some guy in lebanon

I did not know my Great Grandfather but in the briefest of senses – When he died I was not even three years old. There are pictures of me with him, and I suppose any ‘memory’ I have of him is clouded by those photographs.

Yet no one can deny the degree to which I unconsciously feel his presence in everything that I do – It was his friendship with Nick’s Great Uncle, Governor Sumner Sewall, that led him to purchase Ropes End in Small Point, leading not only to my long and formative time at the Small Point Club, but also to Nick’s inevitable suggestion that “Lebanon would be a nice place to move to, don’t you think?” And I would like to believe that, if genetics or heritage plays a part in anything, the instinct in my mind that immediately agreed to leave my cushy work-from-home job in consulting for the great unknown on the other side of the world was part and parcel of the instinct that led my great grandfather to agree to everything that his family and country asked of him, no matter how bureaucratic (like founding the Federal Aviation Agency) or life-threatening (like dog fighting in bi-planes), and everything in between.

I’ve had conversations with various members of my family, as well as people who knew him, trying to get to the heart of the man – It’s as if I have a ghost that haunts me, determining an extraordinary amount of my life and my decisions. Well if I am to be haunted, I suppose there are far worse ghosts to do the haunting!

And just when I felt that following in his footsteps might have led me right off a cliff (see my last post), two things happened.

First, I began to reassess and reevaluate a statement that my grandfather made about General Curtis, that is – “The thing about my father is that it was simpler to be a hero in his times.” On one hand, I agree that this is true – He was born at a time that allowed him to fight in two world wars, as well as participate in the development of Eisenhower’s America and the golden years of Kodak. On the other hand, I’m sure my grandfather knows full well that his father’s life transcended his era – The distinction, the key element of that transcendence, is at the heart of what I would call the most interesting of personality traits: To live a life that is as unpredictable as it is executable. To leave college and steam off for France prior to America’s entry into the first World War was unpredictable, but was also the hallmark of many men of his day. But the key, it seems, to his success, was in execution. This is what made what otherwise might have seemed ‘rash’ choices become the clearest and most obvious of paths for him to take. Looking at memorials of his life, it is clear that while (perhaps many) others could approach his successes by making spectacularly unpredictable decisions in their life, only a few possess the capacity to execute plans that do more than just make those decisions viable in the long term – they  ultimately make them success stories. And when a man possesses that trait in times of war or times of immense corporate or governmental development (he lived and thrived through all of these) he will be constantly called to put that trait to good use, and will be consistently recognized for it.

But I sincerely believe that anyone can be heroic in the style of my great grandfather if they possess the capacity for success in unpredictable ways by flawless execution, regardless of the times they live in. If I am to inherit the consequences of his life’s path, and potentially also inherit the world he helped shape, to truly capitalize I must also seek that level of flawless execution, regardless of the world around me.

Second, right on cue, shortly after publishing my last post, my mother received a package in the mail from her parents, containing many old pictures and memento’s from her earlier years, along with pictures of me and my brother when we were young boys. These were treasures from our past, and it was wonderful to have them – but for me, the most important piece was a small leaflet tucked unassumingly between two pictures of Ned, my mother, and I, in Europe over a decade ago: The program for my great grandfather’s funeral. In it is his eulogy that my grandfather wrote. Reading it now is a revelation – if only I could accomplish half the things he did with his life, I’d die with great peace of mind.

In the interest of educating my few readers as to the footsteps I’m following in this crazy life, and hopefully I am not offending any member of my family by doing this, I would like to share this document – this testament to my great grandfather, the man who has had such a huge impact on my life and my personality, despite the fact that I never knew him and can barely remember meeting him.

So – here goes:

Edward Peck Curtis – Remembrance of a Valiant Life

“And walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch”

These words from Kipling’s “If” give some insight into the extraordinary man that my father was. He walked with kings, and presidents, and statesmen, and they welcomed him as one of their own, knowing his true worth.

And yet until last week I couldn’t go downtown without a cop at the Four Corners, or a Kodak Office receptionist, or a liqour store clerk, or the dry cleaner, asking me, “How’s your Dad? Tell him I say ‘Hi’, will you?” And I would, and he would recall prior meetings and conversations with each of them.

Medals and honors and awards came to him in profusion, and for the most part he wore them lightly. The Distinguished Service Cross he valued – that was for valor in combat and he knew the cost that went with it. But ask him how he won his second Croix de Guerre and he’d tell you, “Oh, some silly French Major got drunk and fell in the Seine and I pulled him out” – which may well have been true.

For titles he cared not a whit. One of his favorite stories was about going to the Baltic Provinces in 1919 with U.S. Commissioner Jack Gade. He was Gade’s deputy, but the appointment was a last minute offer and the only slot left in the approved table of organization was that of chauffeur.

“Sure,” said Curtis, “I’ll be chauffeur,” and off they went to Latvia, where he would mind the store while Gade was roaming about the provinces. He would send cables back to the State Department describing the local situation and he would sign these cables “Curtis for Gabe.” This practice finally brought forth a plaintive query from then Secretary of State Henry G. Lansing: “Lansing to Gade. Why your chauffeur signing cables?”

What is it that defined my father? The editorials speak of style and grace, and this is true, but does it consist of? It seems to me that three very special qualities came together in him:

The first was commitment and dedication to the job at hand. The first to volunteer in two World Wars; always ready to take on the tough assignments so long as he believed in them; never seeking appointment for its own sake (he turned down at least two cabinet offers, feeling that others were as qualified as he); but undaunted by challenge when he knew he was uniquely suited for the post; never did he fail his country or community when they need him.

The second was an extraordinary sense of what was appropriate and fitting. A small thing, perhaps, but always a concern. The paper reported, for instance, that he only called President Eisenhower “Ike” between the war and the White House: it was always “General” before and “Mr. President” afterwords. And how fitting, and how complete, that he should have died three days before the birth of his second great-grandchild – and he knew that she was here. One thinks of Ogden Nashe’s poem:

“When I remember bygone days
I think how evening follows morn
So many I loved were not yet dead
So many I love were not yet born.”

And the third quality was that marvelous gift of cheerful irreverence that marked so much of what he did. He knew and followed President Eisenhower’s maxim: “Always take the job seriously, never take yourself seriously.”

I remember 20 years ago when Debba was confirmed in this church at the height of the crises between Eastman Kodak and the FIGHT organization, in which the church played no small role. It happened that I was ushering that Sunday, and as I passed the plate he put in a $20 bill and, in a stage whisper that I don’t suppose was heard more than ten or fifteen pews away, said, “Not a penny for FIGHT!!”

If you go to St. Paul’s Cathedral in London you will find a simple marble plaque in the crypt that reads “Si monumentum requiris, circumspice” - if you seek his monument, look about you. And it is of course dedicated to Christopher Wren, that great architect of the Cathedral and so much else of London after the fire.

If you seek my father’s monument, you will not find much of bricks and mortar or lasting name. There are some: Curtis Hall at Eisenhower College (he was not stranger to failure); a line on the Collier Trophy in the Smithsonian commemorating the award he got as Special Assistant to President Eisenhower when he authored the study that led to the establishment of the Federal Aviation Agency; the Edward P. Curtis Award for Excellence in Undergraduate Teaching at the University of Rochester (that he truly valued, since it kept him in touch with the best of those who teach our young); but there are many lesser men who have left greater superficial monuments to their name or at least their fortunes.

Yet, if you seek his monuments, you have not far to look:

When you fly in safety, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of tyranny overthrown and democracy triumphant in two World Wars, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of the golden age of Hollywood in 1930′s and the man who sold them every inch of film they ever shot, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of committed service to country and community across an incredible number of fields and ventures, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of devotion to family – to parents, and sister and wife and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of cheerful bravery and courage – not just the kind that leads you to volunteer for a solo flight fifty miles behind enemy lines to bring back vital intelligence about the German retreat at the battle of Argonne, but also the kind of courage that makes you step forward time and time again to take on the job others didn’t want or didn’t recognize as something that had to be done, and the kind of bravery that characterizes your every battle, even that dreadful conflict no man can win against – old age and death – remember Ted Curtis.

And finally, over and beyond all these other things, when you think of the nature and the meaning and the values of friendship, remember Ted Curtis.

There was never a man so blessed with such a richness and diversity of friends, and if I were to begin sharing those tales with you we’d be here past midnight. So let me settle for one story (apocryphal, but no less true for that). It was once written that if you were to truly appreciate this man, you would have to go to the farthest corners of the earth, by jet plane and bus and jeep and camel, and finally on foot, until you were up in the hills way back of beyond. And there, it was said, you would find a cafe, and you were to stand at the mouth of this cave and call into it “I’m from Rochester.” And a voice would come out of that cave and reply, “Say ‘Hi’ to Ted Curtis for me, will you?”

And so, on behalf of my mother and my sisters and all our family, I say welcome and thank you to all of you who have come for the last time to say “Hi” to Ted Curtis. We very much hope that all of you will join us across the street at Eastman House immediately after the service for a reception and a chance to share old tales and happy memories.

How can we sum up the life of this astonishing man and his extraordinary accomplishments? My words are inadequate, but perhaps at the end I might share with you two bits of poetry that seem to me to sum up both what he did, and what he was. And one of these is my choice, and one is his.

Mine first – again from Kipling, the last stanza of his eulogy to Lord Roberts, British soldier and statesman who died in France in August 1914 on the eve of that great war that was to change the world and the lives of generations of men, beginning with my fathers’s. And Kipling wrote:

“Yet from his life a new life springs
Through all the years to come
And glory is the least of things
That follow this man home.”

And finally, at the very end, his choice, from Hilaire Belloc:

“From quiet homes and first beginning
Out to the undiscovered ends
There’s nothing worth the wear of winning
But laughter, and the love of friends.”

Amen

Edward P. Curtis, Jr.
St. Paul’s Church
Rochester, New York
March 23, 1987