Lizzie Kunde
Eulogy read by Ron Grames at Robert's Funeral
The following eulogy was read by Ron Grames at his funeral service at Godfrey 1st United Methodist Church on March 16, 1995.
I think you said it best, Mom, on the way home from the hospital Monday morning. "Your father was a very complex man." He was a man who dearly loved his family, worked hard to provide for them and see to their future security, who took great pride in their accomplishments - and who often hurt them deeply because his inability to acknowledge those feelings led him to withdrawal and silence. He was a man who was an engineer of considerable talent, who valued order and structure and efficiency of design - and who cluttered his life with time-wasting activities and irrelevant "stuff." He was a man of intelligence, vision, conviction and talent whose self-doubt and need to be perfect often kept him from accomplishing what he wanted and needed to do. He was a man who wanted to be with people, and to be liked and admired, but he often offended people because he was so uncomfortable with small talk and often avoided contact with others to avoid the social clumsiness he found in himself. And he was a man who could take great delight in the simplest of the pleasures that life has to offer, but often missed experiencing those pleasures because depression robbed him of the energy to pursue them.
Please understand. These are not in any way criticisms of Dad. They might have been when we were silly adolescents who thought we knew how things should be and had yet to learn how little we actually know. Now these are statements of affection, and admiration, and pride. Dad was a complex man. A man of great strengths and perplexing contradictions. A man as God makes all men, and we have come to celebrate that whole person, not an idealized image. Dad would have wanted it that way, we feel sure. He seemed to value, above all else, honesty, integrity and a clear vision of what is. To honor him with less than a full picture of who he was and what he fought against - at least as we can understand it - would be untrue to what, ultimately, Dad stood for.
Bob Grames was not a great man on whose actions events of the world turned. He was a good man on whose values and efforts a strong family could be built. He was a faithful husband, a concerned father, a proud grandpa. He was an exemplary provider for his family, who placed their needs - present and future - above all other concerns. We may have chaffed against his frugality when we were younger, but each of us has benefited from his foresight in later years. He was a devoted member of his church and valued his church family and the support they provided, especially in this last difficult year. He was a man of faith, whose resulting strength was an inspiration to all those around him.
But perhaps a couple of "Dad stories" will give a better picture of this man we honor and celebrate today.
First a story about his frugality, of which, I'm sure, those of you who knew him were aware. Grames is a Scottish name. The image of the penny-pinching Scot, with the tightly-clasped purse, could have been based on Dad. Not that he couldn't be generous: he often was. And I can't imagine anyone ever knew him to be dishonest in his dealings. But he was a driver of hard bargains and a pursuer of a "good deal." Art should tell this story, which is quintessential Dad, because he was there. But I'll try. Last fall, not long after he learned that his cancer had spread, he and Art went out to do some banking. Near the bank was a small men's clothing shop. Dad asked Art to stop there first, and then, as they were getting out of the car, turned to him and said "I'm going to do something that may seem a little strange. Just don't say anything, okay?" Art followed him in to a display of hats, including a fur hat which apparently Dad had seen and admired before. He took the hat, which was not inexpensive, up to the owner and explained to him in great detail how he had surgery for cancer, how it had moved to his lungs and how he probably didn't have a long time to live. In fact this might be his last winter. He told the owner how much he liked the hat. Then he said, "How much will you sell it to me for?" He got it for ten dollars.
Another story, this one about his generosity. Several years ago, when the man living next door died, Dad and Mom provide help and support for Emily his widow. Dad was particularly moved by her plight and for some months thereafter provided assistance to her. He did repairs and maintenance around her house, went grocery shopping for her and ran other occasional errands to assist her, as she was unable to get around well herself. Dad never said much about it, or made any big deal, but it became a mission for him, I believe. Eventually Emily moved into a nursing home, but she credited Dad's help with making it possible for her to stay in her home as long as she did.
One last story - a little more painful one perhaps - but revealing of Dad and pivotal one for me. While still a teenager, Dad and I had a fight about who-knows-what-now. We were a lot alike - stubborn and not really very good at expressing feelings - and in those days conflicts weren't that unusual. This time though we both realized we had let things go too far and we ended up in my room to talk things out. It was one of the very few times I ever saw my dad cry. We talked about his father, and their relationship. About what he hoped for us and what he feared. And he said something really extraordinary. With tears in his eyes he said: "I guess maybe I just wasn't cut out to be a father." No self-pity. It was a statement from the heart. But foolish as I was then, I knew how wrong he was, and I told him so. I'm not sure he really believed me. I don't think he was ever satisfied with himself, either as a father or as a husband. And certainly the relationships weren't that easy. But Dad, you tried to teach us that easy isn't always good. That certainly is true here. One of the last things I said to you, before you died was that I - that we - thought you were a great father. I meant it with all my heart. You gave us all more than we were ever able to give back in return. We will honor you always for all that you were and all that you strove so hard to be.
God bless you and comfort you, Dad. We miss you.
I think you said it best, Mom, on the way home from the hospital Monday morning. "Your father was a very complex man." He was a man who dearly loved his family, worked hard to provide for them and see to their future security, who took great pride in their accomplishments - and who often hurt them deeply because his inability to acknowledge those feelings led him to withdrawal and silence. He was a man who was an engineer of considerable talent, who valued order and structure and efficiency of design - and who cluttered his life with time-wasting activities and irrelevant "stuff." He was a man of intelligence, vision, conviction and talent whose self-doubt and need to be perfect often kept him from accomplishing what he wanted and needed to do. He was a man who wanted to be with people, and to be liked and admired, but he often offended people because he was so uncomfortable with small talk and often avoided contact with others to avoid the social clumsiness he found in himself. And he was a man who could take great delight in the simplest of the pleasures that life has to offer, but often missed experiencing those pleasures because depression robbed him of the energy to pursue them.
Please understand. These are not in any way criticisms of Dad. They might have been when we were silly adolescents who thought we knew how things should be and had yet to learn how little we actually know. Now these are statements of affection, and admiration, and pride. Dad was a complex man. A man of great strengths and perplexing contradictions. A man as God makes all men, and we have come to celebrate that whole person, not an idealized image. Dad would have wanted it that way, we feel sure. He seemed to value, above all else, honesty, integrity and a clear vision of what is. To honor him with less than a full picture of who he was and what he fought against - at least as we can understand it - would be untrue to what, ultimately, Dad stood for.
Bob Grames was not a great man on whose actions events of the world turned. He was a good man on whose values and efforts a strong family could be built. He was a faithful husband, a concerned father, a proud grandpa. He was an exemplary provider for his family, who placed their needs - present and future - above all other concerns. We may have chaffed against his frugality when we were younger, but each of us has benefited from his foresight in later years. He was a devoted member of his church and valued his church family and the support they provided, especially in this last difficult year. He was a man of faith, whose resulting strength was an inspiration to all those around him.
But perhaps a couple of "Dad stories" will give a better picture of this man we honor and celebrate today.
First a story about his frugality, of which, I'm sure, those of you who knew him were aware. Grames is a Scottish name. The image of the penny-pinching Scot, with the tightly-clasped purse, could have been based on Dad. Not that he couldn't be generous: he often was. And I can't imagine anyone ever knew him to be dishonest in his dealings. But he was a driver of hard bargains and a pursuer of a "good deal." Art should tell this story, which is quintessential Dad, because he was there. But I'll try. Last fall, not long after he learned that his cancer had spread, he and Art went out to do some banking. Near the bank was a small men's clothing shop. Dad asked Art to stop there first, and then, as they were getting out of the car, turned to him and said "I'm going to do something that may seem a little strange. Just don't say anything, okay?" Art followed him in to a display of hats, including a fur hat which apparently Dad had seen and admired before. He took the hat, which was not inexpensive, up to the owner and explained to him in great detail how he had surgery for cancer, how it had moved to his lungs and how he probably didn't have a long time to live. In fact this might be his last winter. He told the owner how much he liked the hat. Then he said, "How much will you sell it to me for?" He got it for ten dollars.
Another story, this one about his generosity. Several years ago, when the man living next door died, Dad and Mom provide help and support for Emily his widow. Dad was particularly moved by her plight and for some months thereafter provided assistance to her. He did repairs and maintenance around her house, went grocery shopping for her and ran other occasional errands to assist her, as she was unable to get around well herself. Dad never said much about it, or made any big deal, but it became a mission for him, I believe. Eventually Emily moved into a nursing home, but she credited Dad's help with making it possible for her to stay in her home as long as she did.
One last story - a little more painful one perhaps - but revealing of Dad and pivotal one for me. While still a teenager, Dad and I had a fight about who-knows-what-now. We were a lot alike - stubborn and not really very good at expressing feelings - and in those days conflicts weren't that unusual. This time though we both realized we had let things go too far and we ended up in my room to talk things out. It was one of the very few times I ever saw my dad cry. We talked about his father, and their relationship. About what he hoped for us and what he feared. And he said something really extraordinary. With tears in his eyes he said: "I guess maybe I just wasn't cut out to be a father." No self-pity. It was a statement from the heart. But foolish as I was then, I knew how wrong he was, and I told him so. I'm not sure he really believed me. I don't think he was ever satisfied with himself, either as a father or as a husband. And certainly the relationships weren't that easy. But Dad, you tried to teach us that easy isn't always good. That certainly is true here. One of the last things I said to you, before you died was that I - that we - thought you were a great father. I meant it with all my heart. You gave us all more than we were ever able to give back in return. We will honor you always for all that you were and all that you strove so hard to be.
God bless you and comfort you, Dad. We miss you.
James Micheal Gaudin 
