Richard Armand Gendron

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• October 23, 2018

  I will always cherish exchanging crazy jokes with my Dad. He made me laugh more than anyone I ever knew, and he gave me a wonderful quirky outlook on life that always makes the rough spots that much easier. <3
  
  
• October 24, 2018

  My brother had a great sense of humor and was a pleasure to be around. We would talk about experiences of our youth including, his violin (which he never learned to play, his favorite baseball teams (Red Sox and Dodgers), politics, religion, restaurants, the 3 stooges, our time filling prescriptions at the Newport Naval Hospital, his pets and a plethora of miscellaneous topics. He was always happy to see me and made me feel that I was very important to him, including the final week of his life when I visited him at the hospital. My brother was a true lifetime friend, and I already miss him very much. Ray
  
  
• October 26, 2018

  Dear Mrs. Gendron , Becky, Tim, and Angela, we are so sorry for the loss of your sweet father and husband . Your family has been such a big part of my life growing up, extending love, generosity and kindness , truly my second home . As years passed, Colin would also love being part of your mom and dad's home as well , Colin said "Grandpa Gendron is like a rock star , the best gamer ever ! I want to be just like him " and he always looked forward to visits with Carter and your dad. There was always a moral lesson in the gaming your dad would impart to the boys - the treasure in the fun was how much Colin loved playing games with "grandpa Gendron" gleaning little nuggets about fairness and honesty . We will miss him ! He is with Christ Jesus - his is has received his inheritance . Know you are in our hearts and in our prayers as you grieve this loss on earth , praying you have peace knowing you will be together again in heaven. We love you, Karen and Alan
  
  
• July 09, 2019

  Here are some memories of Dad that I recalled at his funeral: One of my earliest memories as a child – I couldn't have been more than four years old – I threw myself into my bed and cried when I found out we were moving to Puerto Rico for my Dad’s job. I was practically inconsolable because I had found out that it didn’t snow there. Dad sat down next to me and consoled me the only way Dad would do it – “Oh Angela, this’ll be great! It’ll be summer all the time! No freezing cold and no wet, sloppy snow to slip in!” He made light of the whole thing as much as he could to make me laugh, which I did. Although it really didn’t help much from a four-year-old’s perspective – I was still pretty upset about not being able to build any snowmen for the next three years – I remember feeling happy inside that Dad was trying so hard to make me feel better. Dad was also an absolute expert when it came to embarrassing us kids. I don’t know about Tim and Becky, but he managed to make me cringe quite a lot. To provide just one of countless examples, the very first thing he said to my Peruvian boyfriend Felix, who is now my husband of 33 years, was “Hey, Felix, my favorite song is Peruvian!” I closed my eyes, bracing myself. Felix, completely taken in, said, “Really?” My Dad’s response: “Yeah! Inka-Dinka-Doo!” Now, this was the very first time my future husband had ever met my family, and I just wanted to disappear into a hole. My embarrassment, of course, only increased my father’s delight. As a matter of fact, Dad liked this particular joke so much, that he brought it up again when he was in the hospital a couple of weeks ago. I told Dad that even though Felix had tested 82% native American in a DNA test, his ancestry was not necessarily Incan. “He’s not an Inca?” asked my Dad, in mock disappointment. “Well, is he a ‘Dinka’?” “He’s not even a ‘Doo,’ Dad,” was my deadpan response. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until fairly late in our relationship that I began to see very clearly how much of my own personality and passions were shaped in large part by Dad. First of all, Dad loved to read. He read the three of us bedtime stories with extensive insightful commentary, and he especially loved sharing comics with us. These fun experiences put a passionate fire in my belly to read anything and everything I could get my hands on. Dad especially loved reading about history. One day when I was about 13 years old, he called from work and said he had a surprise for me. It turned out to be numerous volumes of hardcover American Heritage magazines. The librarian at Chelsea Naval Base had given him the entire collection when it closed, because he had passed so many hours perusing them throughout the time he was there. Dad really knew how to make our brains hold on to memories when we were kids. That’s probably because he was so unconventional. And for me, those memories are as vivid today as when they happened decades ago. Dad was all about seizing the moment, no matter how small. The first thing he did before we headed for the beach one time was to pour iced tea on my face. Yes, it’s true, and no, this was absolutely not “child endangerment.” I asked him to do it while I had my head on his lap and looked up at him as he held his favorite glass of strong unsweetened tea. I reasoned that since I was going to get wet anyway, I might as well get started right away. And Dad being Dad, he obliged. As you can see, it resulted in one of those unlikely cherished lifelong memories deep in the brain that child care experts talk about so much today. When I was little, Dad told me he spoke French with his family when he was very young. This impressed the daylights out of me, and led me to a lifelong fascination with other languages and cultures, and eventually, even a graduate degree in linguistics. When Dad returned to us after a year of being stationed in Japan, I eagerly wrote to him asking for a beautiful kimono and a Japanese doll. Of course, Dad being Dad, he brought us a Japanese comic book and a package of instant ramen noodles. After I graduated from college and grabbed the chance to go to Japan myself, Dad’s first words as he bowed to me when I returned were, “From the Land of the Rising Sun comes our firstborn daughter.” Again, classic Dad. But perhaps most notable of all the interests I shared with him, and what turned out to be one of the greatest joys of my life, was our love of classical music. My first memory of this was when he took me to the public library in San Juan and clamped a big set of adult earphones over my tiny head. Out poured the beautiful sonorous notes of a symphony. I crossed my arms and looked up shyly, smiling broadly. It was a natural bond we had together forever after that. When I got my ballerina doll at Christmas, he spent a good amount of time playing with it together with me. He gave me recordings of his favorite pieces and stories for children about the great composers. Dad was my classical music buddy; we could talk about it for hours, and he always gave me his totally unique perspective. Even in the hospital, I was still learning amazing things from him. Who can I share my passion with now? Perhaps it is in this area of my life that I will miss Dad the most. Dad was a man of simple tastes and modest ambition. This frustrated me as a teenager, but I see now what a wonderful aspect of his personality this was. Dad was a gentle soul who loved animals, and he was remarkably nonjudgmental when it came to all other people. He never complained in his life, even before he died, after three extremely painful surgeries. “I can take it,” was all he ever said. I will never forget that as he was rolled away for his third surgery, as weak and frightened as he was, he managed to lift one hand to make an okay sign – like this – for all of us to see. One Sunday many years ago, when I accompanied him to church, I looked up, and there he was, speaking to the parishioners and capturing the attention of everyone! I still remember his message: “Don’t go to church just to fulfill your obligation and then forget about it the rest of the week.” Make it count, he said. Make your relationship with God count every day. And he really did, right until the end. You did good, Dad. We all love you very, very much, and will for the rest of our lives here on earth – and when we see you again in the not-too-distant future.