0234 HRS March 30, 2006

OBITUARY FOR ROBERT G. WINTHERS
 
Robert George Winthers, age 77, died on Thursday, March 23 in Port Charlotte, Florida.

Bob was born on April 4, 1928 to George and Olive Winthers in Davenport, Iowa.  He was a construction superintendent for firms including Ragnar Benson and W.E. O'Neil.  He supervised construction projects in Illinois, Iowa, Colorado, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, and South Carolina. Mr. Winthers was an avid boater and served as Fleet Captain for the Middleton Yacht Club in Connecticut.

He is survived by spouse Ansalee Winthers; children Christine Cornwall, Robert Winthers Jr., John Winthers, Peter Winthers, Sally Winthers; granddaughter Elizabeth Cornwall; and brother Richard Winthers.

His family will hold a private memorial service in North Port, Florida.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 
First the sound of the creaking door between the garage and the kitchen, then tentative thuds and banging, followed by the sound of wood being scraped by insistent and un-giving metal heralded a deep male voice booming out, "What'd you burn for dinner tonight, Dear?" and this never failed to make me smile.  Though it was repeated every night, I never tired of the routine, it was our signal that all was right with the world.
 
That electronic wheelchair was a behemoth that was always straining to gouge furrows in doorways and furniture, puncture other metal objects and break glass-fronted ovens and large appliances.  On more than one occasion, it took him for an unexpected swim in our pool.  The cats ran in abject terror whenever they heard the whir and skirl of it's menacing motor.  But this untamable machine, which I called the crash cart, served him well, it functioned as his legs for many years and we were both grateful for it.
 
Old Bob died last week.  He had a heart attack while driving the car.  Witnesses saw him slumped over the steering wheel while the car traveled very slowly through an intersection and came to rest in a ditch where it gently tipped onto its side.  The car was only 1/2 a block from the store where he had been which means his death was mercifully quick and that gives me some comfort. 

After my father died, I had a recurring dream that he came back to see me and we went together to see the director of the funeral home.  We all laughed together at the fact they had mistakenly buried my dad when it was plain to see that he was alive and well.  That dream always made me feel happy.  I looked forward to falling asleep the first night after Old Bob died but I didn't see him in my dreams, and I haven't to this day.  I'm smart enough to know that this means I haven't yet accepted the reality that he is dead but still I hope every night before I fall asleep that we can be together in my dreams.  Some day it will happen and that will afford me some solace.         

Old Bob was what my dad, Ples Pilkington, called "a man's man".  It's not fitting that the death of such a wonderful man should go un-remarked.  He lead a rich and honorable life, a truly decent man.  He spent his life doing solid work, building great buildings; nuclear plants, Naval yards, packing houses, theaters, skyscrapers and elegant buildings for banks and insurance companies.  He was a construction superintendent that had mastered every trade himself. 

 
I have never known anyone who didn't like and admire Old Bob.  He was a big man in so many ways and yet the gentleness in his eyes and manner belied his strength.  You should have seen him at the helm of his 47 foot boat, Cloud Nine, with the wind blowing his white hair wildly while he fought the waves going through Plum Gut in Long Island Sound or in his crash cart running it open throttle down the street in front of our house, grinning like a kid with utter abandon and joy, oh, what a man! 
 
Old Bob was 77 years old when he died and, believe me, he lived every minute while he was alive.  I've lost my husband and I've lost my best friend.  I wish just once more I could hear that dear old graveled voice ask, "What'd you burn for dinner tonight, Dear?".
 

1030 HRS September 12, 2005

Lately I find myself willingly succumbing to a state of semi-consciousness that produces a profound euphoria.  Perhaps because I haven't been sleeping well lately, I find myself sometimes drowsing throughout the day and evening and it is in that grey world between waking and sleeping that I encounter this wonder.  On the threshold of sleep, it seems almost as if my mind opens a secret door to a treasure room where great secrets lie hidden.  On rare occasions I can enter this room, grab an idea, and force myself to awaken with a partial memory of my discovery.  Inventions and innovations, solutions to great mysteries, new colors, wonderful things that I find there fade quickly when I am wide awake, much like the wrinkled imprints of a bed cover left on my face after a nap.  This must be the room where creativity and genius repose and I need to find the key that will open this well of knowledge at will rather than depending on the clumsy process of falling asleep to travel to this mental stronghold.   Perhaps there is a way to prop open the door and allow me access at will.  I must do some research.     

   

0016 HRS March 28, 2004

I am again and again amazed at the mystery of music and the changes it can bring about in almost everyone.  My radio is always tuned to NPR which regales me with classical music most of the time and it soothes me, especially when I am troubled.  The images in my mind seem to take a different trip with each composer.  Most people consider Ravel a brassy showman, and sometimes he is, but he was touched by the divine when he wrote Daphnes and Chloe.  In my mind's images, I find myself sailing in a tall ship whenever I hear those heavenly strains which would be the perfect music to die to.  No soul would fear death or that last journey if that piece by Ravel was playing at the time of passing.  It truly transports the soul.

 

2348 HRS December 31, 2003

Champagne is chilled, ready to be poured into Waterford flutes, appetizers are ready to be served, fireworks are already going off, we're wearing the funny old party hats and all the traditions are observed.  Frankly, I never thought we would live this long.  My 75 year old husband sweetly smiles at me from his wheelchair and lifts his glass to toast the new year of 2004.  Where did all that time go?  John Lennon was right, life is what happens to you when you're making other plans.      

 

1126 HRS November 16, 2003

The Devil isn't in the details - the damn Devil is in my toe.  This morning I woke up thinking I must have stubbed my toe and didn't take notice but as the day progressed, the pain began to grow.  Now, late at night, with an unreachable doctor, the pain is excruciating.  As if I couldn't tell from where the pain was emanating, the toe is hot to the touch and glows a bright red so that I can locate the source of my terrible discomfort.  I actually believe if I turned off the lights, it would glow brightly enough to light up the room.  Yes, it's gout, needle-like crystals collect in a joint and inflame the area until the sufferer goes completely mad.  I'm almost there.      

 

0107 HRS August 2, 2003

I look at my 40-something daughter and admire her smooth glowing skin and youthful body, her vitality and exuberance for life, the vigor with which she tackles both great and small tasks and I am filled with pride that I had even a small part in shaping the character of this amazing choate woman.  I love that she is always mindful of others, gentle and generous to every person she meets regardless of station, letting them know how pleased she is simply to be with them and showing them the respect which every single person deserves.  Then I look at her 10 year old daughter, my namesake and only grandchild, and see that she too possesses that same strength of character which has been carefully nurtured by her mother.  I look at the two of them and my heart swells with such love and pride that I can hardly breathe.       

 

0040 HRS, August 1, 2003

Like birds who migrate with the seasons and salmon who return to their birthplace to spawn, in the fall I am compelled to return to the place of my birth and see the places I first loved so long ago.  Even though Heavener, Oklahoma no longer resembles the charming and thriving town of my childhood and youth, to me it is the sweetest place on Earth and its shortcomings are offset by the gentle people who still call it home.  During the last week of September, I join young and old members of my father's family for an annual Pilkington reunion beside the river in Beavers Bend state park in southeastern Oklahoma near the Oklahoma/Texas border.  They are a special family, each one seems to glow with an inner calm and serenity of spirit that is oh, so rare in today's frenzied and frantic world.  The riverbank must feel desolate when the reunion is over and all the Pilkingtons and their laughter leave until next year.  I feel lucky that I was born into this family.    

 

1520 HRS, June 11, 2003

Do you remember Dotted Swiss fabric?  Or did my mother make up that name?  I haven't heard that term since I was a kid and today in the middle of doing something totally banal, the term popped into my head and brought back those memories of nylon see-through blouses that grownups, both men and women, and kids wore when I was in grade school.  Remember that puckered nylon?  Holy Cow! What were we thinking?

As a kid, I never wore anything under my blouse, no slip, no undershirt, certainly didn't need a bra, and didn't own anything lacy or showy.  Unthinking, I threw one on to go to a birthday party at Judy Grubbs' house and when I walked in, all the kids made fun of me because I might as well have been naked from the waist up.  Today I look at all the bare midriffs and low rider jeans on teenagers and think it's tasteless but what could have been more bizarre than to wear a blouse that looked like it wasn't even there?

 

2324 HRS, May 30, 2003

A new neighbor has moved into a home behind my house.  I haven't seen him yet but last night I heard him announcing his presence for the first time and it startled me.  When evenings are cool, I can leave the windows open to enjoy all the night sounds and in the darkness he seemed to be calling to me, asking the age-old question.  He sounded lonely but I think he was just trying out his voice to modulate it for his new surroundings so that he could get the tones just right.  My mother was part Choctaw and she told me that Native Americans believed the owl was a harbinger of death.  I've always known they possess keen eyesight but I doubt that extends to seeing into the future, it would be too heartbreaking for them.  I think he's going to be a good neighbor and his call will sweeten the nights.          

 

2217 HRS, May 23, 2003

I have always avoided reading somber books but I was tricked.  Today I finished reading The Cairo Trilogy, three books by Egyptian Nobel Prize winner Naguib Mahfouz, Palace Walk, Palace of Desire and Sugar Street, which chronicles the life of an Egyptian family during the difficult times between the 1920s and the 1940s.  The stories are stark and dark yet written with such hauntingly beautiful eloquence that I was compelled to read on in order to discover the wonder of his exquisite writing style.  After reading the first few pages of the first book, I felt somehow trapped into reading this tragic recounting of a tale by the beauty of his prose and the magic web of words he wove which ensnared me throughout the three books.  Tragedy and sadness explained with such great eloquence somehow seems more noble.                 

 

1759 HRS, May 22, 2003

It seems to me that cooks can be divided precisely into two groups - those who add sugar when making their cornbread and those that do not.  I do not.  As hard as I try, I can’t imagine eating pinto beans and raw Spanish onions with an accompaniment of cake rather than cornbread and buttermilk.  This division seems to apply to more than just cooking.  I notice that my more frivolous and flamboyant friends tend to have a heavier hand when it comes to adding sugar than my down-to-earth friends who grow their own gardens and cook everything from scratch.  Maybe these earthier women know the secret of finding the sweetness of life in things other than a bag of granulated sugar.  

 

2343 HRS, May 22, 2003

The first time I came to Florida I fell in love.  Lying on the beach were small perfect treasures that stole my heart.  Seashells, each with a different and wonderful form, beguiled me with their fanciful shapes and lured me with their rich colors and textures.  These discarded homes of long gone sea creatures sang to me of the sea and promised me that the world would go on after I have left the Earth.

 

1343 HRS, May 17, 2003

The sound that I love best is laughter.  Even more than the soft sound of rain, laughter satisfies the soul.  I look back on the dour faces of my parents, aunts and uncles and wonder when the power of laughter left them.  I can never remember my parents losing themselves in paroxysms of laughter.  Was life so difficult or joyless for them?

At my 25th high school reunion, Don Wheat, a burly red-haired football player who grew up to become a Baptist minister of all things, hugged me and my classmate and lifelong friend, Ann Wright, when he first saw us after all those years and said, "I want to thank you two girls for making me laugh all the way through high school".  How sweet it was.  Unbidden and often inappropriately we were daily overtaken back then by fits of laughing that left us breathless and weak in the classrooms and halls of Heavener High School.      

The laughter returned to my life when my children were old enough to bring it back with their irreverent and iconoclastic brand of unique humor.  Even today, there’s no laughter in my house except when they come to visit and then the dam breaks and all the giggles and fun erupts once again, as if it had been patiently lying in wait for their return.

 

1343 HRS, April 26, 2003

This is something that needs to be said. When your feet are cold, the world is bleak. I’ve heard people prate on and on about how miserable they are when their nose is cold, at least you have your warm breath going in and out of that nose to ameliorate some of the cold, the feet have no such defense.  I have at times been so cold that my ears turned bright red, sort of like the mercury in a thermometer but conversely growing more red with the cold rather than the heat, yet that pales in comparison with cold feet.  It behooves everyone to coddle their feet, swaddle them in warm softness when at ease, and wear the most expensive shoes you can afford. Your feet will thank you for it.

 

1253 HRS, Tuesday, March 25, 2003

I’m not blind. I know the natural order of things.  Our youth is spent finding a mate, nesting, procreating and nurturing our own young, then, quite frankly, we really have no further purpose.  We’re here simply to ensure that the human species continues then our value drops, and drops with a bang.  Nature is no fool, she knows when infertility overtakes a person and at that very moment, she brings to bear her tools of torture that always lead to death - arthritis, brittle bones, poor eyesight, depression, loss of memory, and vulnerability to disease.  Nature can be a bitch.

 

0135 HRS , Monday, March 24, 2003

Religion has kept people complacent in their ignorance, content to rely on the droning phrases of more dangerous men, those with a little learning.  Religion was born out of a need to controlI the unruly masses and prevent revolutions.  I imagine how different the world would be if religion lost its stranglehold on the uneducated and fearful.   Since the beginning of time, evil men have dominated and pacified the populace with the consolation that the next life will be better for them if only they follow the dictates of the ruling class of religious leaders and don’t rock the boat.  I say it’s time to sink that boat.

Imagine an Ireland free of strife and death, no two factions bombing and killing each other because of differing Christian dogma. Imagine the country of South Africa, never murderously torn apart because of the hateful principle of apartheid as transcribed by religious Dutch Boers.  Imagine the middle east without the frothing Muslim clerics indoctrinating hate into the minds of the smallest children as an honorable and accepted way of life.  Imagine the world without the Crusades and the Inquisition.  I want to weep for the world that might have been.

 

 

 

 

                                  

 

Hit Counter

Copyright 2003 - Ansalee.  All rights reserved.