Manford Newman, one of my favorite people ever, died last night.
My Mom sent the email that gave me the details. The subject was "Manford", and it
hit me like a phone call in the middle of the night. I was crying before I opened
the message.
Manford had lived more than 80 years (maybe more than 90, I can't remember) and suffered
from dementia towards the end. But when my siblings and I were growing up, he was
our local grandfather. A Pseudo-grandfather, if you will (our living grandfather at
the time lived 2.5 hrs away, and we saw him once or twice a year). He was funny and
lots of fun.
A couple of random thoughts:
Our family went on a camping trip with the Newmans in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
That's where I learned to play Skip-Bo and got most of my early camping exposure.
Manford would come once a week and mow the church lawn, and I often (grudgingly) helped
him. He'd do the big parts, and I would do the edging.
One of the funny things he did was at picnics or dinner parties: after the food went
around the table once, he'd pick up a dish and pass it again. Sometimes it would take
awhile for everyone to catch on.
Manford set up a huge model train scene in his attic. I always think about Manford
whenever I see a book about trains or look at the Railroad Museum across the street
from where I work.
Manford is survived by his wife (my Pseudo-grandmother) Helen, numerous children,
(real) grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
