This September, Mike and I will have our 8th grandchild. I say the both of us even though Mike passed from Covid in April 2020 and he only held 3 of them.

Our family is growing and Mike is not here to experience the wonder of being a grandparent. When our first was born he bored everyone with pictures, and stories of their first smile, first step, etc. etc.

I should be happy that another little girl is coming into our family but I have such sadness that he won’t be here to brag a little bit more to whoever would listen to him!

Covid has taken so much from so many and now the world wants to return to normal as if nothing has happened. My grandchildren will never know this great man.

Dad was a proud WWII Vet, stationed at West Point during the War. No matter where in the world we were visiting, we always brought dad back chocolate. We were in Belgium in the Fall of 2019, so needless to say he made out very well in the chocolate department.

He always hid “the good stuff.” My mom is still finding chocolate squirreled away in some of the most unusual places in the house. His West Point hat still sits on the same table, frozen in time since Winter of 2020, and yes there is chocolate under the hat and there it will stay. I can’t walk into the house and see the hat without the memories flooding back.

We consider ourselves fortunate that he got to hold his first great-grandchild, born in January 2020. At least he got to meet her before our world blew apart. It was her photo that he looked at every morning while in the hospital to give him the strength to power through.

Sadly, he was no match for Covid. This little man with the big personality and incredible sense of humor, was a friend, the family anchor and sounding board for anyone who wanted to avail themselves of his wisdom. A visionary, he was part of an effort to bring healthcare to the countries of Liberia and Ghana in the 1980’s. His life was filled with some of the most amazing stories and adventures, all true.

He never officially stopped working. At the age of 92, he had just renewed his professional license so he could continue to volunteer in the local VA Residence providing a sympathetic ear, and sharing stories with the residents. I remember he was so concerned about the Vets when he was in the hospital. He worried about how they would get their glasses to them with him being out of commission for a while; he couldn’t wait to recover and get back to living his life.

That was my dad, always thinking of others. Not a day goes by that we don’t think of him.

Excerpt from a letter I wrote to mom in 2021, a year after Bobby was taken from us.

“I love you, mom and I really need you to help take the pain away. When I was little and my hands were cold, you would put them under your armpits to warm them up. You fixed my cold hands. Now that I think about it, it was kind of gross. Ha ha. Now I need you to fix my broken heart. Although I don’t think that is possible.”

I know everyone thinks their child is wonderful but Rob truly was a kind loving son.

He and I shared the love of the NY Giants as he and his father shared the love of NASCAR. Football Sundays were the best at our house. Rob and his buddies were always there. All rooting for different teams.

Rob always did for others especially if they were his elders. Rob tried to play Mr. tough guy but he had a tender heart that he shared with me many times. He had a sense of humor that could bring a smile to your face and make any moment better just by being himself.

Rob was a hard worker and very dedicated to his career at PSEG and was loved by his co-workers. Rob was a protective older brother to his sister Cait. Rob shared his life with Nicole. He was in the prime of his life making good money, had purchased a new beautiful home and enjoyed his “toys” up until this virus grabbed him.

It will be a year on Oct 16th 2022, that Rob was called home. He fought hard but God loved him more. In his memory, to keep it alive, we have started a fund to help the Hockey Team he played on at the school he graduated from. Can’t let this virus win so I will live for Rob and never stop saying his name.

Today is the first day of school in our county. I can feel the anticipation and nervousness hanging in the air like a fog on this wet August morning. Neighborhood children sporting new shoes and carrying fresh lunchboxes make their way to school, and I can’t help but be transported to my own grade school days.

Growing up in the 60’s and 70’s, we were lucky to live just two blocks from school. My brother, sister, and I were “walkers” as they called us, and we didn’t need lunchboxes because we were allowed to go home for lunch. Even my dad came home to eat, driving from across town. We all looked forward to Mom’s noon-time menu.

We arrived in staggered shifts, and she would have a hot, steaming plate of heaven waiting for each one of us. I remember the large cast-iron skillet filled with freshly fried potatoes, the edges crispy and golden. I loved Mom’s homegrown stewed tomatoes, warm and tangy, ladled over creamy mashed potatoes and served with thick, salty bacon.

During the winter months, we were greeted with bowls of beef and homemade egg noodles, a tradition handed down from Mom’s German roots. Making the noodles was a two-day project, as she and Dad would hand-cut every noodle and then lay them out to dry.

When I was a child, lunches at home didn’t seem like something to be cherished. However, looking back now, I can truly appreciate those hectic but sacred family times. It was a 30-minute retreat in the middle of a busy school day.

It must have been a difficult chore for Mom, barely getting us off to school in the morning before she had to think about what to cook for lunch. She didn’t think feeding us at lunch was anything special, but she was actually giving us a wonderful gift. Those sights, smells and tastes have remained with me all these years.

It comforts me to think of Mom like that, bustling around in our warm and welcoming kitchen. We lost her in January of 2021 when the world was neither.