Working the Sunday New York Times crossword in pen

John Robert Layman 1929-2008

My big brother died two weeks ago today in St. Paul, Minnesota. He leaves his two beautiful daughters: Ann Elizabeth and her husband, Dennis Scott and Marian Ruth and her husband, Matthew Kirby. Some of you may recall that his only son, John Robert, Jr., was killed in a horrible accident last October.

John is survived by a talented and gifted grandchild, Daniel Scott, a freshman at Northeastern University in Boston and another talented and beautiful granddaughter, Stephanie Scott, who is still in high school in St. Paul. My treasured former sister-in-law and mother of his children, Marilyn Stockton Layman, lives in Kansas City.

He also leaves his little beloved sister Shirley Anne, his little brother, Curtis Frederick and me, Andrea Margot. I am sixteen years younger than John and the baby of this wonderful family.

A baby sister's memories
There are many. One was when we greeted John at Kansas City's Union Station just returning home from his duty in Korea when I was six. It was cold and snowing. Packed like slices of pickles in a jar were Marilyn, John and my eleven-year old bro, Curt, in the backseat of the 1952 sedan; Mother, me and Daddy in the front--you could do that in the old days--we were all so excited to have him home safe from war.

Later in the evening I listened to their grown up stories, asked Daddy what the "call of nature was" when John mentioned a bullet whizzing by his ear, getting to stay up until my mother had to drop kick me into the bed. I'll never, ever forget how relieved Dad was to have John home and how Mother, God bless her, was plenty relieved too.

John was brilliant and rather a puzzle. He loved classical music. He had a fabulous gift of woodworking, something he fell heir to from his great grandfather and name sake Robert Curtis Love. Like him, John was very gentle and held a sad acceptance of life. Yet his tremendous humor offered me a respite that was reassuring. He didn't promise anything like a heaven or something like a fairy god mother, but was more interested in telling the truth in what lay ahead. It was as if he trusted that certainly I was strong enough to handle it. Sure enough, he was right.

I'm not really sure of his beliefs spiritually as he simply wasn't the kind of guy to discuss such things with his kid sister, maybe with a pal, but not with me. He was a fatalist in that he saw usually what was coming, said it, cautioned you not to be surprised, then helped you get over it. This knowledge is not unusual in men of John's age and geography.

Maybe this basically Midwestern trait is passed down as a survival skill from those ancestors who came across the Cumberland frontier leaving the comforts of Virginia, New York, Pennsylvania, i.e., already knowing you'd better figure out what's ahead and not cry over the inevitable spilled milk.

His attitude of life, and my own, which I see more clearly now that have the perspective of living in such a limp place like California, must have come about from being the child of my massive father, as well as from the similarly proprioceptive strength of that parent's immense will power and sense of honor. Add to such a foundation the fight, spirit, faith, pride (oh my God, her pride) and the guidance of an equally strong-willed, highly intelligent and occasionally hysterical and neurotic mother and you've formed a pretty complex personality. That's not all bad, by the way, contrary to popular psychological opinion. Not that John didn't have his moments, as we all do. He indeed did.

It seems to me though John did life pretty much without complaint and carried on always with a sense of humor. I think he got that from Mother, who claimed she was never bored as long as there was one book left in the world to read. John felt the same, I think.

"Sister," he'd say as he turned "Rite of Spring" over on the turntable he had built by hand, "when you're depressed, take a walk down to Katz," the best drugstore in KC. Then he'd lean down to pick out a perfectly straight--by eye-- two-by-four stick of mahogany, light another Lucky Strike, switch on his finger-threatening lathe and show me how to make a chair leg.

After he did his part for Korea (maybe he never thought he had a choice, however unlikely, although the beginnings of dodging the draft was part of the chatter in his crowd), John married beautiful Marilyn, studied for premed at University of Kansas, fathered my nieces and nephew, then after a time on his way up at Ford Motor Company in KC, he was offered early retirement in the 70s, to which he responded, "Gosh, I've never had so much dough in my life!"

Talk about la dolce vita, John Robert took the money, the benefits and never looked back, not that he needed it. He raised his family, did what he needed to do. Everything John touched was financially a good thing. The guy liked to work, so when he later moved to Louisiana, naturally he formed a couple of hands-on businesses. As he got older and was in failing health, he moved to St. Paul to be near Ann, his daughter.

I must mention that John and I were the Kansas City Chief's original fans back in Nineteen-Ought-Whenever. I will won't forget our times at Arrowhead Stadium. Come to think of it, John was an excellent athlete in his day--just one more thing he was good at. I'm sure John was a source of pride for my dad, who was an high school athletic coach for fifteen years before he went into industry.

My sis and I saw John three years ago in St. Paul. We toured the St. Paul Cathedral, walked through that capitol city with him as if he had been recently hired as its official tourist guide (it is truly a lovely, old town). Ann told me he had begun walking daily to the St. Paul Library and had a regular route of buddies to see. John never met a stranger, as they say.

John's memorial was last Saturday in St. Paul. It was hard to say goodbye, especially as "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring", and the rest of J.S. Bach, John's favorites, played around and through us.

John's mind, although not as memory-sharp as it was because of his sickness, was never far from the NY Times crossword puzzle, especially Sunday's. "Sissy," he'd say to me, "you're not really a pro until you work the Time's crossword in pen, with no cross outs, like me." Then he'd laugh that sweet laugh.

John worked his life in pen--with no cross outs.

Good bye, John. I love you.