Businessman. Statesman.

Late in his career, Dad's industry connections and vast experience had him traveling internationally with what had been a great, but short-lived, extension of the Peace Corps. He was one of a dozen-or-so businesspersons from the U.S., handpicked from a much larger pool of applicants, who traveled to Russia and former Eastern Bloc countries to council businesses on how to open their products and services to western markets. In some ways, it was a perfect fit for Dad: freedom to travel and advise persons who were mostly ready and willing to grow their businesses in ways they'd never imagined. Dad loved to give advice for growing businesses and did a good job of not being too pushy or arrogant with his suggestions. He'd say things like, "Have you thought about..." or "You may want to try..."

He met many characters along the way, like the retired Russian general who "inherited" an entire tank factory after the Soviet Union fell. He was converting the factory to make remote-controlled firefighting equipment. Dad asked him how he was planing on marketing his new vehicles. The general was insulted at the suggestion that he needed to market his product, "I will build them, and people will buy them. That's the way it works." Dad had to gently remind him that Mother Russia would no longer be fueling the economy by purchasing his output as it had for decades before. He also had to carefully decline the rounds of vodka that the general would offer him at nine o'clock every morning. He had to teach some, and listen a great deal—these were people who had been behind the Iron Curtain just a few years earlier and Dad was very conscious of that; the deep historical significance was not lost on him.

Once, while on a trip to Poland with his group, they met late into the evening in the restaurant of their Warsaw hotel, debriefing each other on the day's events (this was also the same evening that one of his traveling companions was served tea made with water that hot dogs had been boiled in...it was late, and the water was already hot, explained the server). As the night wore on, the restaurant had cleared out and left their party and another group of about 10 men sitting across the dining room from them. At one point, one of the men approached their table and asked their interpreter if they were Americans. Yes, the interpreter responded. The man was very excited to hear this and asked if they could join their discussion. As it turned out, the Polish gentlemen were newly-elected senators and were working on a draft of a new constitution. They were using the U.S. constitution as their benchmark and wanted the Americans' feedback about what they should and should not copy from it. Dad, being careful with his words, suggested that they take into account that our constitution was 200 years old, written for specific conditions that did not necessarily exist in contemporary Poland...not to mention in contemporary U.S. He said (as retold to me later), "The first amendment, that's a good one. The second amendment, well, you may want to take a look at that one pretty carefully."

Hot dog water tea aside, he really enjoyed his trips. He went places he never thought he would, places like Moscow, St. Petersburg, Rostov-on-Don and Warsaw. He'd come home to Mom with armloads of chochkis and many, many stories to share. From stories come legends and the legend I'm reserving for my children is of how their grandpa played a role in the creation of the Polish constitution.

The Scroungers

[submitted by Mom]

Dad was a scrounger. He was always bringing home something useful, saying it was for the kids. From Varian he brought a heavy iron whirly thing that they no longer had any use for in the process of manufacturing. He also brought home a cabinet from the deli that was no longer used. Jack decided he wanted to sleep in it and caught his finger in a knot hole. Lucky Grandpa Mayer was there to extract him (Grandpa was good at fixing things, like zippers and fingers). Of course, this habit of bringing things home rubbed off on Fr. Bud and he added to the collection with a fat—probably 6-8 inch diameter—braided rope from the ocean. He had Fr. Ed as an accomplice at that time. Back when we lived in Illinois, Fr Bud brought carpet rolls from the seminary. They were 12 ft. long and 14 inches in diameter. The kids fit right inside and rolled down our little hill on the side of the house. You could get 3 to 4 kids inside and the neighbor kids added to the melee. Once we built the backyard swimming pool, we couldn't get much more stuff into the yard, but now that there was the Woodworks, he could bring his scrounge there, like old rail carts. Now the grandkids, and of course Jack, got to enjoy.

Pet Tricks

Caesar Augustus, "Gus," was the family dog. Adopted as a puppy when I was still toddling around, he quickly became the 8th member of our family. Dad named him after the first Roman emperor and he fit his name well; he was intelligent, regal in stance, and calm but solid in his role as protector of the household. He was leery of strangers, but took to them easily once he saw that they were friends of the family. When he was still a puppy he got out of the house to chase the mail carrier, nipping at her pant legs. She kicked him away and he never forgot. He reserved his most vicious barking for her. His protective nature aside, he was an obedient sidekick for Dad.

Although us kids were mainly responsible for taking him on walks, filling his food and water bowls and giving him regular attention, he knew Dad was the alpha of the household. Dad's voice would summon Gus from the other side of the house; Gus would come to Dad and sit like a statue in front of him, waiting for his command. Dogs welcome all the attention they can get, but to Gus attention from Dad was golden.

Dad trained him with the usual Sit, Stay, Come commands, but added in his own special tricks. He would balance a Milkbone on his nose and Gus would wait patiently, eyes crossed and focused on the treat, and with a simple "Okay, Gus" from Dad, in one lightning fast motion he'd flip his head back and catch the treat in his mouth.

Gus worked hard and played hard throughout his lifetime. In the end, it was the complications from hip dysplasia that eventually did him in. It was Dad, quietly and alone, who took Gus on his final trip to the vet. Mom and Dad never got another pet to replace him, due in no small part to the fact that they knew how special and unique Gus was and how it'd be impossible to ever replace him in the family.

Paula and I have what very well may be the world's worst dog. Max jumps and licks, runs by the girls and knocks them down, chews up their toys, scratches the doors and chews on the wood molding. He's got selective hearing and can be stubborn and downright bratty. But I have hope. Hope that I can channel some of Dad's calm-but-firm demeanor and hope Max can channel some of Gus' intelligence, patience and obedience. In the meantime, I've managed to teach Max the Milkbone-on-the-nose trick. He's not nearly as willing or agile as Gus ever was, but it's a start.