Frederick Haigh Obituary

Eulogy by Robert Haigh



My father, Fred Haigh, would prefer that we talk about something else, anything but him, and that’s one of the things that made him special. He believed that you didn’t talk about doing the right thing, but that you did the right thing. This specialness helped him attract good people … or maybe it’s as if he attracted the good in people.



So we could talk about electronics, music, fishing and he would be happy … but, for once, he can listen to us talk about him. By all accounts, he was a bright kid. His biggest childhood disappointment? He wanted to buy a wrecked Model T and restore it. My grandfather mumbled something about him not having a driver’s license. This fascination for how-things-worked took him through Georgia Tech, graduating as a mechanical engineer. At the outbreak of World War II, he joined the Navy and served as an engineering officer aboard ships in the South Pacific. Down in the engine rooms, he figured out how to generate enough smoke to disguise the ships, saving them and the crew. The Navy showed its appreciation.



So did my mother who was serving in the Coast Guard. His love for her was as intense on the day he died as the day he met her.



Lest you think he was perfect, he wasn’t. He could be sitting at the dinner table, but his mind was on his work, at the cement plant, figuring out some seemingly intractable problem.



And his affinity, even reverence, for restoring old, mechanical things could be embarrassing. Not so long ago, we were out on some lake in the early morning. The water was like a mirror; the mist just beginning to rise … and out of this peace and calm we heard some fisherman yell, “How old is that trolling motor?” My father kept casting. I yelled back, “Nineteen sixty three. You do the math.”



When color TV’s first came out, he built us a color TV. A central air conditioning and heating system? He designed and installed it. Tuning the piano? He taught himself. Growing up, I can never remember a serviceman coming to our house, except maybe for the pest control guy.



And he would never admit it, but he always bought cars that he knew he would have to fix. Ramblers … certain Fords and Chevies. But when it came time to buy a car for my sister when she went away to college, what did he get her? A nice, reliable Toyota.



Then there was the basement room where we restored two Model A Fords. A room filled with the great smells of oil, grease and kerosene; and sometimes mildew. The best part was that my mother and sister refused to go down there, “I just don’t know how you can stand it.”



It’s impossible not to grieve for my father, but to his ordered, logical mind, grief would be a waste of time. Death is a natural progression. He wouldn’t want it any other way.



Words fail. He was always there for us. He always did the right thing. Thank you for helping us remember him.