This guy would’ve been 100 years old today. I sure miss him. There was no one funnier than him, or as mischievous, or as nimble with words.
I once saw him write my grandmother’s name in cursive with the mower across the entirety of their lawn. His penmanship (mowermanship?) was impeccable.
He initially won her over by pushing out the competition, employing strategies like sitting a few rows behind her and her date at a movie and throwing popcorn at his rival’s head.
He nursed a lifelong dislike for Frank Sinatra for avoiding the WW2 draft. Meanwhile, he served in the Pacific Theater, eventually stationed at Hiroshima.
He was an undefeated boxer in the army, and was even recruited to go pro, but was uninterested in the trappings of fame. But he taught me how to throw a punch—thumb outside your first, better to jab than swing wide—and it’s advice I’ve employed . . . a few times.
He was a lifelong union member, something he thought was important because, as I heard him say a thousand times, “they’re always trying to keep the working man down.” If he was still alive, he’d be more right than ever.
No one used words like he did—they were a plaything that could delight, confound, and redirect. No one’s wit or wordplay was faster, and no one else could make you laugh despite yourself like he did. He had a huge impact on the way I think about and use language.
It’s not really possible to sum up a life in a few paragraphs, so I’ll stop there, though it feels wholly inadequate. I just don’t want him to be lost to time, even though everyone and everything eventually is.
But not today. Happy 100th, Robert Arthur McGrath. You were a bright light.