Dad died on July 14th, after a six-month battle with cancer. Here is the excellent memorial my sister Kelly wrote for Dad.
We lost my dad today. He did not want an obituary, but we wanted to put something in the paper to let the many people who’ve known him over the last 7 and a half decades know. The following is my effort to adhere to his aversion to the orthodox practices surrounding one’s passing and my attempt to capture his unique essence. I hope it brings a smile and a knowing nod to those who knew him and does not offend.
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John Peter Riordan, 75, of East Livermore, left this world on July 14 to join the Great White Buffalo in its happy hunting grounds. Peter was born on April 7, 1940 in the East Livermore home of his late parents, George and Serena Riordan, in sight of the home he later built and in which he resided for the last 26 years of his life.
Peter was a meat and potatoes kind of guy – especially potatoes, a love that was perhaps genetically predetermined by his Irish heritage. As for meat, for him, it came in only two modes – well-done or shoe leather. He appreciated a glass of wine with his meals, but only if the wine came from a box. He was not much for pretensions.
Peter prided himself on being handy and self-sufficient. His years working as a truck driver demanded those skills. No one rivaled him in his ability to string together colorful curse words while working on his truck during the weekends, but he respected that there was a time and place for such language and kept his talents to himself when the occasion demanded it.
As anyone who struck up a conversation with him knew, Peter had strongly-held beliefs, particularly in the matter of politics, and was never afraid to express his views and stand his ground. Those traits may not have served him so well in the Army and he often mused that his penchant for speaking truth to power may have been behind his transfer from the desert of White Sands, New Mexico to the frozen tundra of Fort Churchill, Manitoba. The latter assignment, however, fostered a life-long love for, and appreciation of, polar bears.
Peter’s strong sense of justice was matched only by his willingness to go to court to be vindicated. Notwithstanding frequently being out-lawyered, he never lost a court case because he only chose this route when he knew within his bones that he was right and that he had been wronged. The more esteemed and powerful his opponent, the more he relished his victory. If there is a next life, he’ll undoubtedly be back as a lawyer who is focused solely on fighting for the underdog..
His mother frequently observed, “One drop of Riordan blood spoils generations.” It is clear that Peter’s stubbornness, love of an argument in the pursuit of justice, and fair complexion live on in the two generations which survive him. They are proud to be so “spoiled.”
He is survived by his wife of 33 years, Kellee, his daughter, Kelly Horwitz, his sons, Shannon, Matthew and Jeremy, his grandchildren, Samantha and Isaac Horwitz, his brother, O’Brien, his sisters, Rose Orcutt and Rita Mynahan, and many nieces and nephews.
He was predeceased by his parents, George and Serena, his brothers Joseph, James, Patrick and Hugh, his sister, Jane, and his beloved St. Bernard dog, Dudley.
Per his request, there will be no funeral services. His remains will be interred with Dudley in the family cemetery he built overlooking the home where he was born.
Those who wish to honor him are asked to raise a glass of boxed wine or Bailey’s Irish cream and do something for the underdog.
Sometimes the best way to illuminate something is to tell a story. I have two, one involving Dad (which I may have already told you) and the other not, at least not directly. Both have something to say, to me at least, about who my father was.
I was minding my own business the other night, doing French or some such thing out in the man cave (my back porch). Jolene texted me (Dad would be shaking his head right now) to let me know that PBS was showing something about some place Downeast. I wandered out and soon found myself sucked into the attempt by an Italian businessman to convert a shuttered sardine plant into a lobster processing plant. It would mean jobs in an area that had none and yet the local head selectman fought the plant. I’m sure the fact that he was in the business of selling lobster and would suddenly have a competitor had nothing to do with it. In the back of my head, I heard Dad spit out “Sumna bitch!” at this jerk who put lining his pocket ahead of dozens of desperate people. The plant opened anyway and the people applying for, and getting, jobs made me even more mad: 70, 72, 73 years old, people who couldn’t retire, people who thought that a job paying $9 an hour was a God-send. I knew Dad would be just as disgusted, just as mad – he was practically sitting in the room with me. Then they interviewed an older, bearded lobsterman, with weathered crinkles around his eyes. He told how the selectman thought he was a big man in town, how he thought he owned everything. “Well,” said the lobsterman in a familiar Maine accent, “ain’t nobody owns me.” It was a stab in the heart. Dad had been dead for weeks and I’d just moved along – life goes on and you pretty quickly get caught up in it. But in this bearded, defiant, independent Mainer, Dad came crashing back to me. It was just the kind of situation Dad would find himself in, just exactly the sort of thing he’d say. I carry a lot of Dad around in me (ask anyone who has seen me curse while working on a project), but I’ll never have the backbone he had, the fight, the kind of anger at the little guy getting screwed over again and again that pushed Dad to confrontations I’d never dream to undertake. It’s all the more impressive to me because I know it wore on him, I know he hated it; but he did what he felt he had to anyway. We kids are expected to surpass our parents in so many ways – that’s the American dream, after all, but I’ll never surpass Dad in this. It’s the thing that always impressed me most about him and the thing I find so hard to emulate. Just makes it all the more impressive.
The other story some have you have heard. Last January Jo and I brought Dad to Lewiston, to a doctor’s appointment. They were still running tests and such at that point and we sat with Dad while a nurse ran the usual routine of questions: do you drink, do you have any allergies, do you have any other existing conditions, blah blah blah. All very ordinary until, “Do you smoke?”
“Yes”.
“Do you have a plan to quit or want information on quitting?”
There was just a hint of a pause, just long enough to let such an obnoxious question hang in the air. Then, with a snort, came Dad’s reply: “I think the cancer has a pretty good plan to get me to stop smoking.”
The nurse was clearly appalled and couldn’t think of a thing to say. I saw just a hint of a smile on Dad’s face and a twinkle in his eye. He loved every second of it and it was all I could do to not burst out laughing. There’s so much of Dad in that moment, so much that I can’t even put into words, but if nothing else, it illustrated his mischief, his love of pushing people’s buttons (especially when they are being stupid), his sense of humor, even in a really dark time, even a bit of his defiance of authority (one of his favorite past times). It was a classic Dad moment, one made even more memorable to me by its timing.
Dad gave me many things over the course of the last 44 years, but it’s this, him giving me something to smile, even laugh about in such a dark moment, that is so remarkable. Just one part of a remarkable man, one part of a remarkable life. Thanks, Dad.
Yesterday, I was moving a huge arm chair to the 3rd floor all alone. Sammy came alone while it was stuck in the door to the 3rd floor. If I’d had tools, I would have been throwing them. She offered to help. I told her to go away b/c I wasn’t very happy and didn’t want her to bear the brunt of it. I then proceeded to call it a son-of-a-ho-ah and got it up the stairs. Thanks, Dad, for the model of how to get a tough job done.
I’ve been reading “Nobody’s Fool” recently. I read it years and years ago, but am re-reading it b/c Paul just bought me the sequel and I wanted to refresh my memory before digging into the new book. One of the main characters, Sully, reminds me of dad in a lot of ways. Oh, and Richard Russo lives in Maine, taught at Colby, and the book is set in a depressed town in Norther New York. Put it on your reading list!
I will try to check it out – sounds fine!
I helped my landlady move a 60 lb air conditioner. By “help”, I mean I shoved her out of the way, hefted it myself, walked from the garage ignoring the very sensible cart she had parked for the purpose, then staggered up two flights of stairs, getting disproportionately, lividly angry as my wimpy arms started to fail me. That anger, courtesy of Riordan genes, got that son of a whore up the stairs. Just about killed me. Dad would be smiling. Well, almost smiling.
More like Dad would be shaking his head.