Daddy

My father died on July 5, 2005, over four years ago, but it is still difficult to write about him. The memories come flooding back and with them tears of grief. Perhaps he should have been the first entry in this blog, but emotions made that too difficult. Now, I feel the time is right.

Daddy was a worker. He worked hard at his job and at home. He was always busy; he enjoyed seeing things completed. He never went to college, but took a mechanical drafting class, and could read blueprints and plans. This gave him a great advantage after he left the Navy in 1946 and started working a a local shipyard in Charleston, S.C. He was soon promoted over men twice his age (a few of whom couldn't even read), and gained him a good reputation. He worked during the middle 1950s in construction at the Savannah River Nuclear Facility (the "bomb plant") near Augusta, GA, and his parents' home. He drove back and forth each day from Charleston to that job. When that job ended he went to work at a shipyard in Charleston, and eventually went to the Charleston Naval Shipyard, working on the boilers on nuclear submarines. He became Shop Foreman there, and then Nuclear Power Inspector. He made it to the top of his field because of his work ethic.

His work ethic also influenced the way he tackled any problem. If he knew it could be done, he also knew he could find a way to do it. He even confounded engineers by doing things they said couldn't be done. He helped rewrite the manuals on how to repair and maintain nuclear plants on submarines, because the engineers didn't get it right. After he bought a used GMC motor home, he installed a grease fitting on the front wheel bearings on it (and greatly increased their life span) when the GM engineers said it was impossible. Now many GMC motor coaches have those fittings because of Daddy.

He designed and built his own boat (a cabin cruiser that slept 4) in his garage, out of mahogany, bending the keel himself. He designed and built (sub-contracted) our house, a four-bedroom, three-bath tri-level with double garage and attached hot-house for his orchids. There are so many projects he completed that there just is not room - or memory - to mention them all.

He taught me to help people. He was always helping someone. He learned to repair home air conditioning systems, then helped other people with theirs. He was always helping to repair someone else's car or motor coach. When his health deteriorated (from all that asbestos in those boilers), his misery was that he couldn't help someone.

He taught me to help people, and showed me that solving problems was just using your head - your common sense, of which he had an enormous supply. And so I solve problems, particularly mechanical, logical or software engineering ones, pretty easily.

He taught me by example. He hardly ever explained anything; he would show me.

I'll never forget when he came to me and asked me about voltage and resistance. I was in high school (probably eighth grade) and he had forgotten the relationship, so I was able to remind him of Ohm's Law, which I had recently learned in science class. Perhaps he hadn't really forgotten; perhaps he did it for me. But I'll never forget that first time he sought to learn from me. After that, when I was fixing something or helping him fix something, he always asked me, "What's next?" As time went by, I got it right more and more often.

When Daddy died, I not only lost my father - a father I knew loved me - but a mentor and advisor. The person I could ask about how to fix anything at all and get an answer.

There is rarely a day that goes by that I don't miss Daddy. Charles W. Toole: what a difference person!

David W. Cuttino, Jr.

Dave Cuttino was funny - well, in a corny kind of way. He would say, "Yeah, that was a corny one, but . . . shucks!" Dave was also passionate about music. I was there when he returned to teaching after a time away getting his doctorate; as he began to direct the chorus, tears rolled down his cheeks. He apologized, saying that he hadn't realized how much he had missed the music.

Dave loved God. He knew that the real reason he did what he did was for God. The music, the rehearsals, the passion were all God-related. He let us know that, unashamedly. He never claimed to know all the answers; he just believed passionately.

One week when he was to be out of town, he asked me to substitute for him at his church. He would help me with the anthem first, then I could go to the rehearsal before that Sunday. He would do all the reheasal; all I needed to do was conduct. That Sunday, standing there after the choir has sung, I knew I would be doing this, as at least part of my life, for the rest of my life.

Many of the people in Dave's college choirs are still singing. Quite a few of us are choral directors. and a few of us are orchestral conductors. Dave inspired us to be passionate, like he was. He made us see music for what it is: the speech of angels, that flows from heaven into our souls. Dave Cuttino was a difference person.

Charles Pfaff

Mr. Pfaff always had a five-o'clock shadow, even after he shaved. (Sometimes we suspected that he shaved at lunch.) He was a swarthy, Germanic, bull of a man, who loved to teach. His students could tell.

When he first showed up in class, he was intimidating because of his size and demeanor. He had a "weak" eye that wandered up and to the outside when he was tired, and that gave him a terrible, angry look. But soon we knew he wasn't angry. We all saw him frustrated at not making a point clear for us. We saw him sad at test results. We saw him try crazy things to make us study - like standing on his head on his desk - if we weren't keeping up. We saw him happy at our successes, but we never saw him angry.

He knew it was important that we learn. He also somehow knew when we were learning, even if we didn't do well on the tests. He could tell who would be ok at the next level and who wouldn't.

We knew he cared. We knew without a doubt that he'd help us if we asked, so we did. He was one of the very few teachers who talked to each student about her/his place in the class and the work at hand. He cared.

He cared so much he was an inspiration. He inspired the yearning for knowledge. He taught us that learning could be fun. Even algebra. Even physics.

I saw him in a McDonalds fifteen years after I left his last class. I told him that he was a big reason that I developed a love of learning. He smiled and said that he was afraid I might not make it. What had happened after high school? When I told him I had a masters degree, he said that he was really glad. I knew he was.

Charles ("Chuck") Pfaff changed many lives. I was just one. He was a difference person.

Michael and Judith

I've lost touch with Michael and Judith. I know where they are; I just have stopped corresponding over time. Colleen and I visited a couple of years ago (we saw Judith), and all the memories of our time in College Park, Maryland, came spinning back into my head: Halloween, when their house was very creatively haunted; watching the Blue Sky Puppet Theater making sophisticated points with even young children; seeing our kids at play together. And chatting. That chatting was supremely important in my life. It was usually me chatting, and their listening.

They listened. They cared. They honestly cared.

They made a great difference in my life because of that listening. Don't misunderstand; they were also quite intelligent people who offered good thoughts themselves, and were quite valuable in the advice they offered to the community, the church, and to people. But they made a difference in my life, and I'm sure in the lives of many others, because they listened.

I think (and hope!) that I listen more intently and more honestly because of Michael and Judith Cayo-Cotter.

Mary

Mary Fox is the oldest friend of our family.

My first memory of her is of her coming to our home for a visit after a trip downtown, when she brought me the most delicious coconut macaroons. It seems like every time she came to visit us when I was very small, she brought something from a bakery. My sister and I really looked forward to her visits.

In 1956, when I was nine, she accompanied our family on a trip to Niagra Falls. We drove from Charleston, SC, to NY in a new 1955 Buick Century. (I thought it was the most beautiful car in the world. So did my dad.) Mary helped take care of us as we toured the City, and when we went to the Falls, she held my hand as we went down that wet elevator and into the caves under the falls.

She's always been there. When people were sick, she was there. When people died, she was there. When there were parties or special dinners, she was there. She offered stability to my life just because of her presence. And she taught me that being faithful is one of the most important things we can offer to others in our lives. Even when we don't know what we can do, or when we are full of joy at a wedding and can't express how happy we are, or when we are completely lost in another's grief, we can be there. We can be present. We can be faithful.

Mary is a "difference person."