Eulogy for Peter J. Foss
by his son. P. Michael Foss 06/15/07
Duty. Honor. Country. The motto of the
Army and a creed that shaped Peter Foss before he even set foot
in the Academy. My father was born with duty and honor coursing
through his veins, so the military was a natural fit for this
midwestern athlete from Minnesota farm country. West Point took
the teenager out of him and the Korean War put the man in. The
war was very similar to the trench warfare of the First World
War, gaining and losing a few hundred yards at a time within
the two-mile tract of land along the 38th parallel between North
and South Korea. In this quagmire Peter learned the valuable
lessons of leadership that would shape his military career, which
many of you know personally or have read about in the past couple
of days: his extended tours in both Korea and Viet Nam, his participation
in six major combat campaigns, his two Legion of Merits and four
Bronze Stars as well as a host of other medals and awards. But
to say his life was the military would be like staring at just
one mirror in a kaleidoscope.
My father was born with education and journalism
coursing through his veins, so becoming a college professor and
the Media-Communications department head at North Shore Community
College was a natural fit for this army officer with a Masters
Degree in Journalism. In his early years Pete was editor of
his high school paper and a reporter for the local weekly. At
West Point he was a spotter in the broadcast booth at the football
games and cadet assistant to the Academy's Sports Publicity Director.
He was president of the German-American Press Club in Ramstein,
Public Affairs Officer for the highly publicized Calley court
martial, and public affairs planner for the Army for the exchange
of POWs with the North Vietnamese in 1973. At North Shore, Pete
expanded the curriculum to include journalism, mass media, technical
writing, and theatre courses, and was the faculty advisor for
the Pennon, the campus paper. He was an elected member of the
New England Turf Writers and wrote numerous articles for racing
publications. But to say Peter was a teacher or journalist would
be like the story of the blind man who encounters an elephant
for the first time in his life. He grabs a hold of its trunk
and declares that an elephant in nothing more than a boa constrictor.
What made Peter Foss excel in all his professions
and endeavors, what made him a natural leader and so highly regarded
was that he genuinely liked people, and in turn, people gravitated
to him. He was as comfortable conversing with a private as a
general, could share a laugh with a student and college president
alike. Meals in restaurants would take longer because he chatted
up the waitress. On the subway ride to Fenway Park, he'd spy
an unusual t-shirt on the guy standing next to him, and before
you know it they're talking about it, and then some. When I
accompanied him to the track in April for his birthday, I was
amazed how many people knew 'the Colonel', and brought him up-to-date
with their lives . He would later tell me their stories and
of their hardships. He had an ear to lend and a question to
ask. Sixty years after Korea my father still heard from the
privates and sergeants he led in combat. For many years living
in Gloucester, upon learning my name, complete strangers would
ask, "are you Peter Foss's son?" and then they'd light
up and tell me how much they enjoyed his class, or better yet,
how much they enjoyed him. I even managed to avoid a ticket
from a Rockport patrolman who had taken his speech class at North
Shore.
Above all else, family meant everything to my father. As the
oldest son, he took the role of mentor, trailblazer, and captain
of the team very seriously. Had he shirked the hard work and
high expectations placed upon him by his parents, had he demeaned
his younger siblings, or worse yet, shown indifference, no doubt
their lives would today bear the scars. When his father died,
he became his stand-in as patriarch, and to the children of his
brothers and sisters he was the Pied Piper, the uncle with stories
and coins magically appearing from his ears. He cherished his
upbringing, and no matter how far away circumstances kept him
from Minnesota, he maintained the connection to home and family,
attending every wedding, funeral, and Johnnie game he possibly
could, with Mom as co-pilot.
When I became a stay-home Dad, my father never missed an opportunity
to tell me how proud he was of me, how important my work was,
and how much better at fatherhood I was than him. He regretted
missing out on a lot of his children's upbringing because of
the demands of the military. But that is not how I remember
it. As years pass, the duration of the long absences overseas
have condensed, so that is seems as if he was always there and
very involved. He was a great Dad, loving and even-tempered,
humorous and interested, and ever the teacher, he always took
advantage of a learning opportunity. Whenever a situation of
inequity arose, say someone getting a larger slice of pie or
perhaps allowed to shirk a responsibility, my sisters and I were
hit with three words that our eyes roll up into their heads:
Life's Not Fair. Why do I have to share a room with her? Life's
Not Fair. How come she's staying out until midnight? Life's
Not Fair. Life's Not Fair when a 70-to-1 shot noses out the
field and you have all the right numbers on your trifecta ticket
in all the wrong places. Life's not fair risking your life for
your country twice in combat while your family on the other side
of the globe prays for your safe return, or moving your wife,
kids, and dogs ten times in fourteen years. Life's Not Fair
to grow old, to outlive three younger brothers, or be too sick
to return home to bury a sister and brother. Life's Not Fair
to have your red blood cells fail you, while your white cells
overachieve.
Another credo he'd hit us with was "Mox
Nix", the German equivalent of 'never mind' or 'it doesn't
matter', uttered casually with a dismissive shake of the head.
Mox Nix informed you that the issue was essentially petty, that
you were better off not wasting another minute ruminating over
it and to get on with living. Whether it was the playful way
he said it, or the singsong melody of the words, it usually did
what it was supposed to do. For a genuine wrong, for the slight
that truly stung, or the bruised and battered ego, Dad would
pull out the big gun: Offer It Up. Drawn from his Catholic
upbringing, Offer It Up acknowledged the hurt and called upon
you to take a deep breath, gather it up in your heart and release
it like a flock of doves. It beseeched you to make a sacrifice,
to rise above it, to not let it eat away at you, to be bigger
and better because of it. In retrospect, I've come to realize
this three-legged stool of advice, (Life's Not Fair, Mox Nix,
Offer It Up) exemplified how Dad navigated the shoals and how
valuable his sage outlook was: in life there are problems, inequities,
and tragedies; sidestep the small ones and own the big ones,
but never, ever let them own you.
My daughter Charlotte recently rented the
Wizard of Oz from the library. At the conclusion, upon bestowing
a heart to the Tin Man, the Wizard conveys, "A heart is
judged not by how much you have loved, but by how much you are
loved by others." By that standard, by the tremendous outpouring
of sympathy and support received this week, Dad's heart was as
monumental as the Rock Candy Mountain. My father created the
story of the Rock Candy Mountain and told it countless times
to any and all children. It's a story about Peter and his brother
Joe finding a magic wand and they are granted three wishes.
Joe wishes for shoes and then wishes he hadn't wasted a wish
on shoes; with only one wish left, they decide to go to the Rock
Candy Mountain, a land where the roads are made of popcorn, orange
pop flows in the rivers, and lemon drops grow on trees. The
mountain is made of ice cream and topped by a giant cherry.
A magic carpet takes them there and they gorge all afternoon
on the landscape until they are too full to move, and soon fall
asleep on the carpet. As they nap, the carpet returns them to
their backyard just as their mother is calling them to dinner.
Because they had played so long, she filled their plates with
food. With great difficulty, they finished everything on their
plates, but passed on dessert.
The moral of the story is one of duty and honor, to appreciate
the food you have on your plate and all the hard work your mother
put into feeding you. But it is also a story honoring a beloved
brother lost too young, also from leukemia over thirty-five years
ago, and Dad's duty to keep Joe's memory alive. Now our storyteller
is gone, and it's time for the rest of us to pick up the slack.
Your tour of duty is complete, Dad, and you performed admirably,
with humor, enthusiasm, and leadership. You and Joe are together
again, and there's no longer a need to rush home for supper.
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