George B. Riley died on Saturday, October 3, 2009, the night of the Full Harvest Moon. He was 89 years old, and the father of eleven children - all of whom I’ve known since high school. His death occurred three months after the death of another parent of a long-time high school friend, Katherine Ryan, on July 13. These sudden deaths of a man and woman I’d known since 1966 (their spouses had died years earlier) were jarring. I had not realized how automatic my question, “So, how is your mom or dad doing?” had become, whenever I saw Jim and John (George’s sons), and Greg (one of Katherine’s sons). Nor how predictable and soothing was their constant reply, “Oh, as well as can be expected, I suppose. Getting older and more frail”. Following that preamble, they always added graphic information, listing the ever-growing list of eccentricities, stubborn behaviors, and declining motor, visual, and hearing functions their parents were experiencing or exhibiting. I’d shake my head in sympathy, and compare the conditions of my own mother, who is 85, and my father-in-law, who is 90. Despite all that dispassionate talk and commiseration, and rationally anticipating their inevitable deaths, their actual passing was still unexpected. We are never really ready for someone’s end, even when we think we are. Death is a blind spot in our consciousness.

I probably knew George Riley, better than any other friend’s parent. I worked side-by-side with him for many years when I was employed at ADT Burglar Alarm Co. Our paths would cross during the summer months when I filled in for office technicians on vacation. He would leave his full time job at the Gas Company on Flower Street at 3:30 P.M., cross the street to enter the Western Union Building, and work part of the swing shift until eight o’clock. He called ADT his “part-time job”, although from my perspective he was working a twelve-hour day (16 when he worked overtime). Before my encounter with George at ADT, he was simply Mr. Riley, the white haired, round faced, and humorless father of the Riley clan. This was a family of five boys and 6 girls, who grew up in a 3-bedroom, one bathroom house on Kellyfield Ave, in Westchester, California, and attended Visitation Elementary, and St. Bernard High School during the 1950’s and 60’s. Kellyfield is gone now. It was purchased by right of eminent domain and demolished as part of the expansion plans of the Los Angeles International Airport in 1968. LAX’s Parking Lot C now covers the vast area that once abounded with street after street of residential homes, bursting with families and children. Because he seemed to be working all the time, I would only catch brief glimpses of him at home and around the house, while I was in high school and my freshman year in college. Our paths might cross briefly on a weekend, if I were picking Jim up for a game, but our interactions consisted only of “Hello, Mr. Riley”, and “Goodbye, Mr. Riley”. That changed when Jim helped me get a job at American District Telegraph (ADT) Company during the summer of 1967, and I came to know him as a co-worker and peer on the swing shift.

“Hello, Mr. Riley”, I said when he entered the operations office of ADT, filled with blinking wall panel lights and clattering ticker-tape machines on long, green-surfaced worktables.
The silver-haired, mid-sized man, in a short-sleeved white shirt, paused and considered me before speaking. A leprechaun-like smile broke over his round face and he said, “Tony, call me George”.
My face froze in shock, and my throat clenched in confused panic. “I, I, I can’t call you that, Mr. Riley” I stuttered.
“Sure you can,” he said, walking up and patting me reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don’t think of my as Jimmy’s dad. I’m just George, another
serviceman working in the office”.
“Okay, Mr. Riley… I mean, George. Whatever you say,” I sighed. I could not imagine how this would work.

Over the summer I became more and more confident working alongside of George. Just as my alarm and night-watch monitoring duties and responsibilities slowly started making sense, my relationship with him did too. He was one of 6 alarm technicians who managed silent burglar alarms all night, along with one radio dispatcher, and a supervisor. Their ages varied from 25 to 45, and many held other jobs. Jim, two or three other guys, and I were part of a personnel experiment to see if college students could fit in to supplement the summer vacation period. For a kid with only market box-boy experience at minimum wage, working with men (many of whom were WWII and Korean War veterans) in a serious endeavor, and receiving a respectable hourly rate, was a heady experience. It was strange at first, seeing the father of your best friend in an all- male, adult, work environment. Until that summer, Mr. Riley had always been a dour, serious, and grouchy dad to me. That person disappeared at ADT. Somehow, in the confines of a well lit, bustling office, between the hours of 4 to 8 P.M., he was transformed into a jovial, cherub-faced, and capable co-worker. He told jokes, played practical jokes, and shared stories. He was a different guy at work, and I came to know him as a rounder, fuller character.

I only knew Mrs. Katherine Hanley Ryan through her son, Greg. My interactions with her, or her husband, were rare in high school. They would usually consist of saying “Hi Mrs. Ryan” as I entered her home, and then being hustled out by Greg, telling me that we didn’t have time to waste talking. I remembered her as a tall, slim, short-skirted lady, with red hair and a low, husky voice. Jim and I thought she was “hot” – which always caused Greg to roll his eyes and tell us to “get serious”. While in college, Jim and I would occasionally insist on chatting with Mrs. Ryan, anxious to inform her of what we were doing at school and in our lives, and indirectly providing information about Greg and his activities. She was a vivacious, spontaneous, and interesting woman, who reminded me of Rosalind Russell in the movie Auntie Mame. Ironically, I learned more about her during her funeral than I ever discovered in her life. It seems that while managing a household with five children and a husband (which I knew), she also worked as an executive secretary at the Ashley Famous Agency (AFA), and as the personal secretary of Hugh O'Brien (which was a surprise to us). She interacted and worked with movie and television actors, producers, and directors, and campaigned for Bobby Kennedy in the 1960’s, while working for Peter Lawford. Who knew she was so well connected?

Both George and Katherine survived their spouses by many years. As widowed parents, they saw their children, and their children’s families and friends, grow into middle-age and beginning planning for their own retirements. Their passing is a reflective moment for me. Beginning as an 18 year-old boy, through college, marriage, a family, and a career, I saw George and Katherine lead happy and satisfying lives. I assume they had their share of struggles, disappointments, and hardships, but they never stopped being parents, and offering their lives as examples (both positive and negative) of what life has in store for their children. They did this in the last years of their lives, and in their deaths as well.

“Goodbye Mrs. Ryan, goodbye Mr. Riley – I feel I barely knew you”.