Obituary of John Babineau

John Babineau of Peabody, formerly of Medford, Cambridge & Arlington, November 14. Beloved husband of Gloria (Mitchell). Loving father of John & his wife Barbara of Weymouth, Paul & his wife Diane of Burlington, Scott & his wife Susan of Malden and the late Michael. Brother of Cecelia Pompey of Burlington, Charles of Hyannis and the late Dorothy Neale, Mary Babineau, Helen O’Brien and Joan Mahoney. Also survived by 9 grandchildren & 12 great grandchildren. Funeral from the Edward V. Sullivan Funeral Home, 43 Winn St., BURLINGTON (Exit 34 off Rt. 128, Woburn side) on Thursday, Nov. 19 at 9 a.m. Followed by a Mass of Christian Burial in St. Margaret’s Church, 111 Winn St., Burlington at 10 a.m. Burial will follow in the Massachusetts National Cemetery, Connery Ave., Bourne at 1:15 PM Visiting hours Wednesday 4-8 p.m. In lieu of flowers memorials in John’s name may be made to Alzheimer’s Association MA Chapter, 480 Pleasant St., Watertown, MA 02472 Eulogy for John Babineau St. Margaret’s Church, Burlington, MA November 19, 2015 By the way, Dad, I apologize for not having the Business Opportunity Section from The New York Times with me today. The Times doesn’t print that anymore, it’s probably online. I used to tear it out of the Sunday edition in the 80’s and give it to him - it was his favorite reading material. “Slide it into the box when I croak, Johnny,” he said, “so I’ll have something to do.” So, I’m John Babineau, also. I’m 68, John’s first-born and the oldest of the Babineau cousins. I hope you met my grandson, Colin, yesterday at the Sullivan Funeral Home. He can’t make it here today; he’s in school and a serious student. I’ve always thought that, with his red hair and looks, if you put a pair of eyeglasses on him you would have a pretty good idea of how his great- grandfather looked at 15 years old. Thank you, Gloria, for asking me to speak today. It is an honor! On a personal note, Gloria, it became wonderful to see the joy you brought to my father’s face - that had been missing for awhile I recall. And on a more personal note, I’m sure there’s a very special place in Heaven for you for dealing with this tough guy especially over the last few years! Today I won’t attempt to match the poetry of the eulogy given at Rich Serino’s Mass a while ago nor the passion of the eulogy given by John Pompey’s son more recently. But this is an honorarium, a heartfelt remembrance by a loving son who greatly admired his father’s drive, ambition and larger than life “at bat” in this game of life. I was a lucky man to be with my mother, and to hold her hand, when she passed away. And fortunate, also, to be with my brother, Michael, when he took his last breath. So I count my blessings to have been able to spend some time with my father last week at the VA Hospital. As I sat in his room last Thursday, his breathing labored, I noticed that his left hand was hanging out somewhat awkwardly so I took his hand and put it back under the sheet. I have to tell you that it was the hand of a much younger man than the one fighting the good fight on that bed. I think we would all agree that there was a remarkable, and durable, youthfulness about John. At 80, he was somewhat delighted to be mistaken for a 60 year old at the gym next to his tanning salon in Cambridge. And sitting there in that room, thinking about his athleticism, I recalled an amazing sentence from Carl Yaztremski’s farewell speech at Fenway Park. “I want to thank God for giving me a great body,” Yaz said, spoken with the utmost humility; more like a carpenter describing his favorite hammer. John was blessed this way as well, a beauty I’d call it - though you might not have thought that seeing him walking around the pool on Iroquois Road in his scarlet Speedo! And sticking with the baseball analogy, he was perhaps a bit ahead of his time in that, yes, he could have been a Designated Hitter - he was that good - but instead expertly played the role of “Designated Tormentor” to most of us throughout our lives. So, my father coached, Michael pitched, I was the catcher and our team, the Dodgers, came in first in the Scituate Little League back in the late 1950’s I was on a flight coming into Washington’s National Airport many years ago. We were preparing to land in terribly stormy conditions, the plane was all over the place buffeted by strong gusts, things were crashing to the floor in the galley. I held onto the armrests, closed my eyes and prayed for a ‘good result’ as we say in soccer. As I slid around in my seat, I suddenly flashed back to sitting in the front seat of my father’s 1961 Chevrolet Bel Air, a company car from Morgan Linen Service where he worked at the time. I was around 13, 14 and he would take me into Boston some Saturday mornings to make sales calls. I’d hold on for dear life as we hurtled east and west along Storrow Drive. We went deep into the bowels of the large hotels, The Madison and The Manger, where he’d joke with the Irish and Spanish guys who worked in the basement laundry rooms. We’d rocket through The Fens into Brookline and to a Jewish bakery there. Or sprint down Blue Hill Ave. to say hello to the hairdressers at an all-black beauty parlor. Then, a mom and pop restaurant in Chinatown or the North End. He seemed to know people everywhere and all of them Major League characters that were hard to forget. It was all, perhaps, a naive introduction to an almost subterranean diversity in a very white city of the day. And always lunch at the Symphony Deli on Mass. Ave. He was a creature of habit, yes? Sitting at the counter, the same stone-faced waitress would approach with the same question every time. “The usual, Red?” “Yes,” my father would say, “and he’ll have the same.” So it was at that culinary Mecca that I was introduced to the gustatory pleasures of the liverwurst sandwich on marble rye with extra mustard and a half-sour pickle to die for. Paul, Scott, it was just a couple of months ago when he told me you were “a couple of great guys.” We can only hope that he is dealing cards as we speak with his beloved sisters, our aunts, Helen, Dorothy, Mary and Joan. And certainly present, John’s mother, who commandeered the card table on Everett Street. And, of course, his father, who Janet called Cookie, himself one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met. john babineau