Thomas Rollin Conrow 1925-2020
Welcome to our memorial page for our father.
In the best of times the loss of the physical presence of someone is a hard reality to come to terms with. The world you know has shifted, and you spend a lot of time trying to stay upright.
The wonderful act of people coming together to honor the one who died is a burden, and yet, such a great comfort to everyone.
This web page is an attempt to have the comfort of you all here in our homes.
Please do us the honor of participating in this memorial.
Add photos to our gallery.
Tell us stories about the man you remember in the memories section.
We miss having you with us.
Photo Gallery
.JPG/:/rs=w:370,cg:true,m)
Tom
Here's a selfie with my Mom and Dad taken at the Peacock Café in the Arboretum. Dad, his essential cup of coffee in one hand, makes a stiff but cheerful wave.
He tries to put his heart into it but his heart must have been riven with anxiety and sorrow. At that moment we are on the phone with my youngest brother, Tim, sending him this greeting. Tim is in a hospital room after brain surgery that left 18 staples on the back of his skull, the latest in the long series of torturous strategies aimed at slowing down the cancer that would soon kill him.
Obviously there are countless moments that show a little part of who my father was. A constant stream of impressions, images, and feelings lives in me, making it nearly impossible to believe he's gone.
Months after this photo he sat beside me near the window moments after Tim had died a few feet away. He wept quietly. Two years of watching -- accompanying -- his youngest son struggle then deteriorate then die. Two years of instants like that, summoning a cheerful wave out of dread and sorrow.
This picture from a tough and unbearably sad time is by no means the only way I think of him but it's one of the ways.
Throughout this terrible period my Dad kept mapping and caretaking the plants and grounds at the Arboretum. Kept walking those baking hot five blocks to attend Mass every week. Pulled weeds and hoed and planted and watered. Did dishes. Kept loving and taking care of his life, his wife, his children, even me. Never uttered bitterness or despair. Always gave himself to others, to us.
I have never been so loved and appreciated as myself, no strings attached, as I was by him, and I felt it everywhere regardless of where I or he was, and I feel it now.
Terry
I always knew not only that Dad loved me and my brothers and sister, but that we were central and essential to him.
It’s an incredible and indescribable feeling to know this so completely.
I knew it as a little girl when Dad sang “Oh Where Have You Been Billy Boy” to me and Marty as he tucked us in at night.
I knew it with a groan as a teenager when I’d arrive home very late and see Dad still waiting up, his head silhouetted against the front room window.
I knew it as a young woman by how Dad welcomed Art into our lives with full love and without any doubt.
I knew it by how he was able to hold tight and let go at the same time.
I knew it by how he and Mom drove up and down I-5 every few months for 35 years just to spend a few days with their Bay Area children and grandchildren.
I knew it by how Dad jumped up to greet any of us who walked in the door.
I knew it by how quietly content he seemed whenever family was around, even as he loaded the dishwasher or watered plants or scooped ice cream into bowls.
I knew it by the way he hugged us, always with great feeling and some reluctance to let go.
And I knew it at every good-bye…
…how Dad always asked did we really have to leave and when would we be back.
“You have to go?” he would ask.
“We’ll be back soon,” I would answer.
”When?” he would say back.
Every time.
Marty
I find it hard to remember exact moments of my childhood with Dad. Flashes of images skip through my mind, tumbling over themselves as I try to hold on to one.
Ends up my memories of my father are all mixed up with my memories of Dad as a grandfather to my children.
I saw and felt the love he had for each of them, and I felt that love go straight from him, through the kids, and into me. I am that child. I know I am loved.
It continued on with my own grandchildren, Dad, then a great-grandfather.
It was a straight line from them to me.
We were all loved.
Marty
This is a time that is a photograph in my mind. I was around 7 years old, on vacation in Greenville, CA. We went there almost every year for a long time. I always had a good time. In this picture we are at a stream, maybe Butte Creek, probably with cowpies and yellow jackets. It was hot. It was always hot at Butte Creek. We would swim in the flowing water. Dad tied a rope around an inner tube. We’d pop into the water and float downstream while Dad, standing on a small bridge, would hold onto the rope. When we reached the end of the rope (his rope!?) he would pull us back upstream. I can remember looking up and seeing him on the bridge hauling me back. I was amazingly happy. Though I can’t hear his voice, I can see that he is talking to me. He looks happy. How long he did that, I don’t know. There were five kids, possibly each with multiple turns.
John
Dad will always be present for me, as close as those nights long ago when he would tuck us into bed. Good night, Dad. I love you.
Arturo
I miss Bud...
Recently I found last year's list of our Thanksgiving gathering. And just as other lists from many years before, it was headed by "Bud and Mary".
This is just one inadvertent moment, of many, where one feels the loss. It is followed by twinge and a sigh. But, it is also the moment you reminisce and realize what a great life lived.
I miss Bud ...
Arturo (Bud called me Arturo, but if you're not sure, think "Terry and Art")
Ana
The image that comes to me of Grandpa no longer has any connections to place or company and is probably the imagined average of a dozen different things. It is a motion out of the corner of my eye. Something fell (cup or kid, I don't know) and he was the one who saw it and caught it and set it right, without surprise or comment, as if his attention and concern for every small thing within his reach was simply his readiest motive force, as steady as they come, always nearby and often just out of sight. I love you, Grandpa
Olivia
Thanks for friendship
Thank you for banana bread, Disneyland,
Zoos and the Arboretum
Thank you for caring
with all your heart
Thank you for listening
Thank you for being
And thank you for the Love
that you shared with every person connected to you.
Your love is kind, understanding, and patient
Your love is always there
And I will bring your love with me
into everything that I do
I love you
Michael
I thought that with the passage of time, my ability to make it through a sentence of remembrance wouldn’t be met with a quivering voice that fades into breathlessness. That stumbles into choked cries and leaves me gasping for a breath to steady my thoughts and prevent me from spiraling into the pangs of love, some regret, but mainly happiness at your memory concealed in sorrow. Yet, while it’s only been two and a half months since you passed, here I sit, our life together flashing before my eyes with no one memory able to last long enough to be put into prose.
Black widow bite and a piece of twine wrapped around your thumb.
Old Town San Diego and the Princess Resort (complete with splinter and hospital visit)
Duct-taped shoe and wholly gloves.
Green Arboretum work shirt.
Car mileage log.
PIF888, Green Toyota Pick-up that smelled like gas and warm leather,
white Camry, blue Subaru, and black corolla.
Holding on to your thumbs as you picked me up for a tight embrace.
Being told that somehow (although, even at the time, I don’t remember what happened) that my brother and I were able to get you to raise your voice at us.
Being corrected on ‘super’ versus ‘supper’ an on monochrome Compaq computer in your office.
Green sleeping bags.
Soft, green blanket with satin edges.
Showing my mom and me the resulting scar of a heart bypass and, later, saying ‘I love you’ as you went in for another heart procedure later in life.
Legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles, denim pants, and a white t-shirt surrounded by your children, their spouses, and grandchildren in Tahoe… a trip that crosses into memories of Tim. Possibly the most comfortable and content I had ever seen you.
The concerned, undeterred look of a father who raced (as much as he could) to his son’s hospital room as he lost his life to cancer… pushing his body to the physical limits… wanting to run if he were able.
Holding my newborn daughter and silently, effortlessly, showing her the instant, immense, and unconditional love that you showed me, my siblings and cousins. My mom. My dad. My aunts and uncles.
So now, consciously and unconsciously (and with varying success), I do what I can to mimic my memory of you. Not a version or perspective. Not something that can or will be proven opposite. Your true self that manifests in every life of which you were a part: patience, a desire to understand, the value of life and the importance of acceptance.
I love you, and I while the thought of death and leaving those that I love still scares me, I now know that when my time comes, the thought that I will once again get to exist with you and Tim in the same reality brings comfort.
Ellie
Grandpa, I want to write this to you. I am going to dearly miss your presence in a room, quietly observing and loving. Your smiles and jokes, when they came, were able to light happiness in all of us around. I deeply regret not talking and sitting with you more, and I hope you can see this, know this, somehow. You loved us all individually and truly; it means so much to me still, how you were able to see each of us for our own personal selves and not only allow, but encourage us to find our own weird ways. I love you so much.
Family, I do wish we could all be together, but know that I'm thinking of everyone from afar. I had a small in person memorial for grandpa with some friends here, all of whom had met him and only had the fondest memories of him. His love and care shone through every moment, even in fleeting dinners and walks in the arboretum. We all remembered his kindness and quiet joy.
He will always and forever be loved, and will never be forgotten.
Silla
I hope you know I loved your dad; I love the fact that I had a relationship with him as an adult when I could spend time with him, when I wanted to be with him and truly enjoyed our time together! (You know, instead of being dragged to Grandma and Grandpa's for family gatherings against my will. Not that that ever happened...) Uncle Bud was always interested in me, in what I was doing and how I was doing. When Stan wasn't around he would ask after him, he would be curious as to what Steph and Andie were up to. And knowing how many nieces and nephews and then great-nieces/nephews he had, it amazed me that Bud would always remember everyone's names!
In the last few years of Mom's life, I saw him as a big brother; how difficult it was for him to see his younger sister struggling with her disease. The good news for both of them was that she'd mostly remember him when he'd visit, and as uncomfortable as those visits might have been for Bud he was there, as the kind, patient big brother that he was. I miss Uncle Bud, as I know many people do; I miss knowing he's there. No more texts/emails, Christmas cards, rare phone calls. And although we WILL continue the Conrow-Hannibal-Ables gatherings someday (darn Covid), that's when he'll really be missed.
Love to you all,
Priscilla
Mark
Things didn’t start out great. Martha was pregnant. There was that talk in the living room…. But that moment passed, and thereafter Bud and Mary made me feel welcome in the family, and more than welcomed, loved. Bud showed me how to forgive big things.
Shortly after Ana was born (in the Conrows’ sunroom), I walked into the kitchen where Bud was washing dinner dishes. We shared a little small talk, then Bud, with a sly grin, said something to the effect of welcoming me into the brotherhood of fatherhood. I can’t remember his exact words, but the gist was “get ready for a lot of humility fueled by not quite knowing what to do.” Somehow though, I always knew that if I ever found the going tough, he would be there to guide me. Bud gave me confidence I’d find a path through uncertainty, and that I wouldn’t be alone.
Martha and I purchased a fixer-upper in Monrovia, with a front yard so overgrown with weeds, the house couldn’t be seen from the street. Mary and Bud tirelessly helped us turn the property into something that fit in a little better with the neighborhood. Those early Christmases and birthdays came with a tool here and a how-to book there from Bud. I remember Bud giving me a drill index plus an extra 17/64” drill bit, because he knew that it was one size larger that ¼” but would still fit into a standard ¼” drill chuck. Bud showed me how to make the most of what I have.
The Conrow-Keber family shared a mountain cabin in Lake Arrowhead for a time. The extended family would gather there on New Year’s eve and play progressive rummy until the ball dropped, and everyone would crash immediately afterwards. Chairs, couches and floors doubled as beds. One such evening Mary claimed a place on the couch near the kitchen table where I was reading. Bud turned the overhead light off. I turned the light back on. Bud turned the light off again, and his wordless look towards me meant: “This light will be OFF!” because the light would have bothered Mary. Bud showed me how to be more aware and thoughtful of others.
Bud took care of Rebecca during mornings when Martha was working at a parent education class at PCC. This was a joy for Bud. He and Rebecca played with dinosaurs, read stories, and walked through the garden. Martha, the supported daughter; Rebecca, the blessed grandchild. Bud showed me how to do whatever needed to be done for family, joyfully.
On Saturday afternoons, Bud rode his bike to St. Luke’s for Saturday vigil Mass. Was this just out of habit, an effort to make good on a commitment motivated more by inertia than by Faith? In Bud’s later years, I had the privilege of accompanying him to Mass on one occasion. His devotion was deep, conviction and faith genuine, his attention to the teachings and rituals authentic. Bud showed me another way of looking beyond the immediate noise and toward God.
Some say Bud didn’t really talk all that much. But he certainly communicated forgiveness, wisdom and patience, economy and gratitude for what you have, awareness and thoughtfulness, humility and devotion. This is what Bud’s love meant for me. I miss him deeply and feel such sorrow for the rest of the loved and loving family he left behind.