Thomas Rollin (Bud) Conrow

Thomas Rollin Conrow, Jr., 94, of Temple City, CA, passed away on Friday, July 17, 2020 of natural causes. He was a gentle, unassuming man with a great love of family, nature, and reason.

Tom, known as Bud by his family, was born in El Monte, CA to Thomas and Florence Conrow on September 28, 1925. He graduated El Monte High School in 1943 while WWII was raging. After joining the Navy he was sent to University of Redlands. There he graduated in 1949 through the V-12 program that granted bachelor's degrees to future officers in the U.S. Navy. Tom was then sent by the Navy to USC. While at USC Tom began instructing Navy recruits and teaching summer Math and science classes for children at the Museum of Science and Industry in Los Angeles.There he discovered a love for teaching. He graduated from USC Phi Kappa Phi in 1950 with a degree in Engineering.

During his time at USC Tom met Mary Cecilia Keber, who was studying at Immaculate Heart College in Los Angeles.The two were married in 1951. Tom later continued his education at Immaculate Heart where he earned a Masters Degree in Education.

Tom was called back into the Navy as a 2nd Lieutenant during the Korean War. He took review classes in radar and served on a destroyer. While he was away in the service, his wife, Mary, gave birth to their first son, Thomas. When Tom returned home he and Mary set up home in Temple City, CA. There his family grew adding 2 daughters and 2 more sons. In 1958 they moved to the house on Camellia, where he lived till his death.

Tom entered the teaching profession at Thomas Starr King Jr. High in Los Angeles. There he taught Mathematics for 40 years and was a beloved teacher to many. His passion for teaching math, as well as leadership, inspired students, many of whom kept in touch with him throughout his life. He retired in 1991.

After retirement Tom and Mary did extensive road trips throughout the US. They would drive and camp, relaxing in the arms of nature.

Their interest in nature led Tom to volunteer at the Los Angeles County Arboretum in Arcadia starting in 1992. There he worked with the mapping team and took care of the Water Conservation Garden,doggedly pulling weeds and keeping the garden healthy. He enjoyed this work, and the Arboretum family of volunteers enjoyed his dry wit and devotion.

Thomas Rollin Conrow, Jr. was cherished by his family. He was a loving husband of 69 years to Mary and a patient and devoted father to his five children: Thomas A. Conrow, Therese Toczynski, Martha Rodighiero, John P. Conrow, and Timothy P. Conrow(dec.) He had eight grandchildren: Ana, Eric, Michael, Ellie, Benjamin, Christina, Rebecca, and Olivia, and four great-grandchildren, Farah, Zelda, Lola, and Mika. All were the light of his life.

We miss him deeply .

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.

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.

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

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

Penny

I love reading these remembrances and looking at all of these wonderful pictures. I love that we’ve all seen Uncle Bud through the same eyes. He loved and cared about each of us as individuals, and he always knew which one we were! Out of all of his nieces, I don’t think he often, if ever, had to stop and think, “now, which one is that?” I have so many memories of Uncle Bud throughout my childhood.......the calm voice, the kind eyes that always glittered as if he had a joke to tell me, the questions, the interest......

I didn’t get to spend as much time with him as an adult because I was always so far away, but he always remembered where I’d been when our paths crossed again.

I still have the tiny slippers Uncle Bud brought me from his time in Korea! Love you Uncle Bud.

Penny

Mark

Things didn’t start out great. I had just gotten Martha 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.

Steve

Some rambling thoughts on Bud:

I chose these baby pictures because when he held a baby there was a special look of love, kindness, and happiness on his face that gave me a peek straight into his heart and soul.

As far back as I can remember, which is before his marriage to my sister Mary, I thought Bud was the most disciplined man I have known. When he said he was going to do something he did it. Forever. His marriage, his religion, his military service, his job, his kids, his volunteer work, even his household chores, any commitment from Bud was a sure thing.

When I was in high school, I got the privilege to see Bud firsthand as a teacher. I went to him for some math help and in three visits I was able to change how I thought about learning. Funny thing is he never “taught” me anything. By asking me short and seemingly simple questions he somehow managed to get me to teach myself. How lucky were the kids at Thomas Star King! His approach to teaching guided me when I was called upon to conduct classes for diverse industrial groups. How can I ask questions and give students that satisfaction of teaching themselves that Bud was able to give me?

I will tell my fishing story one more time in case some have not heard it. On a family vacation, I was fishing on Butt creek in Plumas County. I approached a foot bridge and saw Bud, lying face down, dipping a long stick into the water. “What are you Doing?”, I ask. “Fishing”, he says. (Bud was not a fisherman!) Later, I found out that he had dropped his camera in the rushing stream. He didn’t want to spoil my fishing to ask me to help him. That’s Bud.

And I never have figured out how he got five kids, two adults and all that camping gear into that tiny Ford station wagon (with 2 row seating) for all those years!

Love to all,

Steve (Bud’s brother-in-law)

Thomas Rollin Conrow 1925-2020

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