Obituaries aren't complicated matters. Especially for someone with a degree in journalism. Unless one is writing obituaries for Bill and Grace Morrison from the perspective of their most proximate grandchild.
The traditional obituary sketches a person's life with death date; birth date; occupation; preceding deaths; surviving relations; and funeral arrangements. But to write traditional death notices for Bill and Grace Morrison is to do disservice to their lives.
In Text, Bill died age 83. In Truth, he was just days away from his 84th birthday. In Text, Bill died July 13, 1999. In Truth, he died the day Grace did. In Text, Grace died April 23, 1997. In Truth, she died in 1993 when Alzheimer's left us her image but stole the woman who called every day to say "Know anything new? No? Well then you're just as dumb as I am."
In Text, Bill was one man. In Truth, he was two very distinct people: Bill With Grace, and Bill Without Grace. One walked the straight and narrow, well-behaved; the Other did not. To keep Bill on the straight and narrow was no mean feat, but Grace did it. And achieving it with such subtlety was nothing short of miraculous. Who hadn't watched Bill at the dinner table getting hot about nothing, puffing up, and getting ready to go into orbit. The practiced eye watched for the almost imperceptible movement of Grace's arm as she'd place a quiet hand on his knee. Instantaneously Bill's hackles deflated, the air fizzling out of him like a hot air balloon whose journey was over. If he was out of her reach? Who hadn't heard his blustering roar reduced to a mew with one soft "Now, Bill" fallen from her lips.
Bill Without Grace had lived a very colorful life: A veteran of WWII, and a Master Mason, his history included working for Al Capone, Howard Hughes, and appearing in the 1926 version of "Ben-Hur" and other MGM films. For a very short time he managed a brothel. After refusing to accommodate a labor union near Provo, Utah in the late 1930s, he was pulverized by Jack Dempsey 's sparring partner. Most of Bill's best stories began with uncivilized behavior on his part and ended with Violet LaPreal saying "Well, I hope you're happy with yourself!" Most of his best stories that never were began and ended with Grace saying "Now, Bill."
In Text, he was graduated from Middleton High School on May 10, 1934 and later attended his 60th reunion. In Truth, he almost didn't get to graduate because he'd gotten up the administration's nose. And at his 60th reunion he wasn't remembered as "Bill" or even "Wilbur." It was not until he introduced himself as "Dot's owner" that people recognized him as "the guy with the dog."
In Text, Bill married Violet LaPreal Noakes on March 19,1938...she died on their ninth anniversary. He married Frances Baum Marcy in the latter 1940s. As for Grace, her alcoholic first husband, Frank Paessler, committed suicide shortly after their marriage. Jack Cawthorne, who was abusive and stole her money, died in a car crash. Bill and Grace married on August 14, 1963.
In any obituary one may assume a first spouse is the True Love Spouse; the spouse whose loss was most crushing.
In Truth, Bill and Grace never lived happier years than when they were together. In Truth, for both of them, the third time was the charming True Love of Their Life. They were sweethearts until the end.
In Truth, to list only begotten children as survivors is to paint an incorrect picture of them both:
An obituary should list Grace as having no children. Yet nothing could be further from the truth. A widowed new bride, Grace raised Frank Paessler, Jr. She was the matriarch of our family. She was the mother figure one turned to. She was maternal support to Alice, to Jean, to JoAnn Petersen... Delivery does not make one a mother and Grace was more mother than most without ever giving birth.
In Text, Bill had a stepdaughter, a stepson, a daughter, and a son. In Truth, he had two sons. For genealogical purposes, I first put quotation marks around the word son in listing David Petersen as a survivor. But I felt it an insult to David. I changed it to "adopted-son" but it still didn't ring true. David loved Bill, and Bill loved David. He was his son as much as Larry .
And grandchildren! Oh, the muddied waters of our family estuary! Blood-cousin Deanne and I share a genealogical passion. Through e-mail we exchange gleaned information along with successes and failures in chasing the elusive Morrison lineage. With this and future ancestral sleuths in mind, I am compelled to put quotation marks around grandson titles for Dennis Petersen and Scott Hofer. It is wrong. Bill and Grace influenced these infant boys into the grown men they are today no less than their begotten grandson, Jim. It irked me to desecrate Bill and Grace's relationship to Rick Pollick , Don Petersen, and Greg Hofer with quotation marks, but for Dennis and Scott, it hurt.
It has always been second-nature for me to share my grandparents unequivocally with other kids. I was born into said situation at the Van Nuys Seventh-day Adventist Church where I can safely say Bill and Grace sat as patriarch and matriarch. I simply was not allowed to consider them my personal treasures; they were in the public domain, period. And yet, I did have a little, tiny something that the other Van Nuys grandkids didn't. The Petersen and Hofer boys were known as respective Petersens and Hofers . I was not known as Chrissie Cummings. I was "Bill and Grace Morrison's granddaughter." I enjoyed moving to Texas and having my very own name. But Bill and Grace followed Alice and David's families to Keene. It wasn't long until my name reverted to "Bill and Grace Morrison's granddaughter." I didn't mind.
Obituary quotations haven't been a problem with great-grandchildren; the line between Born of Blood, and Born of the Heart blurs so badly that when it dwindles down to the grandchildren's children there just is no distinction at all.
I am convinced that of the blooded grandchildren, Larry's children were Bill's favorites. And I don't mind a bit. I am convinced that I was Grace's favorite, and I am proud of it. The heartfelt tie between Grace and I was far stronger than the blood tie to Bill. But I looked up to Bill in a big way. I don't know if I am the person I am today because of descent or decision, but Bill made me the person I am. Nike must have been eavesdropping as Bill had pivotal discussions with me as a child. "Just do it." You don't want to? Just do it. Afraid you'll look silly? Just do it. It hurts? Just do it. It's gonna hurt? Just do it. It would be easier to walk away? Just do it.
Don't be a wuss.
Perhaps it was indeed bloodline instead of boldness, for as much as I also wanted to mold myself after Grace, I fail, and am poorer for it. If I do have a gracious point, it is that I succeed with diplomacy. But I shall always bow to the Mistress who taught me.
It was Bill who recognized and encouraged my desire to write and draw. My first manuscript, the one he died believing would be published, is dedicated to him and my 5th grade teacher/mentor. But Grace got a manuscript written about her...a children's book titled The Girl With A Soul Of Purple And The Gramma Who Understood . The dedication reads:

To my gramma, Grace Morrison,
who always understood, always had time for a conversation, and always had a rabbit skin to wrap her baby bunting in.

and the end notes read in part:

I remember the exact moment and setting when I found out that my biological grandmother was Violet LaPreal Morrison, not Grace Morrison -- the only gramma I'd ever known. I also remember that I did not, and still do not, care. Grace Morrison was, and still is, the only gramma I've known. Anybody can be a grandmother and I had two of them. But it takes someone special to be a gramma. And a special someone she was. I had to share her with every kid at church: They all called her "Gramma Grace." And still do.
Alzheimer's claimed her mind, but not her body, in 1993. Nature claimed her body on April 23, 1997. Her soul has always been with God. The last material gifts she gave me were several "Puerto Vallerta" quilt blocks -- with purple fabric in them.
My twin daughters are named after my biological grandmother Violet LaPreal who would have loved me if she hadn't died when her daughter, Alice LaPreal, was seven years old. Nicole Violet LaPreal Tristan and Kilory Violet LaPreal Alexandra were not named after Grace, who still managed to ask about them occasionally through the thick fog of Alzheimer's. But since she also occasionally asked about Chrissie LaPreal -- her granddaughter with the soul of purple -- I know she understood. And wouldn't have it any other way.

Thanks for visiting.

* Family History & Photos * Bill and Grace : A Love Story
* Alice * Morris * Nikki & Kilory * Alan * The Webdesigner
* Tributes to Alice and Morris at Another Site
* The Petersens * The Pollicks * The Hofers * Larry * Deanne
* Homepage *