James Garvin

A “brotherly” OBIT for our Dad (James Francis Garvin) Capturing the life-shaping impact of one’s extraordinary father extends far beyond words, but this personal missive by his two sons (Timothy Joseph and James Brian) is one attempt to paint his life of distinction in words (A missive mostly by Tim Garvin with a few interludes by Jim) I (son Tim) have come to realize that life isn’t BIG stuff, but instead is the collective of the little things, the everyday things, and the things that you hardly notice when living within their context. Then, ever so slowly, you come to realize that these little things (most often mundane) ARE the really big things that define one’s life. So here is one person’s reflection about the little stuff, as a Bio as it were by a son (Tim), and to the best of his memory. Interspersed are some additional thoughts by son Jim to add to this very personal picture around the edges. Dad – James Frances Garvin – was born in New York City in September of 1926, the first child and son to Irish immigrants, whose record of passage to the USA can actually be found in the arriving ships registers from 1924. His dad, my grandfather, came here from County Mayo – the sometimes rugged and yet beautiful county in the west of Ireland. He was from Irish farmers and was the last son. Ireland (at that time) practiced primogeniture – the first-born son inherits everything. Thus my grandfather made his way to Dublin, then crossed to the second biggest Irish city – Liverpool. There he became involved with activities to free Ireland; as the story goes he had to leave. He chose to journey to the land of opportunity, to America in the 1920’s during the “immigration quota years”. Dad was born in New York City proper, most likely in Brooklyn; and yes, a native New Yorker. The Garvin’s (grandmother Mary, grandfather James, and son Jim) moved around a bit, as the Depression hit hard in 1929 and thereafter. They lived in a row house in West Philadelphia, owned by an aunt with a kind heart who had returned to Ireland. One bathroom, a few blocks from the local Roman Catholic church (Most Blessed Sacrament: MBS), and my grandfather would bring friends over on Friday and Saturday nights and played the accordion and to east “bloater”. I only wish I had more stories from those early formative days. Dad attended a very large parochial school just down the street – Most Blessed Sacrament (MBS). He lived in two worlds – his Irish heritage AND the immigrant’s America that a remarkable influx of new people from Europe were bringing in the 1920’s. When he graduated high school (MBS) at 17 he immediately enlisted at his first chance and after basic training he was shipped to Europe at the tail end of the Battle of the Bulge (WWII). I am forever proud of my Dad and his service to our country at this time of world unrest. When he finished his military service – and this is important – THANKS to the congressionally established GI Bill, my Dad was able to attend, as a commuter (from West Philly), La Salle University. He graduated in 1949 with a degree in accounting. I heard a great many stories – from Dad and from my Mom, as well, about these early years. Dad observed that his father (a plasterer when he had work) was always beholden to others and to the ups and downs of the construction side of economy. “No Irish Need Apply” was apparently very real at that time. My Dad studied and excelled in accounting – a means to ‘a better life’ than that which he had experienced as a child witnessing his hard-working parents. He knew education was on the pathway to success in post-WWII America and lived that American dream via hard work and tenacity, and his studies. After a few jobs (including with the TVA) he landed a position (1952) with a rapidly growing “IT” company – International Business Machines (IBM), and the transformation from the days of punched cards and adding machine to the early generations of digital computers (hardly user friendly as they are today!). He and my Mom lived the classical 1950’s IBM life with IBM often standing for “I’ve Been Moved”; from Hackensack NJ, to Poughkeepsie NY, to Armonk NY, to Chatham NJ, all in a period of 9 years. A family move every two to three years. My eccentric brother Jim was born in Poughkeepsie in a blizzard (most appropriate for him), and I was born in Mount Kisco (NY). The Garvin legend (perhaps an epic), and I have no idea this is exactly how it happened, is that Dad came home one February evening in 1964 and gathered the family. He announced that IBM had offered him a great opportunity and a promotion. But that we would have to move. “Where to?” Mom asked. “Lebanon” was my father’s reply. To which my Mom replied; “Lebanon, I think that is Amish country (PA) and supposed to be very beautiful”. “Not THAT Lebanon” was my Dad’s immediate reply, but another place 4000 miles away in the Middle East. As the story goes, Mom got out the encyclopedia and they looked at the world map. Lebanon near Egypt, Jordan, Syria, and Israel. Beirut Lebanon, the “Paris” of the Middle East. A place with a ~ 4000-year history. We were excited yet anxious about what was to come by late summer of 1964! This is where the lessons really began for my brother and I (or began). To me, my Dad was always great. GREAT! He met people so easily and adapted readily anywhere. It was Dad who showed us to be at home in the world and that the wider world was our home. No barriers, no real differences – just people and places with something to learn. His business travel took him to Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Abu Dhabi, to Ankara Turkey (and Istanbul), to Iraq and Iran, to Syria, and Jordan, and also to Greece. If my memory is correct, he adored all of it. He would arrive home in Beirut and we would gather around and listen to his stories. He would tell of going to a bull roast and being served the bulls eye on a bed of rice (in Saudi Arabia), or taking a car that sounded shaky out from Kabul deep into the high mountain passes of Afghanistan. It was adventure and he wanted to see all of it. Moreover – through extension with him – so did we. We travelled too. Mom and Dad were brilliant in having us be part of the world (NOT only to see the world, but to BE part of the world). Dad the adventurer and Mom the penultimate planner. We went to Tivoli Gardens (Copenhagen, Denmark) and rode bumper cars; we saw the Oracle of Delphi in Greece, hiked at the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut across the Nile from Luxor, and saw the Valley of the Kings and King Tut’s tomb before they moved most of the “good stuff” to Cairo with our own private Egyptologist. Five thousand years of history to savor and never forget. Finally, in June of 1966, we visited Ireland, our Garvin family heritage. We landed at Shannon airport and made our way up to the northwest, to County Mayo. It was June, it was Ireland, the intensive green was spectacular, and it was always lightly raining. I remember Dad driving a 4-speed stick shift and having to drive on the left side of the road. At one point, he saw a gentleman on the side of the road walking. Dad pulled over and asked if he wanted/needed a ride. He responded with a tilt of the head and a long ‘ayahhh’ and got in. He smelled dank, he was wet, and I felt I had no room in my seat. I was perturbed at Dad. When the gentleman got out I asked Dad why he did that. He explained : “He is Irish, it is what you are supposed to do”. I did notunderstand then, but in 1978 when I went back and lived on my cousin’s farm, I finally learned. Sometime in the Fall of 1966 – a memory as strong as if yesterday! My eccentric brother Jim had a friend over after school, Chris Killingstadt, I believe. I tried to join in with them but they were older and wanted little part of the younger brother. Mom must have called Dad at IBM, he came home earlier than usual and said he wanted to take a walk, would I like to join him. We went out and crossed the road in front of our apartment building called the Corniche de Paris and walked along the seawall. It is truly one of the most beautiful walks. Anywhere! Dad reached down and held my hand and we walked. We stopped to watch men fishing; we watched big ships – freighters – move slowly across the Mediterranean, into and out of Beirut seaport. Dad had transformed a day in which I felt left out and alone into something special. Just him and me. Such as the little moments that are the “big things” in life. In late May of 1967 there was talk in our family of the threat of war in the Middle East. On Monday June 5 of 1967 war did break out -- the Six Day War between the United Arab Republic and Israel. Dad and Mom gathered us in the middle of our 7th floor apartment, and we got down on our knees and said the Lord’s Prayer. Dad spent all that day and most of the next working to create an evacuation plan to get all women and children out of Beirut who were supporting his IBM Middle East office (and affiliates). In the end, we flew on an IBM-chartered Alitalia flight to Rome that evening as the sun was setting, never to return to our home in Beirut. Responsibility – for family AND for others. That was Dad, even at a time of war. After the IBM tour abroad of four years we moved back to the United States in 1968, coming home in July from an incredible year in Sydney Australia. That winter we re-discovered hockey. My brother Jim and me, we clamored excitedly that we wanted to play real ice hockey. Eventually we got our chance, and on Saturday mornings from November through March Dad and Mom would rise before four AM. Mom made Dad his coffee, Jim and I got ready. Dad was at every practice from 5 am to 8:30 am. Every Saturday. For 3 or 4 years. He would change the push-button AM radio stations seeking out George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord”, which became the iconic music of kids hockey. Devotion to family, support for his kids. He was not thrilled that we were playing such a rough sport but he supported our passion for the game, and watched as we were coached by semi-pro players from Quebec and Ontario. He even coached my team and attended Jim’s games which were often as far away as Canada. A few years later, during the high school years, Dad was able to get us tickets to a few NY Rangers games (and for a brief period we would take the train from Connecticut to NYC to attend games at MSG with him). The thrill of taking the train into Grand Central Station in NYC, meeting Dad, having dinner in the City and going to MSG for a Rangers game. It is a memory that I hold dear. This one time we were walking across 33rd; passing between Gimbels and Macys, the Herald Square area. There was an elderly woman holding a large shopping bag; too slow to make it across the street when the pedestrian light flashed. I watched, shocked, as my dad assisted her, stopping traffic until she crossed. That was Dad. No one watching, just an act of support that needed doing. One time I attended a special game with Dad when a beloved Ranger who had been traded returned to play against his old team (Eddie Giacomin, the goalie), and the game was more about the return of a local hero than about the goals and winning team. I played Rugby – at Vassar College and for the Connecticut Yankees. Mom and Dad did not understand Rugby. At all. Probably never. Not once did they really understand what they were watching. Yet, in support, they attended every home game. It wasn’t until being a father myself that I began to understand the pleasure in/of watching your children, a love so deep that it will take your breath away. My wife Theresa and me later volunteered for the Peace Corps. But before we did, while applying, we had to create a plan for Wind and Ulysses (my cat and dog). We were visiting Mom and Dad in Arizona at the time, eating out at a Thai restaurant, and we started talking about our plans to apply for the Peace Corps. Before we even got to the part about asking, Mom and Dad preempted us and said that they would care for them. Support. In every way. It was the same for Brother Jim! At one point he called Dad to say that he wanted to leave Stanford and pursue a PHD in Planetary Sciences at Brown with no funding or real job future, and Dad told him to “go for it”, even if he never understood much of what that would entail. My Dad -- he was a great man in too many ways for words. A great man in business. A great professor at Fordham and at the American Graduate School of International Business (AGSIM – The Thunderbird School in AZ). A great partner and husband. A great provider. A great dad. He loved Ireland and being of Irish heritage. He loved America and what it gave to him and our family. He loved that America was truly the land of opportunity. He loved that he served our country. He loved working for IBM. Via his successes, Dad was able to give my brother Jim a chance to bring America to the planets, and me the people of Earth. My crazy brother Jim became a planetary scientist, works for NASA and is focused upon pure discovery, now leading a mission to bring the USA back to Venus. Me, it took a bit longer and then I found my place – community. In Westport (CT) at Camp Mahackeno and creating a camp experience for the first time for children with different abilities. Then in and through the Peace Corps. Now, here in Worcester serving with the United Way and, I hope, in keeping with the spirit of Dad, creating opportunity for others. I share memories of my Dad. He lives on in Jim and me (in a myriad of very different ways), in our children and our spouses. In the students he taught with passion. In the caretakers at Royal Oaks (Sun City AZ) whose lives he touched and mentored and influenced. I miss him. Already and intensively. I miss knowing that I will never hear his voice again, or see his smile, or play cards – and lose every single time to him (even when he was 95 yrs old). In the last few years I would call him every day. Sometimes he would answer. When he did he would give me a one sentence lecture; “Love your wife Theresa”. Later, as we ended I would say, “Love you Dad”. He would respond “I love you too Tim”. And that is what I will remember. Something that cannot be forgotten … Bigger than simple words, but a mosaic of memories of a life. Gently, slowly, we are planning a small and simple service, as guided by our father’s last wishes. Sometime in the next few weeks out in Arizona. I do not imagine many will attend. Dad will be buried, as was Mom, at the Arizona National Veterans Memorial Cemetery, with extreme honor and love, for a life of distinction on so many fronts. Thank you for allowing me to share my Dad. These deeply personal words of remembrance by my brother Tim capture the story of a father who succeeded in what any parent strives for – leaving their legacy for their children as a gift that never stops giving. To me (brother Jim), less poetic and expressive as Tim, our Dad was a spectacular “gift” who will never stop giving even now that he has passed on from life on this Earth. I (son Jim) will never forget his profound ability to encourage, enable, and empower us whether it be in school, sports, or life in general. His life of distinction will be measured by his excellence as a parent who cared and gave so that his sons could find their pathways in life, and continue his legacy. Thanks Dad for giving your crazy son Jim his love of exploring the cosmos to his fellowship with dogs and trees. Ad astra!