Retired... and Loving It!!

RETIRED…

AND LOVING IT!!

GEORGE WAAS

AuthorHouse™

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2012 by George Waas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/21/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6257-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6255-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6256-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012915186

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CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

MY FAMILY BACKGROUND

MY WIFE, CHILDREN, GRANDCHILDREN, ETC.

MY LIFE SO FAR

MY LAST JOB-STATE PROGRAMS BUREAU, DIVISION OF GENERAL CIVIL LITIGATION

MY LAST FEW MONTHS ON THE PUBLIC PAYROLL

PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS

RETIREMENT ANXIETY

HEALTH ISSUES

RETIREMENT: TWO BIG MYTHS, A FEW FACTS, AND MY PLAN

POSITIVE THINKING, VALUES AND LEADERSHIP

NOT-SO-FINAL FINAL THOUGHTS

POSTSCRIPT

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Acknowledgments

When I finally decided to write this book, I had my family in mind; specifically my wife, children and grandchildren. I never learned much about the lives my grandparents led, and my parents were never open to volunteering much information about their lives, especially their younger years before they had me.

I’m told life was different back then; there wasn’t much communication among family members about matters of such a personal and intimate subject as oneself.

Now, with communications so much easier, and with so many more means of providing and preserving information, I decided to write about me—my early childhood, my family, my professional life, my thoughts; literally everything that makes me, well, me.

I believe we all want to leave something for our children, their children, and on and on. A life well-lived and a solid reputation certainly accomplish this. This book will give my wife, children and grandchildren as complete a description of me as I can give. It will also allow my grandchildren’s children to read about me as told by the best possible source with no filter; every word here is mine and mine alone except the few items as noted in a couple of chapters.

Why would I want to do this? I’m not rich or famous. Well, of course I am. I’m famous in the eyes of my family, and rich with their love and support. That’s really all that matters.

So, with more thanks than I could give to my wife, Harriet, my daughters, Lani and Amy, my granddaughters Hailey, Kelsie (Lani) and Avery (Amy) and my grandson Connor (Amy), this is my story.

To my other family members, friends and colleagues who’ve helped mold me into me, thanks for your efforts. I appreciate all the good things people have done for me over the years. Any failures are mine and mine alone.

And to those of you who read this, I hope you enjoy my story… . and hope that it will inspire you to tell yours.

Retired . . . . And Loving It!!

An Autobiography/ Memoir

Of A Former Florida Government Lawyer

by George Waas

The R word finally hit me like a ton of bricks in January 2010. Retirement. Although my retirement date of June 30, 2010 was well known to me for five years, I hadn’t given very much thought to it until I had reached less than six months out. As I began to think about it, however, and the change of life it meant to me, I had the first panic attack in my life, requiring counseling I never had need of before.

My father instilled in me a strong work ethic, telling me not to talk a good game. He made it clear that words without action are meaningless. So, I equated action with work, work with productivity and productivity with usefulness. In short, being useful and productive meant working. Retirement was, to me, the opposite of action and productivity. I feared becoming useless. Imagine the feeling of anticipated uselessness! That’s precisely where I was. How I dealt with this is explained later.

The first question you might ask is why would I write an autobiography/memoir. I’m not a former high-ranking public official or high-profile athlete, singer or movie star. I haven’t survived after years of abusing alcohol or drugs. I didn’t rob, maim or kill. I’m not famous or notorious; just an ordinary retired lawyer who toiled in the public sector for over 32 years and was fortunate enough to be named outstanding Florida government lawyer in 2000; appeared in several Marquis Who’s Who publications, including Who’s Who in America; twice named as an outstanding government lawyer and legal leader by Florida Trend Magazine in its annual Legal Elite publication; and handled high-profile cases that took me to the United States Supreme Court and appearances on national, state and local news. Ok, so I’m important to my family and friends, but it’s not like I’m famously known by millions. Heck, I’m probably not even known by more than, say, hundreds. But I’ve led an interesting life (by my standards), had some wonderful experiences, and I do have a few pointers on how to deal with retirement following a reasonably active professional life.

My recollection of events leading up to retirement made me focus on my years in the workforce, my family, my activities before—and now in—retirement, my professional and fraternal accomplishments and how I might spend at least the first few of my retirement years. Now, after the passage of a couple of years between my toiling in the workaday world and retirement, I began reflecting on the paths my life has taken so far; its many twists and turns. I thought about the meaning of retirement for me, and how I’ve handled it—again, so far—and decided to put it all in writing. Hence, you have my motivation to write this autobiography/memoir. I don’t believe this is an uncommon motive. So instead of asking Why?, I asked Why not? There’s really nothing to lose by telling your story.

I must begin this endeavor with a confession. My original plan was to write the Great American Novel. I think all writers want to do this as part of their legacy. But after reading dozens of novels—I particularly enjoy Da Vinci Code-type books—and visiting several bookstores, I realized that lots of writers already had written the Great American Novel, or at least believed they had. I also realized that works of this nature require a tremendous amount of research and great attention to detail. I am not a patient person, and I had retired from a profession that demanded voluminous research. Why would I want to write a book requiring what I retired from doing?

I wanted to write on a subject I knew something about, and I wanted to write it relatively quickly without doing much research. Not that I’m lazy; I just wanted to write something that had meaning instead of a work from the made-up world of fiction. What better subject meets these conditions than me? No significant research is involved; just a little here and there—you’ll know it when you read it—and a reasonably good memory is all that’s required. So, I drafted a four-page outline, sat down at my computer, and started typing. As I proceeded from draft to draft, I made additional notes on a pad I keep next to my computer. I had my first draft done in less than one week, and my second draft done in three weeks. The words were pouring out of me at the rate of 4,000 to 5,000 a day on some days. As a thought or idea would come to me, I’d write it down and include it in my narrative. I found that, quite frequently, one word or a brief phrase would lead to hundreds of words that I included in the text.

A memoir usually doesn’t start with one’s family background; an autobiography might. This really doesn’t matter, because mine does. Since we are all products of our ancestors, I’ll begin by telling you about my family history—at least as much as I can recall, since my youth, combined with my parents’ and grandparents’ non-existent discussions about their families, give me precious little history. Then, I’ll introduce you to my wife, children, grandchildren and pets. (Yes, pets. They are very important to one’s well-being, as I found out rather late in life.)

Then I’ll discuss my life so far; my last job; some personal observations I picked up along my journey; my anxiety facing retirement; personal health issues; positive thinking, values and leadership skills; and wrap it up with some not-so-final thoughts.

My Family Background

A good place to start this discussion is at birth. I was born on July 12, 1943 to George Waas and Anna Weintraub Waas in the Bronx, New York City. My maternal grandparents, Bernard and Mollie Weintraub, were born in Poland and Russia, respectively, and lived in Kiev until moving to New York City during the mass migration of Jewish immigrants in the early 20th century. Thanks to my daughter Lani, who is doing a family search on Ancestry.com, I recently found out Grandma Mollie’s parents were Nathan and Sabina Tabachnick from Russia. My maternal grandparents had five children; my mother Anna was the oldest, born on March 13, 1918. She had four siblings, three sisters and a brother. I have no recollection of my maternal grandfather, as he passed away suddenly on my third birthday at age 54. I remember that in the late 1940s, my parents and I lived with my maternal grandmother in New York. I remember her as a strong woman with a strong accent that she didn’t pass on to her children, who prided herself on caring for her family. She loved to cook meals for her children and her several grandchildren.

I have a far better memory of my paternal grandparents because, for a two-year period beginning in 1958, my dad, my brother Barry and I lived with them in an efficiency apartment in Miami Beach. My dad moved his parents from their apartment in Newark, New Jersey, to Miami Beach in 1957 and, shortly thereafter, moved there himself (my parents separated in the early 1950s and divorced in 1953) and then moved my brother and me within three months after he moved there. (To this day, I’m thankful that my mother gave my brother and me her blessing to move to Miami Beach in January 1958. My health wasn’t great—severe childhood allergies—and the move was looked upon by my dad, his parents, and my maternal aunts and uncle as a path to a better life for my brother and me.)

I didn’t see much of my mother after the move to Miami Beach. She would visit once a year, and my brother and I would call every so often, but she didn’t want to leave her family and friends; New York was all she ever really knew. In 1977, when her health started to decline, my brother Barry, who was living in Maryland at the time, found an apartment complex in Laurel and my brother and I went to New York, packed up her belongings and moved her to Laurel and a new life. We visited with her every couple of years. As her health deteriorated, she eventually was moved into a nursing home in Maryland in 1993 and passed away in 1996.

My paternal grandparents, Leopold (who went by the name Leo) and Bertha Jones (pronounced Yonas) Waas, were born in New York City on October 15, 1884 and July 2, 1885, respectively. Again, thanks to Lani, I discovered that my paternal great-grandparents were George and Julia Kingsburg Waas, born in Middlesex, England; my maternal great-grandparents were John D. and Melissa Jones, born in New York City. I could show what a great job Lani did by going back eight generations, but I’ve made my point. (Actually, not quite. Lani told Harriet and me she will continue with her search, so I certainly look forward to learning more and more about my family from generations past.) My grandfather was a jeweler; my grandmother a homemaker. They were of English and Dutch background. (You can pretty much tell whether a person has a Dutch background—just look at a person’s last name and if you find the same two vowels next to each other, usually near or in the middle of a name, you’ve found a Dutch name.) My grandfather had three brothers and two sisters; my grandmother was an only child. My father was born in New York on May 18, 1909; his brother—my uncle Ed—was born in 1913. Both grandparents were very strong-willed, yet kind and loving. During the two years I lived with my grandparents, not a day would go by that grandpa didn’t greet me with his booming Hello, my boy! whenever he would see me. I can now carry on this greeting with my grandson. My grandpa was a minor league baseball player in the early 1900s. He pitched for the old minor league Baltimore Orioles under a different name; I believe it was Waco. I remember him taking my brother and me to the ballpark in Miami Beach where he would throw batting practice to us. He had the most wicked curve ball that neither one of us could touch—and he was in his 70s at the time. He must have been quite a pitcher. A broken hand ended his career before he had a chance at the major leagues.

For about a year, my dad, brother and I lived with my grandparents in what was euphemistically called an efficiency apartment. What was efficient about it is that it consisted of three rooms—a small kitchen/dining area, a small family room/bedroom with a small closet, and a small bathroom. At night, my dad would put a mattress on a coffee table and one on the floor. I got to sleep on the coffee table; my brother got the floor. For about a year, five people lived in about 400 square feet of space.

Then, my dad and brother moved down the hall into a smaller efficiency that had no kitchen/dining area. I was just happy I didn’t have to sleep on the coffee table anymore.

Because of my father’s struggle to raise us while trying to find work, my grandparents assumed much of the parenting responsibilities for these critical formative years for my brother and me. My first job at age 14 was as a jeweler’s apprentice for my grandpa, and for a jeweler grandpa worked for who had a store near where my grandparents lived on Jefferson Avenue. (The name of the small apartment building in which we lived was the Elaine Apartments. My oldest daughter’s name is Elaine. When my wife and I named her, I had completely forgotten the name of the first place I lived after moving permanently to Miami Beach. Just a coincidence, I suppose.) I used to carry jewelry, including diamonds and rubies, in my pocket to and from the Miami Diamond Center. My grandpa must have assumed that no one would figure that a teenager riding the bus would be carrying thousands of dollars worth of rings and gems from Miami Beach to Miami and back. I was a perfect gem transportation courier.

I worked for this other jeweler at his shop only on Saturdays, washing and polishing rings, using special chemicals for this purpose. My fingernails turned a reddish brown that lasted quite some time after I stopped working as an aspiring jeweler in 1960. One day, a young man came in, shook my hand and gave the jeweler and me a card that identified himself as Doyle Conner. He was the speaker of the Florida House of Representatives—the youngest in Florida history—and was running for state agriculture commissioner. He was elected and served for 30 years. This was my first brush with a political figure.

My grandpa passed away in 1963; my grandma in 1970. Today, I proudly wear the ring my grandfather made for me when I turned 13, as well as the ring he made for my father which was passed down to me when my dad passed away.

My father met Reona Shapiro in 1958 and they married two years later, after which the four of us moved into a two-bedroom apartment in Miami Beach. My father was a hotel manager, managing such hotels as the Fontainebleau and Eden Roc, as well as hotels that now are a part of the Art Deco section of south Miami Beach, including the Clevelander. He used to tell me stories of the times he helped President John Kennedy with his back brace, and how Frank Sinatra and other members of the Rat Pack (Dean Martin, Peter Lawford, Sammy Davis, Jr. and Joey Bishop) would hang out in, and literally take over, the Fontainebleau hotel restaurants and bars. The 1960s was a great time to live and work in Miami Beach, and my dad thoroughly enjoyed getting to know these famous men, and how thankful he was that they would take their time to get to know him. My dad used to tell me the story of the time a hotel guest loudly complained to my dad when Frank Sinatra came over and asked my dad if he needed any help. My dad said everything was under control, to which Sinatra said ok, just let me know if you need any help in taking care of this. My dad said he didn’t want to pursue the matter any further, and the complaining guest quickly took his leave.

As I look back, I realize how much trouble I caused my stepmother early on. I think it’s unfortunate but natural for children who have gone through a divorce to vent their anguish on the replacement parent. My stepmother never tried to take my mother’s place, but in my mind, this is what I thought. Re (this is what everyone called her) never married until she married my father, and never had children of her own. She was 50 at the time of their wedding; despite all of this, she did everything possible to make us a family and give my brother and me a warm, comfortable home. She even co-existed with my grandmother when she came to live with us after my grandfather died. I didn’t realize it then, but it takes a remarkable woman to share a home with her mother-in-law. And Re did this for almost seven years.

My dad and stepmother eventually moved to Fort Lauderdale after he retired from the hotel business in the late 1970s. He passed away in 1988. From that time until Re passed away at age 92 in 2003, I visited her every time I traveled to south Florida on business. I would take her to her favorite restaurants, and she would proudly introduce me to her friends and neighbors. She was a great and proud lady and quite influential in my life.

My father served in the Army during World War II, but he liked telling me how he almost missed it. He was discharged on December 5, 1941—only to be recalled three days later. Pearl Harbor. It was during his second stint when, while stationed at Ft. Bragg, he was accidentally hit in the mouth by a rifle butt that took out all his front teeth and so damaged his mouth that he needed full replacements. I often wondered why, as a relatively young man, he had all false teeth. I was 10 when he first told me this story.

My dad wanted to be a showman-a comedian-but grandpa was adamant in believing that no one could earn an honest living engaging in such foolishness, and that my dad should go to work for a hotel if he wanted to make a decent living. So, it was the hotel business for him. After we settled in Miami Beach and my dad started working for hotels, I worked with him on different occasions during the summers as a cabana boy, pool boy, bellhop and telephone switchboard operator. Back then, switchboards used plug-in cords to hook up rooms with callers. If the operator used the wrong plug, the guest didn’t get his/her call; another guest did. Needless to say, my dad would get complaints from hotel guests who were upset at not getting their calls, or being connected to people they didn’t know. I got some big tips as a bellman, cabana boy and pool boy, but the biggest tip I got was from my dad who told me not to go into the hotel business.

My dad was a character in every sense of this word. As a child, he would come to my elementary school and tell the principal that he had to take my brother and me to Dr. Yankum Studyum because we were sick. It turns out that this was really Yankee Stadium and we’d see baseball games in the afternoon. How many fathers take their sons from school to go to ballgames? After my parents separated and my dad moved into the hotel he happened to be managing at the time, he would have my brother and me take the train from our apartment in the Bronx to Manhattan (you could do this as a 10-year-old in New York City in the 1950s) after school on Friday, and meet us at the station near his hotel. He would take us out for dinner, have lots of candy and ice cream for us in his hotel suite, and then on Saturday, after a breakfast of a dozen cinnamon buns (six for me, six for my brother and dad—I was a big eater and a fat kid back then) we’d go to the circus, rodeo or hockey games and other sporting events at Madison Square Garden or the Polo Grounds (home of the New York baseball Giants), or visit Dr. Yankum Stadyum. On Sunday, dad would take us to the train station for our trip home. We did this weekend routine for more almost five years.

Another thing my dad would do is get me into the boxing bouts at St. Nicholas Arena. St. Nick’s was a famous venue for boxing in the 1950s, and he convinced me that I had to be 18 to get in. My dad, who through his hotel work had connections with the arena management for complimentary tickets, would tell me I had to wear a big overcoat and disguise my voice so the ticket taker would think that, although I was 12 or 13 at the time, I was really 18. Even though my admission was all pre-arranged, I had to tell the ticket taker my name and address. I took this responsibility very seriously, wrapping myself in my too-large overcoat, lowering my voice and making a big frown all to show that I was 18. Only years later did I find out how much laughter this brought to my dad, as well as the St. Nick’s staff. What surprised my dad, however, was my yelling at the fighters to hit him harder; knock him out. I guess my dad didn’t expect me to cheer for such violence. He probably thought my cheering on the hockey players who got into fights was just an anomaly.

There was one occasion where my dad used his humor to deal with a serious situation involving me. After my brother and I moved to Miami Beach, I developed emotional problems having to deal with an entirely new environment. I continued to complain about being homesick, but my dad knew it was just a matter of adjustment to a new environment. So, on one particularly bad day for me—bad grades on two tests—I wailed about missing New York. My dad took me to an airline ticket office in Miami Beach, went in and came out with a ticket, saying Here’s a one-way ticket back to New York. Do you want to go? The plane leaves in a couple of hours. I said I didn’t want to go back; that I would try harder and do better. He promptly tore up the ticket, took me back to our efficiency apartment—and almost immediately, I began to feel better and do better in school. Turns out the ticket was only an empty envelope that he found on the floor in the airline office. When he told me this years later, I laughed but also realized the sacrifices he made to give my brother and me a much better life than the one we most likely would have had had we remained in New York.

Whatever sense of humor my family and friends attribute to me no doubt came from my father. He was the funniest person I ever met. He did pantomime, which is physical humor without spoken words; how would act out scenes playing multiple characters. He managed to combine his hotel work with show business on occasion, doing shows at a few of the hotels he managed, using the stage name of George Allen. After he passed away, I went through some of his papers and found, to my delight and surprise, that my dad’s involvement in show business was far more extensive than I was led to believe. He started in burlesque with entertainer Robert Alda, whose son, Alan, is a great comedian/actor in his own right, most famous for his role in M*A*S*H. He also worked with comedian Phil Silvers, Guy Lombardo and Sophie Tucker. During World War II, my dad played in a show entitled This is the Army, put together by Irving Berlin. In the 1950s, he appeared in a Broadway show entitled I Married an Angel and then started entertaining on cruise ships for the Costa Cruise Line. He did shows on the Condominium circuit in Fort Lauderdale until the early 1980s. How I wish I knew this before he passed away.

As for the name George Allen, so many Jewish entertainers changed their names during this era. We know so many Jewish comedians by their stage names: Jack Benny, George Burns, Milton Berle, Danny Kaye, Jerry Lewis, for example. Their real names are quite remarkably different because they identify their religious background, and any performer with an easily identifiable Jewish name was urged to change it. One day, we were walking past Pumpernick’s Restaurant, a famous gathering place in Miami Beach, when a man standing in the doorway yelled out Georgie. Georgie Allen. Turns out it was Milton Berle, one of the great comedians of the 20th century. He told me my dad was the funniest man he ever met. Did that give me a swelled head!!!

My dad never lost his great sense of humor. Even at the most difficult times in his life—divorce, loss of family members, employment difficulties—he always tried to find that nugget—however small—of humor that would allow him to tell a funny story. I learned that some of the greatest comedians led very troubled personal lives. I can only surmise that humor allowed many of the most famous of comedians to survive economic depression and war, and other personal tragedies. Humor was their outlet from disappointment and despair. I know my dad used humor the same way; and I’ve thankfully inherited his attitude in dealing with difficult events. I now see this in my daughters and grandchildren. Thanks, dad.

Recently, my daughter Lani did an ancestry search and discovered that my father’s full name is George Leo Waas. Until Lani’s research, I didn’t know my dad had a middle name; he never used it, and I never saw a single piece of paper that had his full name on it. I am not a junior, however, and my middle name is not derived from my father or grandfather Leo. In the Jewish tradition, a male child is not named after a living relative; if he is to be named after a family member, he is named only after someone who’s deceased. To name a child after a living relative is to, in effect, wish that that relative were deceased. I am named after my great-and great-great-grandfathers (George and Lee, respectively). I’ve been told that I’m more like my grandfather than my dad in demeanor and personality. Over the years, family and friends who knew both say I get my doggedness, tenacity and determination from my grandfather; my sense of humor and warmer side from my dad. To make a living in journalism and law, you need doggedness, tenacity and determination; to be a caring parent and grandparent, you need a solid sense of humor and nurturing ability. Perhaps these relatives and friends know me better than I do.

My Wife, Children, Grandchildren, Etc.

Now, let me introduce you to my family, which I’ll begin with the title

Harriet

Harriet was born in Miami on July 6, 1949 and lived with her parents until she moved to Tallahassee to enter Florida State University. She entered my life one September day in 1969 while we were both students at FSU. I was attending a social event, talking to a girl, when Harriet walked over to us, and took over the conversation I was having with this other girl, causing this girl to leave. Impressed with her persistence (and noting that she was a cute as a button), I took her dorm phone number and called her a few days later. I didn’t have a car, and this gave me great concern over asking her out. Left over from my high school days was the belief that without a car, I wouldn’t have a chance at getting a date. As a result, I dated very little in high school and college. Nevertheless, I summoned the courage and called her, and I did ask her out, and we went on our first date. We walked from her dorm to a downtown movie theater and at no time did she complain. In fact, she enjoyed walking and talking about nothing in particular. I found myself becoming nervous as we dated more and more. I never felt this way before, since I’d never come close to anything of a, shall I say, more permanent relationship. What I didn’t know until much later is that after we met, she called her parents that same day and told them that she had met the boy she was going to marry. Once we got engaged, she told me this story. Of course, it didn’t matter then, but it was quite a revelation and leap of faith.

After a few weeks, I made the stupid comment that perhaps I should play the field. To her credit, she didn’t show any emotion; rather, she said that if I wanted to date others, she would do likewise. This is not the answer I expected or wanted to hear. I could date, but she couldn’t. (Now how silly is that!!) I suppose love can be both blind and stupid. (Interestingly, Harriet’s recollection differs from mine. She says I made my play the field comment after we were engaged, upon which she offered to return the engagement ring I gave her. The passage of time does indeed affect memory, but this is my story, and I’ll stick to my understanding of what happened. I’m including Harriet’s because she wants me to, and I’m interested in keeping the peace. Either way, what really matters here is the story that I did get cold feet but that my nervousness eventually worked itself out to our mutual satisfaction. Besides, as the saying goes, either version is close enough for government work.)

What I didn’t know then is that she called her parents after my play the field comment and bawled her eyes out. Her mother told her it’s just nerves and if he truly cares, this will pass. And it did; in just a few days. I felt nervous around her, but missed her when I was alone. This is a sure tell-tale sign; but I didn’t realize it then.

I must say a few words about Harriet’s parents. From the moment I first met them, I believed that Martin and Hildegard Issner were the kind of in-laws every son-in-law should have—caring and great to be around. Both were German immigrants and Holocaust survivors. He wanted to be a doctor, but Hitler prevented this. Martin, who I called dad after Harriet and I married, was born in 1912; he stood about 5’7" and was as big around as he was tall. His heart was also as big as he was. I will never forget his generosity and love, and he could make the best barbeque I ever ate. He managed a couple of service stations in Miami and, at age 65, went to work as a security guard. I remember him lying on his couch with the telephone beside him watching the stock market on TV. He would frequently call his broker and give orders to buy and sell. He self-educated on the stock market and, although he arrived in America with virtually no money, made a rather significant nest egg for his family via the market. He was a good and decent man. A chain smoker, he passed away from lung cancer in 1979 at age 67.

Hildegard was born in 1916 and was a homemaker who sold Avon on the side. A few years after Martin passed away, Hilde met and married Herman Wilzig and moved to Tamarac, Florida. He passed away from Alzheimer’s Disease after a few years. After she turned 90, Hilde was interviewed as part of the Steven Spielberg project to record personal histories of Holocaust survivors. That interview is now preserved as a permanent part of the Holocaust record as told by those who lived through its horrors. After Hilde’s second husband passed away, she remained in her Tamarac home until she turned 93, when she moved to Michigan to be close to her son and my brother-in-law, Jim, and his family. She now lives in a memory care facility and turned 96 on July 24, 2012. From the day we first met, I called her mom, and still do so today. She is a most generous, loving, caring lady. Although only 4’8", she was and is a giant to her family-including me.

Harriet and I dated steadily shortly after we met, eventually leading to a New Years Eve 1970 engagement and, on July 18, 1971 marriage in Miami. July 18 is significant to us because if you add July 12 (my birthday) to July 6 (Harriet’s birthday) you get… . well, I made sure there would be no way I’d ever forget our anniversary.

Our engagement took place literally by accident. While I had been thinking about this for awhile, one evening we were in the ballroom of my dad’s hotel dancing, when I said It would be nice to have you around. Harriet said Is that a proposal? Well, I suppose it is, I said. And that was that. I had no ring to give her then, but I took care of that rather quickly, gathering together all I could to buy a small diamond ring. One night, I hid the ring under my couch in my apartment and did the usual on your knee plea. That formalized our engagement, and satisfied Harriet that I did it the right way.

Over the years, I’ve asked Harriet to let me buy her a more suitably sized diamond ring. She steadfastly refuses, saying the one she has means so much more precisely because I had so little money back then. I did eventually buy her diamonds, however. After our 35th anniversary, we went on a December family cruise and returned to St. Thomas, V.I.—the place of our 1971 honeymoon. We took a taxi to the same hotel we stayed at, and in a dining room where we had dinner more than 35 years earlier, I gave her a diamond necklace. Anyone think I’m not a romantic?

We lived in apartments for two years before we bought our first house and, on August 2, 1975, Elaine Beth joined us. At least, that’s the name we gave her. At age 4, she proudly announced to us that her name was Lani… and it’s been that way ever since. On July 9, 1979, Amy Michelle made us a family of four.

Harriet spent 37 years as an elementary school teacher—teaching in the same school for all 37 years! This consistency in her professional life explains Harriet—steady as she goes, a real Rock of Gibraltar. While so many administrators and teachers believe that teaching to standardized tests is the way to go, Harriet never believed this. Oh, she taught her children so they