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.