Remembering Robt. W. O'Brien (Sept. 15, 1926–July 27, 2014) with the words spoken at his memorial mass at St. Pius X, Portland, Ore., Aug. 14, 2014.
This is a story of love.
Dad was born in Chicago on Sept. 15, 1926. He was the third child of parents J.C. and Virginia O’Brien.
We think he would like hearing the names of his siblings today because they were family, and there really wasn’t anything more important to Dad than caring for those he loved. It showed to the very end.
And there could be no greater love for and devotion to the person at the center of his world. His one true one: our dear Mom, Marilyn.
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This helps explain why Dad never liked asking for help, nor was there anything to complain about.
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Throughout his neighborhood north of Chicago, Dad was known endearingly as Tubby O’Brien. His early years were a universe of family, friends, sports, and a collie named Rex.In 1944, after Dad’s junior year at Evanston Township High School, he enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps with his older brother Ken. Still only 17, he completed boot camp at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina . . . and was assigned to the 5th Division, 28th Regiment, 8th Battalion, Company C . . . or as Dad would say, “28th Marines.”
From San Diego, he sailed for more training in Hawaii and then onto the battle for Iwo Jima, bypassed Okinawa, and stopped at Sasabo, southern Japan. It was Aug. 14, 1945—the same day the war in the Pacific was declared over.
Within a year, he was on leave and back in Detroit finishing high school and starting college with the Jesuits at Univ. of Detroit Mercy.
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Meanwhile, with his younger sister Ginny attending Michigan State University, Dad knew right where to find the finest looking ladies. Ginny’s roommate at the Kappa Alpha Theta house was a 20-year-old Marilyn Smith.
On Aug. 25, 1951, Mom and Dad were married at the Shrine of the Little Flower by Fr. Charles E. Coughlin—who—because of his national radio broadcast—was easily the most recognized and polarizing priest in North America. As context, think Bill O’Reilly.When Mom introduced Dad to Fr. Coughlin, the celebrity priest told Dad how fortunate he was to be marrying Marilyn.
“Well, Father,” Dad said, “I’m not so bad myself.”
With the U.S. buildup in Korea, Dad apparently had O’Brien karma on his side. He spent only six weeks in Viegas, Puerto Rico, followed by nine months back in Camp Lejeune before finally being discharged.
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Out of the marines, Mom and Dad moved to Birmingham, Michigan, where Dad was hired by General Motors Parts, doing everything from sweeping floors to checking inventory. After a year of—in his words—showing up on time, he applied for a junior position in Pontiac’s San Francisco Zone office.
Aside from meeting Mom, he felt the job in San Francisco was one of his big breaks in life. At the start of 1952, he and Mom left behind Detroit . . . and moved west. In San Francisco, the young couple lived on Jackson Street (where Shelly was born), then to 16th Avenue (where Mike was born).
Within five years, the O’Briens bought a house in San Rafael, Marin County. By 1962, there were six mouths to feed and a few years later: Dad’s fledging career hit a crossroads. He could partner on a Pontiac dealership in the Bay Area . . . or stay with General Motors to help open a new Pacific Northwest Zone office . . . in Portland.
Portland was love at first sight.
He relished the weather, the commute, the home prices—and loved trading jabs with his brother and sisters in Detroit. He called Oregon God’s Country.He also loved his new home in Oak Hills, and so much of his joy was because of the people, several of whom are here today.
He understood the value of friends. A one on one chat with Dad created moments when not much else could possibly matter. He was always ready with a smile.
His affable charm meant you and he were now in on an inside joke. And he was the perfect balance between warmth and humor. Sincerity and bullshit.
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From my father, this is what I learned: first, a big part of success is being able to focus and keep cool under pressure . . . and second: It’s not wealth or acclaim for a life well lived, but simply not needing the elusive trappings of things.
Love what you have and want only what you need.
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What Dad wasn’t: an outdoorsman and handy. He was the original Mr. Can’t Fix It. There were people who could troubleshoot and do it themselves like Val Vasks and Harley Morgan, but--rather than ask for help--Dad just looked for the duct tape.
The funny part is that even his best tape jobs were a mess.
Somehow, we still managed to camp and go rafting as kids. He knew the value of play and being outside. He had a thing against sleeping in or watching cartoons on a Saturday morning. His TV viewing was all sports and news.
In no special order, it was basketball, football, baseball, and golf. Blazers, Giants, Cubs, Tigers, Niners, Seahawks, Ducks, Beavs, Fighting Irish. He always had an opinion, but he enjoyed the conversation more.
Dad was a happy Dad because he was a happy man.
And the ease in which he engaged people explain his knack for spontaneous nicknames. He is the only person I’ve known who could make someone feel special despite getting the person’s name wrong.
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| Second anniversary, 1953. |
It was as if details were frivolous, because all that really mattered was how best to provide for all of us, especially Mom.
He was good with a dollar without being stingy.
As a father and role model, Dad lived his life by example. Patient, tolerant, always kind.
Without diminishing Mom’s role, Dad deserves credit for so much of the healthy dynamic as a family. His advice was always so welcome because he rarely jumped to conclusions. Respectful and without judgment. If he lodged a criticism, it was deserved.Right from wrong never wavered.
There was no entitlement or false sense of accomplishment.
Our character was only as good as our last deed and doing the right thing in the here and now — and — Rule #1 — keep your head down/work hard.
Dad retired in 1987.
With mom at his side, Dad showed great dedication to the Church and did so while embracing the vagaries of humanity. He rarely talked about it outside the context of counting his blessings, but for two decades, Dad delivered food to abused women and children on behalf of St. Vincent DePaul.
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I’m certain Dad would be proud of seeing everyone here today. Knowing you care to take the time and being here for Mom and the family, he’s not only beaming with gratitude. He’s humbled to tears. That’s who he was.
I also sense his light in Shel and Don, Ira and Frances, Katie and Gordon and Landon and Jackson, Janie and Caitlyn, David and Kimberly and little Marilynn. Mike, Chris and Kathi, Madeleine and Connor. Rob, Kelly, Erin, Clare; Mary and Terry and Michellie and Paige, and my daughter Ellie.And those who sit before me as well as those who couldn’t be here today.
He’s touched all of us with a great life lived.
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