Bob Goodman

When he lay dying, I flew from New York to Virginia Beach, Virginia, where he lived. I needed to tell him something.

He was my uncle, my father’s older brother. Robert Goodman, aka Uncle Bob. I had grown up in the same town where he lived with my aunt and their four kids. I saw him often. He was tall, taller than my father, maybe six feet. He was a sweet man, smiled often and gave me the great gift of listening to me and talking to me as an equal.

He took advantage of life. He enjoyed the pleasures and enlightenments it provided. He lived near the beach, as we did, near the ocean, and, unlike my father, he would go there every day to swim or walk. Sometimes I would see him there in the morning when I went surfing. His lanky, trim body would be streaming with salt water, and he would have a great smile on his face as he dried off with a towel. “Hello, Richie,” he would say. “It’s a beautiful morning. Good to be alive.”

He was in the same profession as his father, real estate. My own father chose another path to make a living. I never knew my grandfather, their father; he died when I was a baby. But when I look at photos of my grandfather, I see Bob more than my father.

Bob with his niece, Andrea.

My uncle Bob loved to read, and had rows and rows of books in his house. We had no books in our house. When I was old enough to care, I would scan the titles. Many I didn’t know, and he would tell me about them. He also made great use of the local library. I always found the practicality of his using the library encouraging.

I felt warmth and goodness from him. I felt acceptance. I felt love. None of which were at my own home, and so I imbibed them greedily and happily when I visited his house. At one point, we lived very close to him and his family. Our houses were about a ten minute walk apart, if that. We shared a lake. After my parents divorced, and I went away with my mother, I was in Virginia Beach mainly in the summers. Our families saw each other often then. They would come to our house or we to theirs. Later, my father and stepmother built a new house near the ocean, and Bob would often park his car at the house when he went to the beach for his morning swim. I would see him then, afterwards, refreshed, exuberant, like the old days.

Books meant something to Bob. They were part of his life. A significant part of his life. I remember once we discussed Catullus, whom he liked very much. So, when I began to write and told him about that, he was pleased and he made me feel as if I was doing something worthy and real. In other words, that being a writer was something which a grown man could aspire to.

Some years later, Bob with his mother, my grandmother.

I started writing with purpose and conviction when I was a sophomore in college. I began writing fiction. I was around 19. I took one of my stories to Bob and asked him if he would read it. He said, of course. He took the story from my hand right then and there went to his room to read it. I waited anxiously in the kitchen. After an agonizing length of time—probably twenty minutes at the most—he came back with my story in his hand. His wife, Augusta, my aunt, happened to be in the kitchen.

He turned to Augusta and said, “Richie always manages to find the right word.”

No one had spoken to me like that about what I wrote. No one had responded to the very thing I tried with all my heart to do. I burst with pride and gratitude. And those words, coming right then, when I was commencing to write, stood me in good stead and fed my passion for years to come.

A year later, he gave me one of the best gifts anyone has even given me—a Smith-Corona manual typewriter. A beautiful machine, hard-working and loyal. I received it with as much excitement as I imagine Arthur did Excalibur. It stood by me for decades.

Years passed. I wrote a book. It was written mostly on the typewriter Bob gave me. The book was published. I sent Bob a copy, and he liked it very much. Characteristically, he wrote me a lovely letter saying that he was proud to know the person who had written the book. Proud to know me! I wrote more books, wrote essays and articles. From time to time I would send them to him, and he would read them and tell me how much he liked them. His support never wavered.

I was living in New York when I received word in 2006 that Bob was dying. He was 93, so it wasn’t a surprise, but nevertheless I was shocked to hear. He had taken great care of himself, and so even at 93, I thought he had more time. I flew down to see him. When I reached his home, he was sleeping deeply most of the time, and it was impossible to talk to him. I could see his slim figure on the bed through an open door, his chest scarcely rising and falling.

I said to my aunt, “Please tell Bob something for me. It’s important. Please tell him that he was the reason I became a writer.” She promised me she she would.

I often still draw on those words of his spoken to me with such sincerity and directness so many years earlier. A writer can be fueled and inspired for many years by meaningful words spoken at the right time in his life. Especially when he is young. They can be a lifeline in times of discouragement and darkness. Bob was a giver of light, and I basked in it and felt its warmth. I still do.