I met Bob Winslow in the early 90's.
I had just found my birth family after years of research and tracing family stories surrounding my adoption. The adoption itself had been an arranged affair, made in the early winter months of 1945, between a scared single mother and an old family doctor. The doctor arranged for the young woman, named Betty Winslow, to be taken to a Portland hospital to have "a tumor removed." No one but them were to know that the "tumor" was a baby. The old doctor arranged for the baby to be adopted by a local family, Cy and Louise Perry. The young mother was sworn to secrecy about this affair, for the rest of her life. She was to tell no one what happened. Ever. And she kept her word.
Early in 1990 an elderly and loving Aunt of mine finally spilled the beans. After I had my birth mother's name, things went quite quickly. Betty Winslow had died just a few scant years earlier, taking her secret to her grave, but her daughter was alive and well and working as a legal secretary in downtown Eugene. My new sister, Jody. I wrote her a letter explaining everything and we met soon after. She accepted me as her brother. I discovered I also had another new sister, Lisa, and a brother, Bob. And I learned of the family patriarch, my birth mother's brother, Uncle Bob Winslow, who was living in San Diego at the time.
I had just found my birth family after years of research and tracing family stories surrounding my adoption. The adoption itself had been an arranged affair, made in the early winter months of 1945, between a scared single mother and an old family doctor. The doctor arranged for the young woman, named Betty Winslow, to be taken to a Portland hospital to have "a tumor removed." No one but them were to know that the "tumor" was a baby. The old doctor arranged for the baby to be adopted by a local family, Cy and Louise Perry. The young mother was sworn to secrecy about this affair, for the rest of her life. She was to tell no one what happened. Ever. And she kept her word.
Early in 1990 an elderly and loving Aunt of mine finally spilled the beans. After I had my birth mother's name, things went quite quickly. Betty Winslow had died just a few scant years earlier, taking her secret to her grave, but her daughter was alive and well and working as a legal secretary in downtown Eugene. My new sister, Jody. I wrote her a letter explaining everything and we met soon after. She accepted me as her brother. I discovered I also had another new sister, Lisa, and a brother, Bob. And I learned of the family patriarch, my birth mother's brother, Uncle Bob Winslow, who was living in San Diego at the time.
Jody and Lisa didn't tell me much about Uncle Bob, except to say he was a life long (retired) Marine, and a former POW. When pressed for details they just smiled and said, "you'll find out." Soon he was on his way up to meet me, and I was getting a bit nervous about meeting this man. What possible thing aside from the blood relation could he and I have in common? I foresaw the meeting being a stiff, uncomfortable affair, short, sweet, and all too polite. What actually happened was much different indeed. Uncle Bob greeted me by hugging me, touching my nose, and saying "Yep, you're a Winslow."
The rest of the first afternoon was spent sitting out by the hot tub, drinking beer, and talking about everything under the sun. I knew at once that I was in the presence of a great man, an individual like no other.
In 1939, Bob Winslow and his friend Pat Malone, just barely graduated from High School, escaped from Eugene, Oregon and set out to find adventure. The boys soon split up and went their own ways, and Bob found himself in California, where he was hired by a carnival to replace their departed MC, who also doubled as "Eco, the Human Ostrich." He was instructed how to chew up double-edged razor blades, show the rubes that there it was on his tongue, then swallow it. Oh, he was advised to eat lots of bread. So at 17 young Bob was the Master of Ceremony for 10 acts and also, by the way, became a fire-eater. He performed this "miracle" while seated cross-legged on a platform wearing only a loincloth and a turban. It wasn't too long before some of the chewed up razor blades refused to pass through his body as advertised by his carny mentor, so just before the show was to cross into Mexico, Bob quit show business. It was November, 1939, and with the U.S. poised on the brink of war and talk of a draft in the air, he set out to join the Navy. But discovering that the enlistment required a six year term, which to an 18-year-old is a third of a lifetime, he chose a four year enlistment in the United States Marine Corps. And that was The Beginning.
In January 1941, Bob sailed to Oahu, Hawaii on board the carrier USS Enterprise. While there his battalion stood guard duty and trained as anti-aircraft gunners. In October, 1941, a portion of his unit was shipped to Wake Island. Much has been written about the defense of Wake Island, many books written by individual survivors themselves. They are usually tales of individual heroism. Uncle Bob writes "As in all histories that rely upon the unreliable memories of men, some of what has been written about Wake Island is accurate and some of it is balderdash." Uncle Bob's written narrative of the Wake Island story is that of a rank private who is only aware of events taking place within a radius of a hundred yards around him. Of all the stories I have subsequently read about Wake, his is by far the most fascinating. Bob survived 44 months in a Japanese prisoner of war camp in Japan.
If you have some time, you can see and hear Uncle Bob tell of his Wake Island and following experiences by clicking HERE.
After retiring from the Marine Corp with the rank of Sergeant Major in 1970, he returned to the States and went to school. He graduated from San Diego State with a degree in Liberal Arts and Sciences History, with honors, in 1978, and received a Master of Education from Central State University in Oklahoma in 1980. He constantly continued his education by reading virtually everything he could get his hands on, and he had a tremendous personal library. He was the smartest man I've ever met.
Uncle Bob was my friend and my mentor. Before he moved back here to Eugene, I flew down to his home near San Diego twice, each time spending a week with him, then traveling with him in his motorhome (dubbed "The Enterprise," by me) up the coast highway to Eugene. He would spend a month or so visiting, then return to San Diego. With possible exception of the birth of my son, those trips, and that time I spent traveling with him are the times of my life. His favorite brand of beer at the time was "Bitburger," a German import. There is something almost religious about barreling up I-5 at sunrise on a beautiful morning, and being commanded to break open a couple of "Bits" for breakfast. And the stories I heard. Oh the stories.
Around 1994 Uncle Bob moved to Eugene, and if I may presume with all due modesty, I believe it was to be closer to me. We were hitting it off famously, as they say, and I think my personal brand of insanity amused him. Plus he had just broken up with a lady in his old mobile home park, but I'm sure that had little influence on his decision. He found a beautiful place out Hwy. 99 in Lakewood Court, and settled in. In 2001 Uncle Bob met and made his companion the widow of a former Marine, his beautiful Dorothy. They moved into a larger even more beautiful place at Lakewood together, and she became the love of his life. He and Dorothy bought a new larger motorhome, and traveled extensively. He was incredibly happy.
Uncle Bob and I would get together on a regular basis, drinking brandy and discussing and cussing the Bush administration and firing off E-mails to our friends and fans. I began this blog at his urging, and he was pleased, amazed, and proud of it. He felt like we were finally able to do something to affect a positive change in the world. He became a big fan of Arthur's writings on Bad Hat, and would send copies of them to many of his long time friends.
Several months ago he had a series of small strokes, nothing major on the surface, more annoying than frightening. After one, he suddenly began vomiting, over and over. Couldn't stop. Dorothy got him to the hospital and they finally got it stopped, and he dismissed the whole thing as just odd. Then later, another one. This time he had great difficulty breathing. That was much more frightening. Dorothy was in Portland so he called me, out of breath and said he had fallen and needed help. I rushed through 5 o'clock traffic and got him to the hospital. He partially recovered, but I think we all began to fear that something bad was coming. Little did we know how fast it was coming. More little episodes were to follow, and eventually it all led to him being hospitalized at River Bend. Congestive heart failure was the diagnoses. It was the beginning of the end. The doctor gave him 3 months. His son Steve came up from Cedar City, Utah, and then his daughter Chris came up from California, and my sister Jody came down from Olympia, Washington, and my other sister Lisa came down from Portland, and even my elusive brother Bob came down from Mars. Dorothy, Steve, and Chris decided to move him home. With the help of Hospice they set up a hospital bed in the front room, brought in oxygen, and for a while he was quite comfortable. Everyone went home, and Uncle Bob improved for a while, even allowing Dorothy to visit her relatives in Portland for a week. Hospice was over every day and I was over every other day, and he and I even went driving around one afternoon. He seemed to actually be improving. But barely a week later it became evident that the end was at hand. Uncle Bob himself called Steve and told him to come up as soon as he could. Steve, Dorothy and I sat with him the evening of the national election, and although he was very ill we all watched the pundits on TV with great anticipation. At 8 o'clock when they announced Obama had won, I turned to Uncle Bob with a big grin. He had fallen asleep. I didn't wake him, I just gathered my things and went home. It was the last time I ever saw him.
For the next 6 days he lapsed in and out of conscious reality, his mind willing to go but his body stubbornly hanging on. Steve says he seemed at times at peace, sometimes puzzled by what was happening, and sometimes even the old skeptic was tormented by conspiracy theories and unknown demons. He did not go easy. Bob Winslow died on the birthday of his beloved Marine Corps, November 10th, 2008, with Steve, Chris, and Dorothy at his side.
If I ever have the wherewith all to write a book of my own, it will be about the time of my life I spent with my beloved and learned Uncle Bob. Reserve your copy today.
In 1939, Bob Winslow and his friend Pat Malone, just barely graduated from High School, escaped from Eugene, Oregon and set out to find adventure. The boys soon split up and went their own ways, and Bob found himself in California, where he was hired by a carnival to replace their departed MC, who also doubled as "Eco, the Human Ostrich." He was instructed how to chew up double-edged razor blades, show the rubes that there it was on his tongue, then swallow it. Oh, he was advised to eat lots of bread. So at 17 young Bob was the Master of Ceremony for 10 acts and also, by the way, became a fire-eater. He performed this "miracle" while seated cross-legged on a platform wearing only a loincloth and a turban. It wasn't too long before some of the chewed up razor blades refused to pass through his body as advertised by his carny mentor, so just before the show was to cross into Mexico, Bob quit show business. It was November, 1939, and with the U.S. poised on the brink of war and talk of a draft in the air, he set out to join the Navy. But discovering that the enlistment required a six year term, which to an 18-year-old is a third of a lifetime, he chose a four year enlistment in the United States Marine Corps. And that was The Beginning.
In January 1941, Bob sailed to Oahu, Hawaii on board the carrier USS Enterprise. While there his battalion stood guard duty and trained as anti-aircraft gunners. In October, 1941, a portion of his unit was shipped to Wake Island. Much has been written about the defense of Wake Island, many books written by individual survivors themselves. They are usually tales of individual heroism. Uncle Bob writes "As in all histories that rely upon the unreliable memories of men, some of what has been written about Wake Island is accurate and some of it is balderdash." Uncle Bob's written narrative of the Wake Island story is that of a rank private who is only aware of events taking place within a radius of a hundred yards around him. Of all the stories I have subsequently read about Wake, his is by far the most fascinating. Bob survived 44 months in a Japanese prisoner of war camp in Japan.
If you have some time, you can see and hear Uncle Bob tell of his Wake Island and following experiences by clicking HERE.
After retiring from the Marine Corp with the rank of Sergeant Major in 1970, he returned to the States and went to school. He graduated from San Diego State with a degree in Liberal Arts and Sciences History, with honors, in 1978, and received a Master of Education from Central State University in Oklahoma in 1980. He constantly continued his education by reading virtually everything he could get his hands on, and he had a tremendous personal library. He was the smartest man I've ever met.
Uncle Bob was my friend and my mentor. Before he moved back here to Eugene, I flew down to his home near San Diego twice, each time spending a week with him, then traveling with him in his motorhome (dubbed "The Enterprise," by me) up the coast highway to Eugene. He would spend a month or so visiting, then return to San Diego. With possible exception of the birth of my son, those trips, and that time I spent traveling with him are the times of my life. His favorite brand of beer at the time was "Bitburger," a German import. There is something almost religious about barreling up I-5 at sunrise on a beautiful morning, and being commanded to break open a couple of "Bits" for breakfast. And the stories I heard. Oh the stories.
Around 1994 Uncle Bob moved to Eugene, and if I may presume with all due modesty, I believe it was to be closer to me. We were hitting it off famously, as they say, and I think my personal brand of insanity amused him. Plus he had just broken up with a lady in his old mobile home park, but I'm sure that had little influence on his decision. He found a beautiful place out Hwy. 99 in Lakewood Court, and settled in. In 2001 Uncle Bob met and made his companion the widow of a former Marine, his beautiful Dorothy. They moved into a larger even more beautiful place at Lakewood together, and she became the love of his life. He and Dorothy bought a new larger motorhome, and traveled extensively. He was incredibly happy.
Uncle Bob and I would get together on a regular basis, drinking brandy and discussing and cussing the Bush administration and firing off E-mails to our friends and fans. I began this blog at his urging, and he was pleased, amazed, and proud of it. He felt like we were finally able to do something to affect a positive change in the world. He became a big fan of Arthur's writings on Bad Hat, and would send copies of them to many of his long time friends.
Several months ago he had a series of small strokes, nothing major on the surface, more annoying than frightening. After one, he suddenly began vomiting, over and over. Couldn't stop. Dorothy got him to the hospital and they finally got it stopped, and he dismissed the whole thing as just odd. Then later, another one. This time he had great difficulty breathing. That was much more frightening. Dorothy was in Portland so he called me, out of breath and said he had fallen and needed help. I rushed through 5 o'clock traffic and got him to the hospital. He partially recovered, but I think we all began to fear that something bad was coming. Little did we know how fast it was coming. More little episodes were to follow, and eventually it all led to him being hospitalized at River Bend. Congestive heart failure was the diagnoses. It was the beginning of the end. The doctor gave him 3 months. His son Steve came up from Cedar City, Utah, and then his daughter Chris came up from California, and my sister Jody came down from Olympia, Washington, and my other sister Lisa came down from Portland, and even my elusive brother Bob came down from Mars. Dorothy, Steve, and Chris decided to move him home. With the help of Hospice they set up a hospital bed in the front room, brought in oxygen, and for a while he was quite comfortable. Everyone went home, and Uncle Bob improved for a while, even allowing Dorothy to visit her relatives in Portland for a week. Hospice was over every day and I was over every other day, and he and I even went driving around one afternoon. He seemed to actually be improving. But barely a week later it became evident that the end was at hand. Uncle Bob himself called Steve and told him to come up as soon as he could. Steve, Dorothy and I sat with him the evening of the national election, and although he was very ill we all watched the pundits on TV with great anticipation. At 8 o'clock when they announced Obama had won, I turned to Uncle Bob with a big grin. He had fallen asleep. I didn't wake him, I just gathered my things and went home. It was the last time I ever saw him.
For the next 6 days he lapsed in and out of conscious reality, his mind willing to go but his body stubbornly hanging on. Steve says he seemed at times at peace, sometimes puzzled by what was happening, and sometimes even the old skeptic was tormented by conspiracy theories and unknown demons. He did not go easy. Bob Winslow died on the birthday of his beloved Marine Corps, November 10th, 2008, with Steve, Chris, and Dorothy at his side.
If I ever have the wherewith all to write a book of my own, it will be about the time of my life I spent with my beloved and learned Uncle Bob. Reserve your copy today.
Uncle Bob has been cremated. It has been decided to have a memorial service sometime in the spring when all of the family can once again gather. His only request was that absolutely no religious references be made during any service in his name. While he disliked the term "atheist," he did enjoy being referred to as "a militant agnostic." I have lost more than an Uncle, more than a friend. I have lost a part of me.
Semper Fi
John Perry
Semper Fi
John Perry
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