The first memory I have of my father takes me way back to two or three years old. I was sitting on the floor next to his chair in the living room of his home on Dailey Circle in Rockville, Connecticut. He, of course was sitting in the chair. I crawled up into his lap and put my head on his chest, and he held me. I had never, and have not since felt so safe as when I was being held by my father. I could go on and on about how he would wake me up and bring me down stairs to share some ice cream with me, kiss me good-night and send me to bed. My memories of him don’t stop there. I remember emulating his every move one morning, from shaving, to reading the paper, to even looking out the window of the front door; in my case, it was an imaginary window because I couldn’t see over the door knob, let alone the strip of small windows at the top of the front door. Whatever he did, I shadowed. I am sure it aggravated him after the first few minutes, but this was my hero, and I wanted to be him.

My Dad was the hardest working man I ever had the honor of knowing. He bought an unfinished house in 1960 when he and my mother began their family. When we were young children, we rarely saw him because he worked to support his wife and family, two sometimes three jobs. When he wasn’t working for someone else, he was finishing the upstairs, and the basement of the house. He was also the most caring, and most giving man. He was honest, and earned every dollar that passed through his hands. He also gave his time and labor to those who couldn’t afford to pay him in money for his services. I remember going out on a job with him one New Year’s night to get the electricity back on in an old house. To my recollection, all he did was change a fuse, but the man was so grateful for his time, he gave my father a bottle of Cutty Sark for his trouble. A small token, it may have been, but a large gesture it was. My father also once took, in lieu of payment for his services, his pick of a litter of puppies, which he appropriately named “Three-way” after the nature of the job he did for the lady. In that, he showed the unconditional selflessness that many of you came to know him for.

In raising six boys, my father first and foremost commanded respect, for him, and his wife, our mother. To say he was ‘a little’ strict was an understatement. He didn’t want us to do anything wrong. And for the most part, we didn’t. The problem was, if we did do something wrong, we would never get away with it. It seemed as if my father knew what we did even before he got home from work. It’s like he had his spied all over the city. I can recall one time when we convinced our Mom to let us ride our bikes up to Legion Field for recreation, and some of us decided to ride our bikes down the middle of West Street, between the yellow lines. Dad came home and looked for us. He knew about us riding down the middle of the street before he even got home. We all wondered how he could have possibly known about it. Well, it turned out that one of my Dad’s friends passed on the street, and one of my brothers recognized the guy and made sure he knew who we were by waving to him. I don’t think it would have mattered anyway. Brian did get away with something once, though. At least we think he did. We were sleeping out one night, and Brian and a couple of the kids decided that they would take a walk down to the 7-11 at 2am. According to Brian, as they walked into the store, he saw, one of Dad’s friends (Man, they were everywhere), Larry Rice. Well, Larry walked over to Brian and told him… “You know I am gonna have to tell your dad I saw you don’t you… But don’t worry, if my wife knew I was out at 2am, I would be in more trouble than you… *wink*).

But really, the true test of our respect for Dad, and Mom was during the summer of 1976. Dad had taken employment in Waterville, Maine, and spent the weekdays there, and came home on Friday nights. By that time, there were three teenagers, Steve 16, Brian 15 and me, 14, and three pre-teens. We had our chance to run wild with my Dad gone, but we knew better. First of all, mom scared the hell out of us much worse than Dad, and we knew, if we got in trouble we’d get it twice; first from her, and then when Dad came home… Just picture this… Dad walking through the back door, and Mom waiting for him with a list in one hand and the thickest belt she could find in the other, saying to Dad “take care of it.” I can’t speak for Steve, or Brian, but I don’t think they got into any trouble. I know I didn’t. I’m sure there were some infractions, but they must have been minor in nature.

My father was a man who never believed we (the kids) should get everything we wanted. But he did everything he could to make sure we had everything we needed. We didn’t get clothes with the cool logos, or the coolest sneakers. We got clothes and sneakers. The lesson was that it doesn’t matter who makes the clothes on your back, as long as you have clothes on your back. Even today, to me that is a valuable lesson. My father never expected any of us to be the best, but he expected all of us to always give our best. It was acceptable to try something and fail, as many times as it took to finally succeed, except when he sent you out to the shed to get the one tool you either have no idea what it is or where it could possibly be. At that point, if you couldn’t find it, you were better off staying in the shed all day rather than tell him you couldn’t find it ?. My father once told me that even if we were wrong, he would always support us. He never let me down. And even though, many times I felt like I let him down, he never showed it. His love for us was the same, no matter what.

On the bulletin board in my father’s house in Connecticut, my father placed a green laminated card. I was six years old when I first noticed it.. On the card was a poem called "Your Name". It goes like this:

My father gave his name to six sons. His sons have honored him by never having that black mark placed by his name. It’s the highest form of respect a son can give to a father, and just emphasizes the job well done by my father and my mother.

To close, my father was a man’s man. He took responsibility for himself, his wife and his family and left us wanting for nothing, material, mental or spiritual. When we were down, we could always go to him. He and my mom raised six good men. Some thirty years ago, I told him, that I conceded that I could never be the best, because I knew I was raised by the best. I am sure my brothers can join me in saying that. He was a man who set goals, and accomplished them. He told me once he had a life-long dream of owning a T-Bird convertible and driving to the Grand Canyon. He realized that dream only five years ago. I went with him to pick up the anniversary edition of the Ford Thunderbird. Driving home from the car lot, being scared to death as he tried to see how fast he could get that car to go, you could look at his face, and see the kid in him for the first time in a long time. Shortly after that, he and mom took the dream ride out to the Canyon. You see, to him, the brass ring was never out of reach.

And now, just as I crawled into his lap to sense the security of my father’s strong arms and comforting voice, my father, Richard Lionel Bureau, has crawled into the lap of The Lord to his comfort and safety. As Steve said on the morning of August 17, The Lord Jesus was waiting for him with open arms. He is home now. I’m sure he’s found his father, and Brian, and they are laughing it up together now giving St. Peter a major pain in the backside. Let’s just hope he never suffers the consequences from stepping on a duck…

 Mark R. Bureau