Bob “Fish” Fishelson

If you’re lucky, you knew Bob. But who didn’t? Of all the people I’ve known, Bob has been the common thread, the guy that has proven the human connection theory of six degrees of separation. He was simply everyone’s friend. Bob “Fish” Fishelson got tired and left us today.

For the past several years the universe of being “Bob” has been slowly and predictably constricted by the insidious reality of Alzheimer’s and failing health. Worse than watching his slow decline was knowing that he understood what was happening to his mind, choosing not to talk for fear of repeating himself. It was the worst possible disease for a man who lived for conversation and laughter.

My six degrees of separation began by seeing Bob every day at the post office while running morning errands. He was always there with his posse of old-gentleman Postal patrons, waiting for the “MAIL SORTED” globe to flicker to life, indicating as if by magic or some great government-synchronized miracle that our mail had made it across town with better than 60% accuracy.

I didn’t know Bob at the time. I knew him by face… and voice…but couldn’t call him my friend. He was one of those bigger-than-life guys. His voice and mannerisms reminded me of John Wayne. “How are ya?” Or “HYDROMATIC, NO CLUTCH!” he’d say, with an aggressive handshake and engaging smile. He was like that with everyone.

There was always laughter. The kind of laughter that made me want to eavesdrop and see what the old guys were talking about. “FISH, YOU’RE FULL OF SHIT!” would often precede raucous laughter.

Over the years, faces faded from the group. Judge Murphy. Charlie Beardsley. Louis Andrew. Henry Buslee. Joe Berger. And then one day the Post Office fell silent. Men of the Greatest Generation, that saw America come of age, were gone.

But as the web of six degrees of separation works, I met Bob’s daughter Bekki while my kids were attending Catholic grade school where she taught music. I was several years post-divorce, hiding from social interaction behind the shield of parenting and career. My daughter, Gabby, spoke often about her really cool, funny music teacher. “Dad, you should talk to her. She’s really nice!”

I introduced myself after a Christmas concert in the school gym. Bekki said, “Oh, you know my dad… Bob.” I remember saying, “Really, Bob who?” “Fishelson. Fish!” she said. “He’s one of the breakfast club guys that hangs out at the Post Office every morning. He said he’s a friend of yours.”

Holy shit! John Wayne is this girl’s dad! (AND she already had some kind of conversation about me?)

We started dating. Several years later we were married.

Unlike what I refer to as the dichotomy of craziness that were my parents (a stoic father of German descent and a second-generation extroverted Italian mother, who was equally comfortable on stage and in church), Bekki’s family is like the Brady Bunch: A veritable boa constrictor of love that coils around you-and-yours with complete acceptance… and always a bit of theater. The Fishelson’s adopted Bekki’s pre-made family as if we had always been there.

I got to know Bob over the last several years. I see Bob and his wife Cheri in their three children; Bekki, Mike, and Dan. All are intelligent, social, happy, successful, talented, and fun-loving. (And because of Bob, they can identify 35 brands of whiskey by smell!)

I believe the success of parents can be measured in the success and happiness of their children. Bekki, Mike, and Dan are testament to their parent’s love and accomplishment.

Bekki had a hard time coping with her dad’s fading light. We took “surprises” to Bob; treats that we knew he would enjoy. Caramel corn and chocolate from End of the Trail Candy, raw oysters from the Saint Paul Fish Company in Milwaukee, or a sundae from Gillies. For me it was reminiscent of when my dad was fading; little more than small surprises and a little happiness. For Bekki it was always an opportunity of hope. Memory triggers. “Dad, remember how we used to go to Gillies when I was little in the back of your Corvette?” Or “Do you remember when we’d get dozens of oysters when you took us to Florida and you cut your finger trying to get them open?” He would smile and shake his head no. But she would insist, unwilling to accept that his memory was slowly formatting. “DAD! Come on! Your yellow corvette! With the black stripe!” repeating herself, as if to somehow splice the tattered ribbons of his memory. Cheri would look at me speechless, empathetic yet heartsick at was happening with both of them.

We recently brought oysters to Bob and Cheri’s house. (Oysters being one of Bob’s favorite treats.) I stood at the kitchen sink shucking the little varmints while Bob was sitting at the kitchen table. Bek and her mom were shadowing, I can only assume to be sure that I was doing it “correctly.”

I took a plate of oysters on the half-shell to Bob sitting at the table. He looked at Cheri and said, “Who’s this guy?” Knowing that Bekki was about to dive in with “memory enhancers,” I quickly leaned over, put my hand on his shoulder and said softly (but excitedly), “I’M SLEEPING WITH YOUR DAUGHTER!”

“I’LL KICK YOUR ASS!” Bob said, smiling with his fist raised.

Cheri, quickly piped in, “Well, he came with the clams. You know we always had high hopes for Bekki…and she ended up with a clam-shucker!” “YES!” I said, “I AM THE MOTHER OF ALL SHUCKERS… MAKING ME A REAL MOTHER……”

“THAT’S ENOUGH OVER THERE CLAM-MAN!” Cheri interrupted with a laugh… and “the look.”

Bob smiled and became more engaged with the banter and commotion.

Bekki cried on the way home. There’s really nothing you can say to someone that is profoundly sad. But I tried, reminding her that no one can take her memories and all of her father that has made her who she is.

Cheri has the patience of a saint; the kind of patience that develops over years of mutual love, respect, and devotion. Cheri has been the silent victim of Alzheimers and Bob’s failing health. She has been Bob’s understanding friend. His care-giver. The patient love of his life, dealing with the sadness of watching her soul mate slowly fade and coping with the inevitable, all the while smiling to make him happy.

I know that Bob is standing at the pearly gates in a spectacular meet-and-greet, shaking hands with the choir of angels, who are taken with his smile but a bit shocked by his “HYDROMATIC, NO CLUTCH!” greeting.

Suddenly from across the clouds there is the booming voice of Saint Peter, “HEY! IS THAT FISH? FISH MY FRIEND! ALL I CAN SAY IS GREAT JOB!”

And of course Bob will respond with his signature smile and handshake, adding (in his John Wayne voice), “Pete, if I knew I was coming I woulda brought you a bottle of Jameson!” (Having spent his life in the liquor industry, Bob knew what everyone drank.)

We’ll miss you Bob. Thank you.