I saw my neighbor Joanna on Monday at the Kroger. She was glancing down at a grocery list, mumbling to herself and weeping softly. So I knew Bob Gross had died. We spoke briefly, cried a little and exchanged hugs. She went off to look for sunflower seeds for the bereavement dish she was fixing for the family, and I came home to think and write about my neighbor Bob, who died Monday, April 20. He’d been suffering with cancer, and had been in hospice care for the past few weeks. He was 83 years old.
As I write this, I am watching from my second floor office window while a tree crew hired by Georgia Power grimly grinds away with a chainsaw at a towering old sweetgum in my backyard neighbor’s yard. That sweet gum has been on life support for some time now too. Only the topmost limbs bloom these days, and it’s leaning precariously close to the power lines. We had a big storm here in my neighborhood last Monday, and the high winds toppled a huge red oak, which in turn fell on my friend’s pecan tree, which then pulled down a utility pole containing a transformer. Half the neighborhood was without power for two days. So Susie, my neighbor, and the power company, decided it would be prudent to take the old sweetgum down before it falls down. Susie is a die-hard gardener, preservationist and bona-fide tree hugger, but even she had to admit that those prickly sweet gum-balls are a nuisance and an annoyance, and that she’d always feared the tree would fall down one night and kill somebody. So the tree man has been sawing away all afternoon, working his way down the trunk from the topmost limbs. Every so often, I hear him shout a warning to the workers down on the ground, and then I hear a loud thud. And when I look up, there is a little bit less tree back there.
Susie says they are going to leave about 15 or 20 feet of sweetgum trunk in the ground. She plans to plant a Lady Banks rose on the trunk, and nail a purple martin house to the top, and then the old tree will have twining green branches, pale yellow flowers, and hopefully, a new life full of birdsong and woodpeckers.
Our neighbor Bob is gone now, leaving behind Rutledge, his still stylish and beautiful wife of 58 years, along with four children and five grandchildren, and a community of what must be hundreds and hundreds who will mourn his passing. The good folks of Avondale Estates will, in particular miss our neighbor.
Bob was mayor here, from 1969 to 1974. An engineer by training, he was famous in city annals for his minute attention to every detail having to do with civic governance, scrutinizing and questioning every line item on the tiny town’s municipal budget. His daughter Kimberly told me that she and her siblings were teenagers when their father was mayor. So their mother warned them that if they got into trouble, they would face not only the wrath of their daddy, but the full force of the law—meaning the Avondale Estates police department, headed by the also legendary late police chief Dewey Brown. “Mayors from other little towns around here would call if they got a speeding ticket in Avondale, and they’d ask Daddy to see if they could get them out of paying the ticket, but Daddy never would do it for them, and he wouldn’t have done it for us, either,” Kimberly said.
Although Bob left office in the seventies, he continued to be active in community affairs, serving, without pay on various city committees, including our town’s downtown development authority. Even after he was diagnosed with the cancer that would eventually take his life, he never lost interest in his community. I can see him now, standing erect at the back of a crowded council chamber as recently as a year ago, glowering at a small group of council members who were too mired in indecision and doubt to do the right thing for the city. Bob, by all accounts, was never afraid to take a stand, however unpopular.
Feeling the loss just as deeply as Bob Gross’s constitutents are his former golfing buddies. When two of his closest friends’ sons took up golf as pre-teens, Bob folded them into his foursome, matching them stroke for stroke and hole for hole. “We called him Gritty Gross,” said Marshall Murphey, who remembers playing with Bob from the age of twelve. “And he called us ‘the lads’. And when he’d beat us younger guys, he’d tell us ‘old age and treachery will always defeat youth and agility.’ “
“We’d go down to his beach house on Jekyll Island,” Marshall said, “and it would be July, and over 100 degrees, and we’d play no less than 36 holes of golf, and he’d always want to play more. One summer day, he’d just finished working a half day at his farm, and we went by and picked him up at the house and he went out and played another half day. It didn’t matter how hot it was, whether it was raining or snowing or what. That’s what he wanted to do.” Despite his golfing prowess, Bob Gross was a notoriously shabby dresser on the greens. Every year for Christmas and birthdays, family members would gift him with expensive new gear, but he’d always revert to his old faithfuls. “You can’t imagine what he looked like,” Marshall said. “It would be the heat of the summer, and he’d wear these old World War II plaid wool pants, and the nastiest shirts you can imagine. It all looked like it came from the Salvation Army. And his golf shoes! He played in these white New Balance golf shoes for the last ten years of his life. Nobody even knew New Balance made golf shoes.”
Frank Jones, another of his golf buddies, remembered a group golf outing in the Georgia mountains several years ago. “We’d played golf all day Friday and Saturday, and we were on the way home on Sunday when we pulled up alongside Bob and Rutledge on the way back. He rolled the window down and asked us where we were going, and we told him we were going to play another 18, so he jumped out of their car and into ours. Rutledge had to drive on home alone,” Frank said with a chuckle.
Clearly, Rutledge adored the man, who could, as all men will, test her patience after all those years of marriage. “I always quote Lady Churchill, who, when asked if she ever considered divorcing her famously difficult husband said ‘divorce, never. Murder, maybe.’ ” Rutledge was smiling through the tears when she said this last.
They will bury Bob Gross on Friday. Already the cars are lining the curb in front of the family homestead. The kitchen counters are lined with hams and baked goods, and an old friend was on the porch earlier in the week, slipping cheery red flowers into a pot that went unplanted through Bob’s last illness. All the children are home, and the grandchildren are coming in too.
The city flags are flying at half-mast. I can just barely see them from my second-floor perch down the street from Bob’s house, where there is just a little bit less tree today, but where, because Bob Gross cared, there is still a lively, green, life-filled community to mourn his loss.
Hi! Hope you had a fun and restful Memorial Day weekend. I’ve written before about my fascination with old photographs. I’ve been buying old beach snapshots on Ebay and wherever else I find them. I’ve hung a group of them on the wall of the staircase at The Breeze Inn, along with a 1920s wool bathing suit that was also an Ebay find. You know how it is. Once you get started, these old pics start turning up everywhere. The photo above is part of a large stash sent me by my friend Barbara, who lives in the charming town of Yellow Springs, Ohio. Most of the photos were old cabinet cards, which were formal photographs taken by studio photographers in the late 1800s and early part of the 20th century. As far as I can tell, many of the ones Barb sent were done in and around Columbus, Ohio. The photo above was just a poorly cropped snapshot. But I do love it, especially the stern look of the little girl on the left. Was she the big sister, admonished to watch her siblings while the parade passed by? I love little sister’s bloomers, and the shy smile of younger brother.
How can you not imagine a story for the little girl pictured above, as part of a large composite photograph of a First Communion photo? For you non-Catholics, the first communion is a big ritual for children, usually in first or second grade. Girls get a white dress, and in my day, a white veil, prayer book, white patent leather pocketbook and itchy white socks. I’ve named the little girl above Bernice. Isn’t she just a little pickle? Maybe she just pinched the little boy sitting in front of her. I’m thinking his name is Arthur and he would love to turn around and poke ol’ sourpuss Bernice right in the nose. And she’d rat him out in a second.
Here’s a fuller view–my scanner cut off the priest’s head, but believe me, he’s probably responsible for a lot of the sour looks on the children’s faces. Except for the dark haired kid on the top left corner, with the smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. I think he’s plotting sumthin’.
Which brings us to these two little charmers. I’m calling them Theodore and Oliver. Aren’t they nicely turned out for a day at the shore? Don’t you love Theodore’s “Life Guard” shirt? The beach looks pretty rocky to me, leading me to believe maybe their seashore is on a lake, not the sandy Gulf of Mexico beaches I grew up loving. I’ve been buying more pix on Ebay, so I’ll post them when they arrive. Until then, hope it’s sunnier where you are.
