Private

Bob DeFrank was born on June 23, 1939, to Evelyn and Ralph DeFrank in Jamaica, NY. Cherished husband of Adrienne, they were married more than 65 years. Steadfast father to Bobby, Tony (spouse Edy DeFrank), Michael (spouse Gina DeFrank), John (spouse Katie DeFrank) and Adrienne (spouse Vincent Modugno). Proud grandfather to Anna Sampson (spouse Ron Sampson), Joseph DeFrank (spouse Brittany DeFrank), Maggie Rodriguez (spouse Ken Rodriguez), Gio DeFrank, Nicolette DeFrank, Jacqueline Modugno and Fiona DeFrank. Comforting great-grandfather to Kenny Rodriguez and John DeFrank. There is much to say about Bob/Dad/Grandpa/Poppy, but one must say he left a lasting impression on anyone who spent time with him. Growing up our friends tended to spend a lot of time at our house. Dad lived life unfiltered no matter who was around. He told it like it was, whether you liked it or not, and most people came back for more. John's best friend Dominic was around so much he and Dad would trade phrases and mannerisms. It seemed like Mike's friend Raffe lived with us during the 1980 winter Olympics. My best friend Dave used to tease Dad incessantly about his 29-inch inseam. It's a wonder he lived. But Dad made a lasting impression outside the home, too.

At my 40th high school reunion Howie Burger came up to me and had to tell me a story he couldn't forget. He was 12 years old and playing first base in Plainedge Little league. A batter hit a ball between first and second, so Howie moved to the right to catch it. He couldn't reach it and when the second baseman picked the ball up there was no one covering first. Later in the game another batter hit a ball in the same place. This time Howie caught the ball, but he couldn't get to first base quickly enough and the runner was safe again. As Howie was setting up for the next pitch, he heard someone in the stands yell, "If he leaves first base again someone punch him in the mouth." That was Dad giving Howie some helpful advice. Howie never forgot it, and I'll bet few people in the stands did, either.

Dad worked at many things in his life. He was a roofer and a stone mason, and throughout his life he was a capable electrician, carpenter and plumber. Growing up, I do not remember a repairman ever coming to our house. Probably nothing frustrated Dad more in his later years than knowing how to fix or build something but being unable physically to satisfy that need. In his later years repairman who came to the house would suffer under his watchful eye. But what dad was first and foremost, was a policeman. Though his time wearing the badge was only about 25% of his 80+ year life, his attitude and approach to life is reflected in this experience. Though police are often stereotyped as hard and maybe heartless, no one runs toward danger, towards someone they don't know who is in need and risks their own safety out of anger. Such behavior is driven by love. Though many among us lament the poor treatment police receive in some quarters today, such harsh attitudes are nothing new. I remember in the late 1960s and early 1970s--Vietnam protests and urban riots--the attitude toward police was as bad or worse than today. That era gave rise to the term "PIGS." In those days the police turned that slur around and we COP-kids were wearing "PIGS are Beautiful" tee-shirts. PIG stood for Pride-Integrity-Guts. The best capture of a Cop's perspective on the world was explained this way: think of society as a tall building with hundreds of floors. On every floor are different types of people.

People with different incomes, different educations, different religions, different races and ethnicities, and different combinations of income, education, religion, races and ethnicities. It is the police, in any location, that will visit more floors and more different people, than any other group or occupation will. They will see different people at their best, people at their worst, and sometimes both at once. More than most other professions, Cops are also likely to address the situation itself, not the income, education, religion or race of those involved. Consequently, in their private lives Cops can reflect the complexity they see every day. No one knows this better than their families. More than anything, Dad was a family man. It started with Mom, and they spent more than 65 years married. Married as teenagers, they defied the stereotype of needing outside help to build a life, buy a home, and raise children. Few can imagine or endure the stress and strain they must have felt. It is humbling to consider. Mom and Dad understand that the greatest honor one can have is to protect and care for your family. It is not a burden. It is a privilege. Dad reveled in the role of protector and provider. That doesn't mean everything was perfect. Dad wasn't. There was plenty of good, some bad, but you could learn from both. The best thing I can say from experience is that as Dad's heart aged, it softened and expanded. As life progressed from children to children and their spouses, to grandchildren and great-grandchildren, he had more people to worry about and care for. He welcomed this role of provider and protector, even as his provision was needed less and he needed protection himself.

Dad loved to eat. He loved to cook. And he loved when other people ate what he cooked. He enjoyed family gatherings, especially sitting at the head of the table directing the operation. Though sometimes there was tension, there was always a lot of laughter, especially as he got older, and the volume of memories grew. Our childhood dinners were not always like that. Back then Dad would start every meal with the commands: sit down, pass the salt and pepper, and shut up. Eventually we could talk. One of his most famous practices during our teen years was to look around the table and the bottomless pits eating around him and ask, "do you know how much you kids cost me?" Of course, we didn't know and were too self-absorbed to care. Dad complained, but he always paid the bill. Dad was a disciplinarian. He came from an era when ships were wood, and men were steel. Not like today. I've said this before, and I'll say it at least one more time: I feel sorry for any boy or man who doesn't wonder at least once whether he'll ever be half the man his father is. Everyone needs a standard to shoot for if they are going to meet the tests life gives you. Again, not a flawless example, but enough good stuff to raise some doubt that you can emulate the admirable qualities that you have seen in others.

There's a song from the early 1980s by Mike and the Mechanics called The Living Years. Early in the song there's a verse that sums up a father's relationship to his children: I know that I'm a prisoner to all my father held so dear. I know that I'm a hostage, to all his hopes and fears. Dad had hopes and fears for all of us. He's still hoping, fearing and watching. Thanks Dad. Rest in Peace with Love.