In Memoriam, William J. Welsh, 1928-2026

I write today with both a measure of great sadness, and a measure of relief, of the passing of my father, Bill. The call came yesterday morning at 10:30, while we were underway on a remote stretch of waterway. In the universe's way of reminding us that life still goes on, less than ten minutes later we were boarded randomly by the Coast Guard for an inspection.

At our wedding in San Jose, California.

I know very little of my father's early life; he was very private about it. He had a difficult childhood in New York City, becoming estranged from his family and eventually an emancipated minor, making a living however he could. At 18 he enlisted in the US Army and did one tour, where he served in Occupation Forces Japan.

Perhaps my favorite image of us together. Taken at dinner on a trip to Miami with his friend and business partner.

After the Army he put himself through NYU on the GI Bill, majoring in business. Somehow in his early adult years he was able to scrape enough together to buy into the family business of friends, supplying wholesale meat in New York City. He eventually became a full partner in that business, which ultimately provided me my first W-2 job at age 14, operating a plug-cord PBX.

At the house in Emerson with our dog, Pepper.

He met my mother at NYU, where they were both members of the Newman Society. A devout Catholic, his faith remained important to him his entire life. They began their life together in a small apartment in New Jersey, eventually saving enough for a house in the town of Emerson, where I grew up. He left every weekday in the wee hours of the morning to drive to his office in the Bronx, and dinner in our house was always on the early side.

A tender moment, dancing with Mom in the living room.

We took up skiing as a family when I was perhaps ten, and my dad and I stuck with it. Some of my fondest memories of him are of skiing together, which we did until I left for grad school in California. We skied locally in NJ but also had many great skiing vacations in Canada and Vermont. He was my ski partner longer than anyone else. I also have fond memories of going with him to his club in Manhattan every winter Saturday to participate in a youth program there.

At the Banff Springs Hotel on a ski trip. We froze our buns.

Of necessity my father was very handy, and apart from his day job, he was also a plumber, electrician, carpenter, painter, tiler, and floor-layer. I'm quite certain I got my own disposition toward being Mr. Fix-It from him, and it has stood me in good stead. When I wanted built-in bookcases and a platform bed in my childhood room, he built them, and had me help.

At the Stanford quad while I was in grad school.

He had little time for it during his working years, but he was an avid stamp collector, and he returned to that hobby in his retirement. Sitting still was not his style, and he also picked up a part-time job driving limousines in his retirement, and he often had a few good stories from that avocation.

Skiing at, I think, Bolton Valley.

His was a life well-lived, and he went strong for some 95 years. More recently he succumbed to vascular dementia, and it has been over a year since I was able to carry on a conversation with him. Since June he has lived in a memory care facility, where he has been comfortable. He passed with nothing left undone, and we can honestly say that he died simply of old age.

A contemplative apres-ski moment at Mont Tremblant Lodge.

Rest in peace, Dad. I will miss you.