Michael B
Paul McCartney was on the radio recently. He's turning 80, and getting ready to release an album, "Paul McCartney III." It's also the 40th anniversary of John Lennon's death. Paul was asked what he was doing to memorialize John. He said he thought about him all the time. He would just sit and remember the things they did together... Like the time they went hitch hiking together and ended up in Paris. That was a fun trip.
Mike lived in many places and got to interact with lots of people he loved.
If you have the time, please add something to any or all of these:
- Send an email to: bpstrope.mbstropepost@blogger.com (and it will be an mbstrope blog post).
- Add a song to this playlist on spotify.
- Add a picture to this album on google photos.
- Leave a story in the comments below.
All of these should be open for anyone to add things. Please forward the link for this page to anyone who might want to add something: https://mbstrope.blogspot.com/2020/12/michael-b.html
Thanks for spending time with Mike. I'm sure he loved that. Thanks for any contributions here. -Brian
Comments
It looked like a conservative sedan. It was a wolf in sheep's clothing.
I hated leaving Germany, and my girlfriend, Laura. It was a shock to come to Kansas at 16. My dad's persistence with that project stayed with me.
The realtor's husband, Cecil Best, was a professor of civil engineering at K-state. He and my dad became close friends, mostly fishing together. Cecil was unusually smart with a dry wit. My god they were funny together.
When it came time for lunch, I pulled my money out to pay for my overpriced meal at the ski lodge only to hear the low tone behind me, "save your money kid, I'm loaded." :)
Sometimes I find myself saying this jokingly with friends or family when I treat, and it often comes with a "my Grandad used to say that," even if it may have been just this once :')
At West Point, in the 70s, he rode through the military cemetary to get to his office. There was a 15 mile an hour speed limit, with an occasional military police officer watching traffic. He said he'd try to go as fast as he could right by the MP, in hopes of one day getting a speeding ticket that he'd frame. I don't think they ever obliged.
In Nurnberg, in the 80s, he rode the same bike 5 miles or so along the canal (main-donau, I think). I was around 13 at the time, and I remember doing the commute one day to go see a doctor. It took forever, but it was a beautiful ride. I remember being surprised that my Dad did that ride everyday. A normal year in Germany is about as much rain as an 'El Nino' year in the Bay Area, and about 15 degrees cooler. My memory of his rain gear was a shower-cap like thingy that went over his military dress hat. He just got on the bike and rode it.
One time in the early '80s, we were getting off the top of the lift in Zell am See (I think) in Austria, and it was clear, calm and gorgeous (I'm sure). We could see the lake in the valley below the mountain, and all the other mountains around the lake. He said, let's take a minute. We stared. It was gorgeous. (Maybe like this.) And then he said something like, it's hard having to move all the time, but we get to see some amazing things.
I didn't get it then, but it was, and we did.
I was on a consumer panel at a conference for financial advisors, and I had to come up with an opening comment. I said money is like sex. Both are really important, and nobody teaches us anything about either.
It was a provocative comment and only partially true. He'd taught me plenty, and early. And I knew how sadly uncommon and helpful that experience was. It's the topic of a book that I've started outlining.
It was a sad expectation, and it was a lot more fun to be a dad in my generation.
Even with those expectations, we played catch, a lot. Usually a football, but sometimes a baseball, and later a frisbee. We didn't talk much, but it was relaxing. Probably for both of us.
Years later, at college, friends started playing hacky sack almost daily. It had a similar rhythm to playing catch with my dad. It's just a thing to do to connect. And it felt good.
I got to know Curt a little better in the 80s, during my parent's next time in Germany. They'd both "light up" the room when they were together. And they'd laugh. And they'd talk/orate some more. And laugh. And the Remy Martin VSOP was always close by. It's been years, and I'm sure the smell would bring me back to Zeppelinheim.
It meant a lot to see my dad so happy around his friend. It took me awhile before I realized how unusual it was for close friends, who hold each other in such high regard, to tell other people about it.
I'm sure the Remy Martin helped, but however they did, they found some magic together.
One time I noticed when he started, that he picked up a small twig and broke it into a few pieces. It seemed intentional, almost religious, so I asked what it was for. He said that as he jogged, he'd get lost in thought, and would forget how many times he'd gone around. So he broke a small twig into the right number of pieces, and each time he got close to the end, he'd drop a piece. He was done when he ran out of sticks.
Cool. Three things struck me: it's okay to get lost in thought, and even to plan for it; he could accept things as they were, even about himself; and he liked simple and elegant solutions.
He'd also found a way to be intentional when things can feel random and accidental. Later I remember my mom saying, your dad would have been a great Jew. I think she was right, and maybe that's one of the reasons why. He didn't know it, but he was also teaching me how to program a computer.
That happened when he was probably 17 years younger than I am now. He grew up faster than I did. I'm hoping Nathan will get even more time.
I wasn't around for most of the details of that, but I know how hard it is to start new things, especially after 50. I'm sure there were lots of scary moments. He just kept going.
He showed up. And kept showing up.
In West Point, I was walking with my dad, and he noticed a loose root-like vine thing growing up around an old tree. It was about as thick as a finger, and it felt dry and light with its own bark peeling off. My dad explained that it was "smoke wood." It was dead, and if you break off a bit, about the size of a small cigar, the wood was porous enough that you could draw air through it. Light it, and you could smoke it. Cool.
Mom wasn't impressed, but we spent lots of time after that finding the perfect smoke wood. I remember a picture of our cousins Tim and Cheryl visiting us, and all four of us, including Kelly and me, smoking, quite literally, wooden cigarettes, somewhere in the 10-14 year range.
I came to know Col. Strope during my assignment to Frankfurt from 1987-1989, and more when I was transferred to work within the orthodontic clinic. One of my oldest memories of Col. Strope were his words to me following a two mile run we shared one day for physical training, or PT as we called it, which went something like this: "thanks for running with me, now you can go and get in a real run." Running at a slower pace with Col. Strope wasn't a sacrifice at all; he was a man I admired and I enjoyed his company more than he knew.
Later, Mike and Mrs. Strope were to return to the States for a week to attend the wedding of one of their children (Kelly?). Mike asked that I stay at his home with Darren for the week. Darren certainly did not need a babysitter, just an adult in the house - and getting to know Darren was a delight. That request cemented the foundation of what would become a decades-long friendship I will always treasure.
Following my enlistment I kept in touch with Col. Strope through college and grad school. Eventually, Col. Strope became St. Mike and to him I became St. James. During our phone conversations St. Mike was always a steadfast encouraging friend. And though I never met Kelly, Brian, or their families, St. Mike always talked about them with admiring love.
Once, while visiting St. Mike, I had the opportunity to share a commuting experience that is no longer necessary. You see, there had been a flood and the road was impassable. So what does one do when the dip in the road is impassable? If one were St. Mike you utilize the row boat to ferry one's friend to your home! We laughed more about that story after the bridge was built, but what a memory!
I will always remember St. Mike as a wonderful man and friend to me, and most certainly St. Mike's spirit is counted among those I invite to prop me up in challenging times and with whom I celebrate in times of victory.
My parents often had a piano in their house, and he didn't play many songs, but I remember him playing Tennessee Waltz once in a while. I've since used it to teach people about the pentatonic scale.
One time when I was about 8 or so, he was driving and singing along with something he liked on the radio, and he went into a (precise) falsetto/head voice following the melody of some pop song. I forget the song, but it was the disco era. The man could sing.
When he was stationed in Korea, he ordered a Yamaha acoustic guitar through the military exchange. The guitar had a slightly shorter scale with a smallish body and the lowest action I've ever seen on acoustic guitar. Together that meant the strings were a little looser than they'd be otherwise, and it was incredibly easy to hold and to play. It was a perfect guitar to get me started.
I asked when I was 11, and he knew that I'd bump it around, and he knew that I'd be careful with it. He said something like, have fun.
Casey loved to run, and my dad loved hunting with her. At home we all worried about accidentally letting her out. She seemed to want to run so badly. And out hunting with my dad, she could run free.
My dad had a black and white picture on his wall of a spaniel at the top of a fence with one paw on the fence post, and the others on the fence. The dog was looking at what was next on the other side of the fence. The caption was something like, from this point forward, my own master.
Early on, I saw the dog wanting to be free, and to run. Later I saw my dad wanting to be out on his own, free from the limitations of the military that also supported him so well. Then I saw myself, free from a similar relationship with corporate life.
And now I see my dad again.
I first met Mike a few years ago when I would come over to help Darren and Nikki. I would often end up spending my time at their home sitting with Mike and visiting, which I always looked forward to. Mike always had such good stories, and he was so good at telling them, I could almost picture the moments he was describing. (One of my favorites is him telling me about a time his kids accidentally skied into a different country without their passports, not many people can say that!) I was in school at the time, and I always appreciated how Mike would give me bits of encouragement and advice, so to say, about getting through school. I moved back home to finish getting my degree and would often think about the Strope family, but kind of lost touch for a while. When I moved back to Manhattan, Nikki and I reconnected and I started spending quite a bit of time with the two of them, which I feel so fortunate for.
I have so many fond memories with Mike (and Nikki), and find myself smiling or laughing to myself thinking about them. All moments that I will cherish forever! Here’s one of my favorites- I had been over at Mike and Nikki’s home for Thanksgiving and the next day I was getting ready to leave for my hometown. I leaned down to say goodbye to Mike, saying the usual, “see you later!” He squeezed my hand and said, “See you later apple gator.” He clearly recognized it didn’t come out right, but it made us both giggle. That’s definitely the cutest catchphrase I’ve ever heard and plan to keep using, I think I’ve shared it with most of my friends and family already.
There are several things that come to mind when I remember Grandad.
The first is his dry, witty humor and ornery grin. Half the people in the room or around the table missed his joke altogether - the delivery was so smooth, sharp, and timing was perfect - but if you did get it, you could always catch his eye after and share a sweet moment with him. I'll always remember that look; he was so tickled and pleased.
The second is his sweet tooth. There's a story about Grandad as a little guy, no more than 3 or 4 years old I think, going door to door collecting warm cookies from all the neighborhood ladies. At some point, his mother taped a sheet of paper to his shirt that read, "Don't feed Mikey cookies". That was a long-standing joke in our family as Grandad's sweet tooth carried over well into his adult life. As a kid, I remember he always had a jar labeled "Cookies" on top of the fridge, and we could always count on it being full of homemade cookies. As he got older and baking wasn't as easy for him, I (gladly) began to bake for him, replenishing his supply each Sunday evening when we got together for family dinner. It became something I looked forward to every week: searching for a new recipe he might like, or pulling up an old one he loved, collecting the ingredients, and baking with love, like he taught us. There's something special about baking for a fellow sweet-tooth who truly appreciates and recognizes a delicious treat, and I could always count on Grandad for that :)
My favorite thing - especially in his last years - was to ask grandad about his childhood, or his days as a practicing orthodontist, or trips and adventures he'd taken with family and friends. Something to trigger his memory of earlier days, easier days on his mind and body. He'd light up like a little boy as he told stories with such intricate details and precious memories. Through his stories I saw how much his life and all the people in it meant to him.
Grandad was an avid bird-watcher. We never talked about it, but I think he must have been an avid people-watcher as well. He intuitively picked up on small things; gestures, looks, grins, sighs, masterful in understanding human nature and interaction. I admired his attention to detail, not only in his professional craft but in his personal relationships and way of life.
He had purpose in what he did and what he said. His words never felt like they were chosen lightly. He was so wise and precise.
I am forever thankful that Sam and Jack got to meet, and know, Grandad. Seeing Grandad and Sam connect, sit together and talk, share a laugh, a story, made me happy. I'll always remember when he first held Jack in his arms. I sometimes see Grandad in a look or grin or tilt of the head from Jack. He lives on through his family, and in the resounding impression he continues to make in our lives.
And there's box of silverware I ended up with, that he refinished beautifully.
Like all his work, he took pride in doing these things well too.
But by far, his favorite finishing project was the work he'd done on the stock of a rifle. It was a beautiful hardwood, and he spent so much time getting it smooth, before starting the finishing, he could already see not just a sheen, but the beginnings of a reflection off it. He was making a mirror out of wood.
My mom commented that there were other places for him to put his careful attentions, and he smiled proudly.
And I think he was most proud when he showed it to a local friend who ran a gun shop. His reply was something like, yep, Doc, you done good work here.
My brother Darren appreciated the magnitude of the offer, and he and my mom would end up with something close to a proper feast, with crab or lobster or something else that I wouldn't have gotten close to at that time.
One year I asked for root beer, eggnog, and hot dogs, roasted over the fire, thank you very much. I had so much that I was asleep on the couch by 10. Yes, my stomach hurt, and yes, it was perfect.
But the best was as we got closer to midnight, my dad would make (actual!) fried doughnuts, usually in a wok, if I remember right. They were hot and fresh, and then he'd put them in a paper bag with cinnamon and sugar and shake them around. They weren't very big, so I think I usually had about 4.
It was the perfect way to start a year.
The point for this story, is that at some level, the presentation part mattered to my dad.
And my dad was funny.
I wish I could remember the joke, but it had been building for a few hours. It was raunchy, and each of us had a come back, stoking the fires, building the scene. We were riffing, slowly adding lines to what someone in the scene would have said. It's right there, I just can't remember it.
Anyhow, we got a good line during one of the readings. It was perfect. Whisper, mutter, mutter, and the scene opened up, and we had to be silent. They were reading the gospel according someone other than St. Mike. Presentation mode. Impossible.
Eventually I looked over, and there it was, a tear. :)
We spent many thanksgivings in his downstairs garage cooking the thanksgiving turkey(s) in the deep fat fryer. We would tell stories and laugh and have wonderful conversations about life. Darren would come down and join in and then Brian would show up with his guitar and serenade us while we kept an eye on the turkeys cooking. Great memories and fun times.
Grandad and I made an annual trip to South Dakota to hunt pheasants at my college roommate's farmstead in Kimball, SD. We always had such a great weekend with the Smith family hunting birds, enjoying dinners together, laughing and telling stories over and over.
My folks live in Billing, MT and every year Grandad would make his trip north to Malta, MT to hunt and visit with his high school friend. He would always stop and spend the night with my parents in Billings. My folks always looked forward to his visits each year. I remember my Dad telling me the story about he and Grandad going to breakfast one morning in Billings and they were discussing politics, the news, military (both retired Colonels) ... and when the people sitting behind them in a booth got up to leave, they stopped by their table and told my Dad and Grandad how much they had enjoyed their conversation!
Grandad was a very kind man, wise and witty. He cared about others and was a good listener. He cherished one-on-one time with friends and family. I miss conversing with him and spending time with him. He was a wonderful man and I feel fortunate to have had the privilege to spend so many wonderful years together.
I send you the biggest hug I can.
Your life with Mike was a gift from God.
I'm thankful you enjoyed each other as long as you did!
Dick and I are humbled. We never know what tomorrow brings.
I celebrate your time with Mike (he was a pretty neat mate!!!
and a pretty neat friend for us!!!)
And I pray for God's love and peace and encouragement for you in the days and weeks and months ahead. Truly.
We are hurting with you Nikki.
Truly.
Love,
Cindy and Dick