. He gave his last recital on May 20, 2008 at a Old St. Paul's Episcopal Church, in Baltimore, MD, where he played on a one-of-a-kind antique pipe organ. His is survived by his parents, Peter and Joanne Ayotte, a brother Eric (Shannon), as well as a neice Devin and a nephew, Joshua. He will be greatly missed by the members of his choir, his music staff, his colleagues in the organists guild and other musical organizations he had worked with, by his many friends from college, the clergy and parishioners, his friends at St Mary's. Rob's Funeral was held at St Mary's in June, and later on July 11, 2008 his ashes were interred at St Mary Cemetery. Rest in Peace, friend.