Takeaways from the Memorial Service for my Father

Obviously as I have gotten older, I have forgotten more and more of my childhood. Since my dad died, I have looked at pictures and tried to recall things, but seeing the video yesterday, I realized that I have forgotten so much more than I thought I had. 

Seeing Steve Zammit again was a real treat. Of all my dad's students that became friends, Steve was always my favorite. I have always related to Steve really well. He got me my first restaurant job at Delphines in Ann Arbor at the Sheraton Hotel. Talking to him was really cool after all these years. He has an amazing sense of humor, and is such a genuinely good person. We found out that we had a mutual friend in Ken Shannon which I think I may have known before but forgotten. I was able to introduce him to Kat, and they connected really well over mechanical engineering. Seeing Gary Talbot, Uncle Dean, Mrs Dubin, and Mrs Hiss again was really nice. I had a sad feeling that it was nice to see these people, but I may never see any of them again.

Having Steve start the presentation was a perfect way to begin. Steve and Gary were two of my dads closest friends, and Steve has been around longer, so it fit that he went first. When Steve started talking about the SAAB that my dad had and how he had one sitting out front, a flood of memories came to me. My dad loved that car, and I can vaguely remember him giving me rides to nursery school in that car. I remember loving that car, but my mom hated it. I am not sure if she hated it just because it was a stick shift or if there was some other reason. The next two cars we had were sticks as well, so I would have thought if that were the only reason, they would have gotten cars with automatic transmissions. 

There were so many things that Steve mentioned about my dad and their relationship that made me smile. The story about bringing in a six pack of beer and my dad with a beer in one hand and a stick of chalk in the other while teaching the last day of spring class really made me happy to think of. It reminded me of a spring physics class I took at WCC where we had beer while taking our final. Steve made the comment that my dad was never Bruce to him, it was always professor Karnopp, and that he called him that out of extreme respect. It made me think of something that my dad once said about respect being something you earn, and my dad really did earn the title of professor.

When Steve talked about Carol's wedding where he and his wife did a dual service of renewing their vows with my mom and dad, it made me realize how long Steve had been in my dads and my life. The wedding seems like such a recent memory, but it was over 15 years ago. Steve said that he went to U of M between 1980-85 which means I met him when I was 13 or 14. Watching Steve tear up at the loss of such a long time friend made me realize there was so much more to my father as a professor than I realized. My dads job was so much more than just a job, he really connected with his students, and they really loved him for everything he did for them. 

When Dean got up to speak it was a little surreal. He made the comment that it was a little unnerving to have a memorial for professor Karnopp when he is also referred to as professor Karnopp, but the same could be said about watching him speak. Dean and my father look very similar, sound very similar, and also have a lot of the same mannerisms. I never knew Dean. He visited once or twice when I was young, and I have seen him a few times as an adult, but always very briefly. My dad would tell stories about him as a kid, but there was always kind of a separation in the description where they just weren't as close as you would expect. There was however, never a negative word about his brother or any of his family for that matter. 

I think Dean's talk about my dad really explained their relationship very well. Time and Space worked against them throughout their lives. At four years apart, they really weren't in the same place at the same time either physically or emotionally. His comments made me think about my relationship with Carol and how we were three years apart. We had some time together in Elementary school, but after that, were never in the same place at the same time. The interesting thing about my dad and deans life was that even though they were never in the same place at the same time, they both had the same trajectory for their education and career. Deans life was a little more exciting than my dads, but I think having a special needs child played into that a bit. 

There was a little confusion between Gary and Carol about who was to talk next, but Carol took over and did a nice remembrance of her father and family life. Her relationship was so much different than mine. She worked so hard to please my dad, and I worked so hard to show my independence. We both wanted him to be proud of us, and I am sure that Carol succeeded much better than I did. I know my dad was proud of me for who I became, but I caused him a lot more stress getting there than Carol did. Carol did a great job speaking, and I know my father would have been very proud of her for that. She isn't the shy little girl that she used to be. 

There was some jostling back and forth with the video, but they decided Gary should speak first. I have known Gary for a long time, but he came into the picture after I was out of the house, so I didn't have the same kind of relationship with him that I did with Steve, but I heard about him all the time from my dad. When my dad got sick, Gary and Forrest communicated a lot more than I did, and I think they created a special bond in the process. It was interesting hearing Gary describe his childhood in Ann Arbor and how he got to the U of M after being a mechanic. I knew a lot of this about him from my dad, and I had known him when he was a student, but hearing more details was really nice. 

When Gary described his first meeting of my dad, I really started to tear up. He had gone back to school at WCC and transferred to U of M, and my dad came up him and and asked him what he was doing there. He hassled him a little bit in a way that I could so easily imagine, then gave him his card and told him to come and see him. Gary waited a couple of hours feeling self conscious and out of place, but finally made his way to my dads office. He said my dad talked him about his history and really got to know him over several hours. Then he told him to go to his classes, do the best he can, and when he is struggling, which he would struggle, come back and see him. He did what my dad said, and my dad helped him get through. He said my dad wanted to see him make the effort, but once he did, he went out of his way to help him succeed. That was my dad in a nutshell.

One of Gary's comments that really hit home with me was when he was talking about my dad referring to him as a non traditional student. Gary had always thought that he was referring to him that way because he was in a wheelchair, but when he asked him about it once, my dad just looked at him and said, that has nothing to do with it, you're non traditional just because you are old. Gary talked about how much my dad did to encourage other non traditional students. Steve was another non traditional student who had worked in a steel mill then went to EMU to get his grades up and then went to U of M. I think my dad really liked teaching people who had real stories to tell before coming to the University. I think he had a lot of respect for them and knew how much work it really is to make changes like that in a persons life. 

The video Carol put together was really cool. There were so many pictures of things that I didn't remember. I had completely forgotten about the photography club my dad had done at St. Pauls Elementary School, and there were so many pictures that I didn't even know existed. I lost so many of my pictures from film when I moved into my house and the basement flooded, and I didn't get a digital camera until 1998, so there are so many years that I just didn't have much of. I'm sure there are some in the box that grandma sent over with Forrest, but I haven't had a chance to go through them at all. Unfortunately it was just a bin full of packets of pictures. There were no labels, no dates, and nothing to identify them. It was funny that Carol mentioned the Doors as that was one of my dad's favorite bands which seemed so out of character compared to everything else he liked. It was really a beautiful video and a wonderful tribute to our father. 

I didn't know the next speakers who went up and told stories of interactions with my dad. I did really enjoy the one where my dad joked with a colleague about putting a sensor on the toilets in the bathroom to measure who would be able to fill the chair of the department. I had to glance at Forrest because he has definitely inherited a lot of his Grandpa's toilet humor. Kat kept squeezing my hand nudging me to go up and talk. I was about to when Steve called on someone else. My heart was beating in my chest because I was loosing my nerve at this point. I hadn't prepared anything, and I am not good at speaking off the cuff. I thought I could pull some things from memory from my letter that I posted on my blog right after his death, but that was going to be a stretch. The next speaker mentioned a story where my dad had been working on his dishwasher, and rather than go to the basement to find the breaker, decided to short the circuit with a screwdriver to kill the power. The really funny part of the story was when my dad described the chunk of metal missing from the tip of the screwdriver as a result of the arc and how he decided to return it to Sears and get a replacement. My dad did love Craftsman tools, and although he may have returned that particular screwdriver, there were a number of them in his set with the tell tale chunk missing with the rough carbon pattern. 

After hearing about the dishwasher, I knew I had to be next. I walked to the podium, and I cant remember whether I used the mic or not. I am not much of a public speaker, and the adrenaline coursing through my veins made the entire event seem like a dream where I am trying to recall the memories. I remember introducing myself and telling everyone that I was the more challenging kid. I explained that I had to come up after the last speaker because I had just been doing wiring around my house the week before, and my girlfriend had insisted that I not work with live wires. I had used pliers and the ground wire to short the circuit, but the effect was the same. Hearing the story about my dad reminded me of all the things like that I had learned from him. I described how we did things like that together. Then I mentioned my paper route and how he had taken it over after Steve got me the job at the Sheraton because it was cash money. I told the story of how one time we were talking after delivering papers and he told me he didn't know what I was going to do with my life, and that I hadn't taken the path he would have liked, but he knew whatever I put my mind to, I would do it well and be successful. I mentioned how I have always remembered those words and I used them with my own son when he graduated high school. 

I also mentioned in there somewhere how Carol had done things the way he would have wanted and how well she had done. I think at that point I thanked everyone for coming and returned to my seat. I know my eyes were starting to tear up, and I don't think I could have said much more without losing my composure. When I sat down, Kat squeezed my hand and told me how proud of me she was. I sat there thinking of all the things I would have liked to have said, but I guess I said what was most important.

I was a little disappointed that my mom didn't say anything. It would have been nice if she could have mentioned something about the man that she was married to for over 50 years. I tried to sit next to her during the service, but she got up and went to sit next to her handyman. I can't even imagine how someone could have such hatred for their own son that they would avoid sitting next to their own son in favor of someone they paid to be their friend. I have a lot of resentment toward this man who got all of my dads tool, cameras, furniture and a significant amount of money. Of course he is nice to her and agrees with everything she says, he has taken over my spot in the family. It is actually her loss. After the server the entire family except for my mom were sitting outside because she had to spend time with Mark. My dad loved his family more than anything and he would never have allowed this. 

After the service a woman came over to me and told me she used to work with my dad when I had my restaurant. She said her husband had been trying to start a bakery at around the same time, and my dad used to share emails from me about the restaurant. She mentioned my last email where I had said goodbye to my customers and tried to analyze the mistakes that were made. She said my dad was always so proud of me and talked about me all the time. That really made me feel good. Mrs Hiss stopped by to tell me how sorry she was that my dad had passed, and she mentioned how when I was young my dad had made a ribbon board for her daughter Meredith just like the one he made for me. 

After hanging out with Carol, Holden, and John for a little while, we helped Carol carry stuff to her car. We waved them off, then Kat and I along with Forrest and Sarah walked over to Knights restaurant and had a wonderful meal together. It was kind of a somber time together, but we shared stories and commented on how our family might come back together now that Carol and Holden live nearby. I am sure that rebuilding our family would be the one thing my dad would want more than anything.

John Can't Play Football

Anyone who knows me well knows my knowledge of sports is very limited. That wasn't always the case. When I was little, my mom and dad would take me to U of M games. I used to enjoy making paper airplanes out of the program pages and trying to get them on the field. Unfortunately anytime anything exciting happened, all the adults would stand up, and all I could see were peoples butts. So in actuality, I never really saw any football being played at all. I saw a lot of time outs and huddles, but that was about it. The marching band was pretty cool, and It was nice to hang out with my parents and have some good snacks. On the nice days it was a lot of fun, but on the cold and wet days it was pretty miserable. 

Like most kids though, my dad had given me several footballs over the years. Carol was too young to try to play with, so I tried to teach John. After all, John loved watching football on TV much more than I did. I figured he would be a natural at it. 

So as I tried to explain my limited understanding of the game, I told John that whoever had the ball, that was the person to tackle. If I had the ball he was to tackle me, and if he had the ball, I was supposed to try to tackle him. The end zones were each end of the backyard and that is where you score. The only thing John heard was "tackle the person with the ball".

So we started out playing, and I would have the ball first. I would hike it to myself, and then something totally bizarre would happen, John would turn into a wild animal. He didn't just tackle me, he had to imitate a complete pile on and bury me in the ground. After finally getting him off me, I would get up and my head would be swimming as I tried to regain full consciousness. Each time it would be the same thing until it was 4th down and I would turn the ball over to him. After four downs, I was knocked almost senseless by my normally loving gentle brother. 

As I started to recover, it was his turn to hike the ball, and I was thinking it was payback time. We got down he hiked the ball to himself, and I charged at him like a bull. He pulled back and threw the ball at my head. It bounced off my face, and I was dazed again. Then John proceeded to tackle me again. He held me down pushing my head into the ground. I was yelling at the top of my lungs that I didn't even have the ball. Finally he let me up and I staggered over to the ball and picked it up, and as I was turning back toward him, he charged me again tackling me to the ground. I am sure I lost consciousness this time. 

When my head finally cleared, I realized that the only rules John would understand was once the ball touched me, it was time to tackle and pummel me. Now that I understood the rules as well, we were able to make a game out of it. It was basically touch the ball and run for my life. It must have been funny to watch me running in circles around the backyard while John chased me growling like a monster the whole time. 

John never learned how to play football any other way, but we had fun playing this way, and John loved to wrestle too. He didn't understand rules very well, so I usually end up in a fair amount of pain in any contact sport we played. I loved playing with John, and he was my best friend growing up. 

Surprise Cake

I'm not sure how old I was when this happened, but I think I was just old enough to stay home alone, so I must have been eleven or twelve. Carol was swimming at a meet, and both of my parents went to watch her. I think it might have been a championship meet. I was home watching John and my parents and Carol weren't going to be home until late in the evening.

I thought I would be a nice brother and surprise everyone with a cake when they got home. I got a box of cake mix and get out the stand mixer. I started adding the ingredients to mixing bowl while the mixer was running. When I got to the eggs, I accidentally dropped the shell in the bowl. The beater immediately crushed the eggshell into tiny pieces. I tried to stop the mixer, but it was too late. 

I was pretty young and inexperienced in the kitchen, so I got the bright idea that if I mixed the batter really fast, it would break the eggshells into such small pieces that no one would notice. So I beat the batter on high for as long as I thought it would take. Then I poured the batter into a couple of round pans and baked the cake. 

I can't remember if anything looked off at this point, but I pulled the cakes out and frosted and assembled them into a nice round cake. I was probably pretty proud of my accomplishment, and I had the cake all ready to server as soon as my family came home. 

When my parents and Carol came home, I surprised them with the cake. I cut the cake into pieces and served each of them as well as a piece for myself. I can still remember the look on my dads face as he started chewing on the cake. Now my dad was the type of person who would try to be supportive no matter what, but with each attempt at chewing, there was no way for him to hide the shock of having small pieces of eggshell grind against his teeth. I had noticed the horrible feeling in my mouth, like eating a handful of sand, but I had hoped that maybe it was just my pieces of cake that had been contaminated. The look on my dads face made it clear that wasn't the case. My sister was probably the first one to mention how bad the cake was. 

I explained what happened, and we all had a pretty good laugh over it. I have never been able to live that one down even though I became a pretty decent cook within a few years. Of course I still avoid baking at all costs with the exception of eclairs. 

Mini Bike Mayhem

I seem to be bouncing a little chronologically, but this post is kind of a continuation of the push kart post. As I grew older, just pushing a kart kind of lost its appeal. Motors, that's when things started to get exciting. 

Right before I started 5th grade, I started hanging around with a kid at the other end of the neighborhood up near Sugarbush Park. Donny Biton was his name, and he was a student at St Paul's, so our parents thought we should get to know each other, so I would have a friend at my new school in the fall. 

One day when I was at Donny's house, his older brother was in the garage cleaning out some things when he pulled out this old mini bike. I looked on wide eyed and asked what he was going to do with it. The mini bike was homemade, and it was made out of two inch galvanized pipe with a plywood deck strapped to the frame. The engine was in pieces in a box sitting on the deck. Donny's brother said he had to get rid of it and asked if I wanted it. I was like, oh yeah, I want that. My poor parents, it seemed like every time I left the house I came home with something, and it was usually some piece of junk I was sure I could fix. 

I rolled the mini bike home with the pieces of engine all boxed up and ready for assembly. I don't really remember my parents reaction. I can imagine my mom groaning as I added more clutter to the garage, but I think my dad was much more encouraging. I remember him explaining how engines work and the difference between 2 cycle and 4 cycle engines. 

The engine for the mini bike was a 3.5 horsepower Briggs and Stratton. For some reason the carburetor was a Tecumseh. I think my friends brother said it had a larger bore and gave the engine a little more performance. This was all new to me, so I bought a book on how to repair small engines, and got to work on my new projects. It was summer, so I still had a lot of time work on it. I worked on it for days and finally got the motor all assembled and mounted to the mini bike. With a little starter fluid and a number of pulls, I got the engine to start. 

I was really excited to get the engine running, but now I had to figure out how to get the bike to run. Since this was a homemade contraption it really didn't meet any type of guidelines for safety. It had a v-belt that attached to a pulley on the engine and one on the back wheel. The belt was loose, and there was another pulley on a swinging arm between the two pulleys. I attached a rope to the swinging arm, and I would pull the rope to add tension to the belt while increasing the throttle. The only part of the mini bike that looked like it was actually designed to be a mini bike was the throttle on the handlebars. So to go, I would increase the throttle with my right hand while pulling up with the rope in my left hand. Starting was a little shaky to say the least. 

Now you may have noticed that I haven't mentioned anything about a braking system. That's because there wasn't one. Once I got the mini bike started and running, the braking solution was to drop the rope and put my feet down skidding to a stop. I am really not sure how I was allowed to ride this thing. It would seem my mom would have put her foot down, but maybe she just didn't realize how dangerous this was. 

My first ride on the mini bike was wonderful. After I had fallen a couple of times figuring out the acceleration and coordinating starting and stopping with pulling and dropping the rope, I rode my mini bike up and down the street feeling the wind blowing through my hair and enjoying this new found freedom. It was such an amazing feeling, and I was so happy and proud of myself for putting it together. I came home for dinner and set my mini bike lovingly next to the front porch. Since it didn't have an off switch, I just attached a wire to ground and dangled it from the frame of the bike. When I needed to turn it off, I would just ground out the spark plug. I went inside for dinner smiling at my new bike. 

I ate dinner quickly because I wanted to get back outside and ride my bike some more before it got dark. As soon as I finished eating I ran outside and attempted to start my mini bike. I pulled on the starter pull with all my might, but it wouldn't budge. I thought maybe it was jammed, but it wasn't. I went inside and got my dad and asked if he could start it. When he pulled the handle the mini bike lifted, but the engine didn't turn over at all. He looked down at the mini bike perplexed and then asked the fateful question, "you did put oil in it, didn't you?", I am sure my face went blank as I simply replied "Oil?"

I knew cars needed oil, but I didn't think small engines did, they were small. I got to ride my mini bike once and seized the engine in the process. I was heartbroken. I felt so stupid for not knowing that the engine needed oil. I went in the house that evening and looked through the Sears catalog which I loved because it had brand new mini bikes and go karts in it. I found the section that had engines, and a horizontal shaft brigs and stratton was over $100. I knew I would never be able to get a new engine for my mini bike, so I decided I was just going to have to fix the one I had. 

The next day I started taking the engine apart. My dad came into the garage and asked what I was doing. I said I was going to figure out how to fix it. My dad didn't want to get my hopes up, but he said if I could get the piston moving again, I might be able to get it running. I took the head off and started applying penetrating oil and hammering the piston with a block of wood and a mallet. After a couple of days of working with it, I got the piston to move, and finally was able to remove it from the block. 

Carpenter Brothers hardware store was one of my favorite places as a child. I learned so much from the people who worked their over the years. I remember going to the store and explaining my situation to one of the guys there. I remember him telling me that I would have to replace the rings and hone the cylinder, but if it wasn't too scratched, I might be able to get it running again. Carpenter brothers didn't carry rings or the tools I needed, but the guy recommended Ann Arbor Implement. I was confused and asked if that was a store or something. He said yes that it was a store in downtown Ann Arbor.

I got my dad to take me to Ann Arbor Implement, and I was amazed at all the stuff they had. It was more of a lawn and garden supply than a hardware store, but they also had mini bikes and go karts just like what I saw in the Sears catalog. When I walked into the store, hanging on the wall was a centrifugal clutch. I looked at it with amazement knowing that if I could get my motor running again, I could get one those and get rid of the belt drive system altogether. Then I could use both hands to ride my mini bike. They did have a set of rings for my engine, and I believe they let me borrow a hone to polish the cylinder.

It took me several attempts and I had to get another set of rings because I broke one, but I was finally able to get the cylinder honed and the new rings installed. I had to buy a ring spreader and compressor, so I was starting to amass some cool tools as well. After putting the engine back together and making sure there was oil in it this time, I got the engine started again. I was so happy. My dad had helped me with getting tools and parts as well as a lot of advice, but took a very hands off approach to this project. I don't remember at the time, but I can imagine that he was enjoying watching me persist in solving this problem. He probably thought he had the makings of a good engineer someday. 

With the engine fixed and oil in the crankcase, I rode my mini bike everywhere. One of the first places I took it was the hardware store to show them I fixed the engine. Using my feet for brakes was becoming a bit of a problem though. I still had normal size feet, but I was going through a pair of shoes every week or so. My mom would take me to Meijers and I would pick out the cheapest pair of shoes I could find. The harder the sole the better, but within a week or two the sole would be worn away. 

I did go back to Ann Arbor Implement and get the centrifugal clutch I had seen when I first went there, and I converted the bike over to a chain drive. Soon after was able to install a braking system that wrapped around the clutch and stopped the bike at the crankshaft. Now I had a fully functioning mini bike that I could drive all over the neighborhood. 

Driving through the neighborhood did have some issues though. For one, I wasn't old enough to drive or have a license, and for two, my mini bike made out of plumbing pipes was far from street legal, but having brakes did bring it at least close to being safe to ride. It was pretty rare that there would be police in my neighborhood as a kid. Every now and then a patrol car might come through, but usually they didn't come unless they were called. I did have a few close calls with them, but I was usually able to go off into the woods or something before they caught up to me.

There was one occasion where I had just pulled out in to the street after doing some work on my bike, and as soon as I did a police car came around the corner. I was really close to the woods, so I gunned the engine aiming toward the woods. At the same time as I pulled back on the throttle, the wire I had dangling from the frame to kill the engine fell across the spark plug and the engine died. I was busted. The police officers pulled me over and explained that it was illegal to ride a mini bike in the neighborhood. I apologized and explained to them that I had been working on getting the engine running, and I was just testing it out to make sure that it was working properly before I pushed it to the vacant lot behind my house. I wasn't exactly lying, and I think they mostly bought my story. In any event, they let me go without talking to my parents, so I was happy. 

My engine repairs and upgrades had been successful, and I got a lot of use out of the mini bike. Seizing the engine like I did probably shortened the life of the engine though. One time as I was riding home from a friends house, the engine started making a loud clanging noise and then finally a loud bang and stopped with oil draining out of the crankcase. I had thrown a rod and it had punctured through the side of the crankcase. There was no repairing the engine this time. I had gotten a good year out of the engine, so it wasn't as devastating as the first time. I walked the mini bike home and went inside feeling pretty defeated anyway. 

My dad looked at it and agreed that the engine was done. He mentioned that he had seen a lawnmower that the U of M Property Disposition that had a motor on it that might work. We took the trusty suburban over to the property disposition and sure enough they had an old reel type lawn mower that had a horizontal shaft engine on it. Basically it was just a manual push mower with an engine mounted on top. We bought the mower for $20 and brought it home. My dad had always had either manual push mowers or electric mowers when I was a kid, so he was a little apprehensive about letting me tear this mower apart. The mower was even self propelled, so he suggested that we see how it works first. I didn't like that idea at all. I was afraid that if he liked it, I wouldn't be able to pull the engine off. My fears were unfounded though. As soon as my dad started the mower, it took off on its own across the driveway sending sparks in the air. When it got to the lawn, it dug a two foot wide trench chewing up grass and dirt for about six feet before the engine finally stalled. My dad finally caught the mower and pulled it back to me and said "Do whatever you want with it".

I pulled the engine off the mower and installed it on the mini bike with all the components from the old engine. The shaft was at a different distance, so I had to do some adjustments, but I was able to get it running again. I rode it for a while longer, but as I got older the mini bike didn't get a lot of use, and I eventually sold it to a kid down the street. 

One of my biggest criticisms of my father growing up was that when he would show me how to do something, I was always stuck watching and had very little participation. I do much better with a hands on approach. When he would show me how to do photography or work on electronics projects, he would do everything and I would only be able to watch. As I wrote this piece, I realized that wasn't always true. There were cases like this where he would help me when I asked, but for the most part he would take a hands off approach and let me figure things out on my own. I can't help but think now that he did this intentionally to help me work on my own problem solving skills. 

Earliest Memories

I have a vague memory of Toronto. Actually I think I have a memory of remembering an incident in Toronto. I remember talking about it with my mother when I was younger. It was something to do with John and I, and I was climbing on something and grabbed a hanging lamp and pulled it down. That's all there is to this memory, just a momentary clip in time. I have a number of little clips of memory from my childhood that are kind of unconnected, so I thought I would put them together in this post. 

I am not sure exactly when we moved to Ann Arbor from Toronto, but it was definitely before August of 1970 because that is when my sister Carol was born. I can remember a woman from across the street coming over and watching me and John while my mom was in the hospital having Carol. She had a daughter my age named Kimmy, and I think we were friends, or as close to friends as you can be at 3 years old. I don't remember much about this except that we were sitting in the backyard playing. The backyard was totally different from what it looks like today. There was no addition on the back, there wasn't even a deck. I think it was just a sliding door with a step down to the grass. Our yard had a chain link fence. We were the only family in the neighborhood to have a fence back then because it was against the subdivision rules to have one. My parents got a variance allowing them to have one because John had Downs Syndrome. 

I do remember my parents bringing Carol home from the hospital, but I have very few memories of her until she was older. I don't think she really registered in my life until she was around three or so.

I have a few memories of Kimmy because I think we went to Nursery School together at the schoolhouse in front of the Dixboro Church. I can remember my dad taking me to school there in the SAAB he had when I was little. I can kind of recall doing art projects. I think that is all you really do in nursery school, crafts, story, snack, nap. Those were the good old days. There was also a marathon gas station just down the street where he would get gas. This was back in the days of full service stations. We got a nice set of breakfast bowls from the gas station. I think you got a bowl with each fill up. They had the stone age cartoon characters with the stone wheels on them. I can still remember eating cereal out of those bowls for years. I remember singing American Pie along with the radio while driving to school. It seems like it was on everyday when we went there. I also have a memory of sitting in the bathtub with my brother singing the refrain not understanding what whiskey and rye were, but thinking the words sounded cool anyway. 

One of the other memories from that time was John getting on the school bus and going to school. High Point hadn't been built yet, so he was going to Sullivan School. Of course it was the stereotypical short bus, and my mom would take him out to the bus every morning. I remember she had some kind of portable seat belt that she would take with her and fasten him into the bus seat. I am not sure if it was for his safety in case of an accident or more to prevent him from wandering around while the bus was moving. My guess is that it was more of the latter. 

I mentioned the Wagon problem from my dads book in my goodbye letter to my dad. I am not exactly sure when that happened, but it was prior to 1974, probably  when I was around 5 years old or so. I had been playing in the woods behind my house and I found this pile of galvanized pipe. The wooded areas around my house used to be a farm and they processed maple syrup, so there was a lot of old farm equipment rusting back there. The pipes I found were in pretty good shape, so I hauled them back to the house, cleaned them up and put them in my red wagon. We had a bunch of extra squash in our garden, so I packed them in my wagon and went off into the neighborhood yelling squash and pipe for sale. I'm not sure if I sold all the Squash, but I did sell all the pipe to one of our neighbors, Bill Houtman. 

Big Wheels were our main mode of transportation in those early years. John and I both had one, and so did most of the neighbor kids. Taking our Big Wheels down to the Court was the highlight of our day in the summer. One of the houses in the middle of the court had a really nice steep driveway, so we were able to start at the top and race as fast as we could into the court. 

Mike, Scott, and Wendy Chisholm lived on one side of the court and we played with them all the time. I remember their neighbor had a really cool dune buggy that he had built himself. I don't remember what his sons name was, but he was part of our early group. The court played a huge part of our early childhood. It gave us a nice paved area to play in that wasn't quite in the road. We played games like kick the can in the evenings.

From as far back as I can remember we went to the community pool in the summer. I remember having swimming lessons there when I was very young. My dad loved to swim, and he would always swim laps during adult swim. I think a lot of the kids kind of resented my dad sometimes because he would be the only adult in the pool swimming for the 15 minute period. If he hadn't been there, they might have let the kids back in sooner. My mom didn't swim at all and rarely got in the pool even in the shallow end. John loved the pool, and he learned to swim a little. At the pool, you had to pass your test to be allowed to swim in the deep end and go down the big slide. To pass your test, you had to swim two lengths of the pool with out stopping, and you couldn't flounder too much. I passed my test at a very young age, and I loved going down the big slide. 

I remember my dad going to work everyday. He always dressed in slacks and a button down shirt. Sometimes he would wear a sport jacket. He always had his brief case though. It was an iconic image of him and his briefcase. He had several of them throughout his career, but they were always the same color and style. They opened from the top and had a single latch on the middle to keep it closed. He really looked and acted like a professor in every way. 

I really thought my dad was cool back then. He had all these cool drafting tools in his office and a manual typewriter that he used to write his book. He had shelves full of press on letters and symbols that he used for his book and everything he made. I loved playing in his office while he would work on grading papers or writing. I loved it when he would let me use his drafting table to draw on. I was never good at drawing, but I enjoyed being there with him. 

Church Attendance

This is one of my favorite stories about my father that I have retold numerous times over the years.

When I was in fifth grade, my parents decided to move me from the public schools to St. Paul's Lutheran school. The local elementary school wasn't working out for me which I will discuss in a later post, and there really weren't any private options that weren't religious. There were several other children in the neighborhood who went there, and the school came with a pretty strong recommendation. My fifth grade teach was named Miss Thunder, and she had the ability to scare a lot of learning into someone. 

When we started at St Paul's we found out that attending church was a requirement and that they would take attendance on Monday morning. Fortunately they didn't require you to go to their church, just that you went to church on Sunday. I suppose Saturday would be okay too. My family had never attended church, and my dad was a pretty ardent atheist, so this was a pretty big downside of the new school, but since it was a requirement, we started attending church. 

I can't remember if my dad went to church with us or not. I definitely remember my mom going, so I have the feeling my dad stayed home. We started out by going to the Methodist church in downtown Ann Arbor. I remember having to get up early on Sunday and wear nice clothes, then sitting through sermons being bored out of my mind. I couldn't believe how many times we had to stand, then sit, then stand again. I was constantly in trouble for fidgeting, and I really didn't like anything about it. I remember one time when the minister was discussing faggots asking my mom what that was, and she said it wasn't a nice word and was obviously uncomfortable with the sermon. There really was a lot of confusion between the way I had been brought up and the messages coming from the pulpit.

The worst was when the minister would get out his guitar and start singing the sermons. I am not sure if he had any talent as a minister, but I was certain he had none as a performer. I guess having a captive audience makes it easy to have a false sense of confidence in your abilities. At least with the guitar playing, I didn't fall asleep the way I did when the older minister would speak.

As I have mentioned before, my dad was not a religious man in any way. That being said, he didn't push his views on me. He let me discover my lack of faith on my own. I think going to church and going to St. Paul's accelerated that view. In the end neither one of us were militant atheists. My dad never argued with anyone about it, it just wasn't a topic he discussed. He figured there were a lot of people who got a lot out of their faith, and if it was working for them who was he to judge as long as they weren't interfering with his life. I would say I am much more argumentative, but I am still respectful of other peoples beliefs. I just enjoy an intellectual debate more than he did. 

After a particularly boring church service, I was talking to my dad at home, and I told him how much I hated going to church and wished I never had to go again. Now my father was a very honest man, so lying wasn't an option, but that doesn't mean he wasn't willing to explore loopholes. He asked me what exactly did they say when they took attendance on Monday mornings? I remember saying that the teacher just asks if you went to church over the weekend. He looked at me with a grin and said, "do they ask if you went inside?". I started smiling as I replied no, no they don't ask that. He said, so there is no mention of whether they are even open when you go. I was like, no, no mention at all. 

After this enlightening discussion with my dad, we started going to a chapel on U of M's campus since it was actually open all the time. We would drive downtown, go into the chapel, say a quick prayer which was probably hoping we could stop by Burger King while we were there, then we would go home. We did this for a while, and I would smile every Monday morning as I honestly answered the question from the teacher as to whether I had gone to church over the weekend. 

After a while it became quite a chore to drive all the way downtown to go to the chapel. We would run out of time on the weekends, and there was a Lutheran church just down the street. We would wait until the evening and drive over to the church, run up to the door and touch then handle, then run back to the car. Every now and then we would have to sing in a school function, and actually have to go to the St Paul's church, but other than that and a couple of weddings, my father and I never attended a church service again.  

Goodbye to my dad: Bruce Harvey Karnopp - June 13, 1938 - Jan 1, 2017

When I was really young, I though my dad was the most amazing man in the world. When kids would compare their dads to mine and say their dad was better than my dad, I knew they were wrong. My dad was a teacher, a doctor, and an engineer. In my young mind I thought it was so cool when he left for work in the morning I imagined him driving a train to work, teaching kids math, and then going to his doctors office to heal people. As I got older I learned the difference between a PHD and an MD, and that he wasn't the type of engineer who drives a train. I was a little disappointed that I would never get to ride in the front of the train with him, but it didn't change my opinion of him.

As I got older and started working in the tech field, I realized just how cool it was to have a father that went to MIT. In the U.S. MIT is the engineering school mecca, and I was really proud to have a father that went there. My dad didn't really like being an engineer. He worked for a couple of companies as an engineer, but it really wasn't what he wanted. He loved teaching, and he was very comfortable in academia. In actuality he was more fascinated in the math of engineering than the design aspects.

My brother and I were born in Canada while my dad was teaching at University of Toronto. My brother John was born with Downs Syndrome, so when my dad was looking for a new job, the University of Michigan was one of his top choices. Washtenaw county had plans to build a new school for special needs kids, so we moved to Ann Arbor right around 1970. My sister was born right after we moved here, and my brother did end up going to High Point School as soon as it opened. My dad remained in Ann Arbor as a professor of mechanical engineering at U of M for his entire career.

My dad really had two great loves in his life, his family and teaching. I wouldn't say that my father was the best father in the world, but he wasn't a bad father by any means. He loved his family more than anything, and his faults were because he loved us so much. As an example, when I was young, my dad bought a couple of gloves and a softball. He took me to a park and he tried to teach me to play catch. At one point the ball hit me in the mouth and I got a bloody lip and cried. My dad felt so bad about hurting me, we never played ball again. My dad and I both learned from this experience, and I can say he was an awesome grandfather as a result. When my daughter Sarah first started calling him grandpa, he was a little reluctant, but he warmed to it pretty quickly. He played a lot with my kids especially my son, and really tried to do things differently with them.

He and my mom were together until his death which is a pretty big deal these days. My dad always referred to my mom as his "Wonder Wife" and loved her with all his heart. He had nicknames for all of the kids. My brother was Turnip, and my sister was Itsy which was short for Itsy Bitsy Baby. My nickname was Bumble which came from a Sesame Street Cartoon. I recently found the segment on youtube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jiQ49q7Ivd8, and played it for my girlfriend. It was about a little boy named bumble who turned 9 and invited 9 swine to dine on wine while the mother was away. They destroyed the house and when the mother came home she kicked them all out, but let bumble come back in because she still loved him. It is funny how symbolic that nickname was with my relationship with my parents.

My dads love of teaching made him very happy in his career. There was always a lot of politics at the U of M, and it didn't sound like a job I would enjoy, but my dad loved it. He really enjoyed teaching, and all of the students I ever met would tell me that he was their favorite professor. He has remained friends with so many students over the years, and he kept in contact with them well beyond when his dementia took hold. A number of students contacted my mom because my dad had stopped responding to them, and they were worried something was wrong. I can't begin to count the number of times students have told me that my dad saved their academic career in engineering. He touched so many lives and received a number of awards for his teaching.

In 1974 my dad published a book called "Introduction to Dynamics" which he used in his class at the university. He dedicated this book to my brother and I which shows how much we meant to him at that young age. On page 189 there is a problem about a boy pulling a wagon with squash and pipe in it. The illustration for the wagon says "Turtle Enterprises LTD, JDK Prop." The problem was based on a time when I went through the neighborhood selling pipe that I found in the woods and squash that we had grown in our vegetable garden. Whenever my dad an I would build something together, we would brand it with "Turtle Enterprises" our fictitious company and often use "Bozobuilt" a division of Turtle Enterprises as well. We enjoyed building small projects together.

My dad's biggest hobby was photography. He also enjoyed swimming, and he did some cycling when he was younger. He continued doing photography in black and white even after the digital revolution pretty much wiped out film. He would order film from New York and develop landscapes in his basement darkroom. He loved the classic cameras and collected old 4x5 and 6x9 cameras. I think he really loved the mechanics of them and they didn't just sit on a shelf, he took them out and used them. He loved taking the same picture dozens of different ways from bracketing the exposure to using different films. In his later pictures, he really loved using infrared film on wooded landscapes. My dad and I would often debate the merits of film and digital. He did eventually buy a digital camera, but he hardly used it. He preferred to pack up pound upon pound of equipment on his cart and head off to take pictures. One of his favorite spots to take pictures was in northern Michigan near his cottage on Lake Huron.

When I got settled into my career as and IT Architect, my dad and I would talk about cycling, swimming, computers and photography all the time. We emailed each other almost daily throughout my adult life. When my dad came down with Alzheimer's, It started out slowly with little behavior changes, but as it progressed, he would forget who I was and think I was his brother and that my mom was his mother. It was hard because he would have good days where he knew me, and bad days where he wouldn't. Eventually my mom had to take his computer away, and it was then that I realized how much we communicated via email and how that connected me to my dad and the rest of the family. Eventually he had to be put into a home because he kept wandering and it was really dangerous. It was extremely difficult to watch my dad's brain dwindle away. So much of what defined him was in his intellect.

When my dad was moved to the Nursing home, my brother and my son were so amazing with him. My dad had taken care of John his entire life, but now John was taking on more of a caregiver role and helping him in any way he could. Forrest would do the same. He would stop by and make sure his bathroom supplies were stocked, talk to the nurses and hang out with my dad. We had several holidays and birthdays there, but every time he deteriorated further. His sentences got shorter and shorter until finally the most we could get was yes and no answers.

I remember one time visiting my dad at the nursing home, and when we got to the floor, we were told that he was at Church. I was astonished because my dad had always been an ardent atheist. He would never be caught dead in a church. We waited in the common area, and they rolled my dad back in his wheelchair, and in his lap was a bag of chocolate bars. Everything made sense at this moment. My dad could care less what kind of religion your are peddling, but if sitting through it meant he could get some chocolate, well that's okay. He was smiling while eating his chocolate bars.

When my dad was in the nursing home, he was 5 miles away from my house, but I didn't visit him very often. I meant to, and tried a number of times. I would ride my bike to his building then ride along the back where I could see his window, but I couldn't make it inside. I could do it if Forrest were there, but I just couldn't do it alone. I loved my dad, and it tore my heart out to see how far he declined. There were so many times I would ride my bike home feeling so guilty for not having the courage to walk through those doors.

On Christmas of 2014, we hired a transport company to bring my father to my house for Christmas. It was a great day. My dad knew who I was, and was really responsive. He enjoyed having a nice meal with the family, and everything was as good as it could be. We talked about doing the same thing for barbecues when it got warmer, but his health and mobility took a downward turn soon after that Christmas and I never saw him out of a nursing home again. The following Thanksgiving, my mom packed up my dad and brother and moved to a home in Florida where they could be closer to my sister. Forrest and I remained in Michigan.

This Thanksgiving Forrest and I visited my family in Florida and went on a cruise. We scheduled time before and after the cruise to see my dad. The first time we saw him, he wasn't in very good spirits and seemed really agitated. When we came back and saw him again, he seemed really happy to see us. He could no longer speak, but he smiled and held my hand. I really felt he knew who Forrest and I were and was happy to see us. This was the last time I would ever see my dad. A little over a month later he died on January 1st, 2017.

My dad was a wonderful man. I have really missed him since the dementia took away his ability to communicate. I really loved our daily emails hearing about his swimming accomplishments, his photography, and how the rest of the family was doing. I was never close to any of my extended family. I saw grandparents every couple of years, and uncles, aunts, and cousins once a decade or so, so I have never felt the pain of loosing a loved one. As much as I knew this was going to happen, and knowing it really was time for him to be released from this horrible disease, it is still really hard to imagine that I will never get the opportunity to talk to him again.

My dad had what they believed to be a stroke days before Christmas, and he stopped eating and being able to swallow. After 12 days of not being able to eat or drink my dad died on New Years Day, 2017.

My dad had no religious beliefs, and I inherited that from him as well. It is unfortunate that I don't believe that he is in a better place and that we will be reunited someday, but my brain isn't wired that way. Alzheimer's ate away at his life for years, and he died with very little pain, so I can say he is no longer being ravaged by this horrible disease which is better. I will never see him again, but he will live on in my memories and the memories of my children. I wanted to write this down as a way to remember him and give a brief synopsis of how I viewed our lives together. There is so much more I could write, but for now, I am just going to say goodbye to the father I loved for almost 50 years of my life.