Judge Ned Fenlon, in memory of a great man and a good life

I said to my son Jules, "A close friend of your Gramps has died." He didn't bat an eye.

"Wait", I said, "Gramps was born in 1904." He began to catch on.

Judge Ned Fenlon, a Michigan legend, was almost 107 when he died on September 22, after a remarkable life of public service.

His obituary is here; but what I remember, aside from his professional achievements, is his bonhomie, the kindness of his beautiful brunette wife Jane and the particular, perhaps time-bound hospitality of their home.

In the '50s and '60s, on our block of Mitchell St., food and liquor were served in abundance by the Fenlons and similar neighbours. No one drank wine. If abstinent, you drank Coke (men) or Diet-Rite (women).  

Steaks draped over the edges of the dinner plate, accompanied by mashed potatoes, and for dessert, a homemade cherry pie floated down on the table. Despite meals that many today would avoid (or at least feel guilty eating), few of these Midweaterners died young; in a group of two dozen, at least four cracked 100.

At first I thought the secret might be physical labour, but though Dad and his cronies worked hard, they were usually at desks. Professional men of the time reviewed their files with an unfiltered Camel in hand more often than not.

The wives were at home. The gals dieted– cottage cheese was a staple– but men were largely exempt.

This crowd golfed, sailed the Great Lakes, shot skeet and afterwards, sat down with "a little something" and talked. If someone called, there was no way to leave a message, let alone pick it up while you were fishing. People called back.

They were vivid, forthright people who dressed for plane trips, church and dinner parties, sometimes flashily– check out Ned's slacks!

The women got chemical-loaded perms, wore perfume and furs, cooked with cream, butter and lard. Both sexes grudgingly accepted seatbelts; eventually, most gave up smoking.

If presented with the word "tofu", they would have guessed it was a Pacific island.
A gym was a place where prizefighters trained; a "cleanse" would suggest only a colonoscopy. A nut was created to be roasted, salted and served with a Manhattan.

I miss their unaplogetic claim to a good time, to which they felt entitled after the war. Their sacrifice was great, the lives lost keenly missed in our small community. Toasts were made in memory ("To Charlie, to Ike, bottoms up!"). Widows were looked after, parties held, new babies made. I was one.

He was the last man standing of my parent's circle. With his death, I've lost a filament holding me to that world, but I am still held in their embrace.