Robert Meyers

A man who worked hard, loved well, and never once complained.

“I grew up in a house with seven brothers and sisters. We didn’t have much, but my mother made everything feel like enough. I still think about the way she laughed.”

— Robert, 79

Growing Up in Dayton

I was born in 1946, the fourth of eight kids, in a two-bedroom house on Linden Avenue in Dayton, Ohio. My father worked the line at NCR. My mother stayed home and somehow made it all run — the laundry, the meals, the arguments, the laughter. I don't know how she did it. I've never figured that out. We didn't have a lot, but I never felt that way as a kid. We had the neighborhood. Every summer evening the street would fill up with kids — kickball, hide and seek, staying out until the streetlights came on. That was the rule. When the lights came on, you came home. My mother had this laugh — it started quiet and then took over her whole face. She laughed at everything. Even when things were hard, she'd find something to laugh at. I think that's the thing I've tried hardest to hold onto.

The Girl from Kettering

I met Carol at a church dance in the fall of 1967. She was wearing a yellow dress. I remember thinking she was the most confident person in the room — she wasn't dancing with anyone, she was just standing there watching, like she was deciding whether any of us were worth her time. I asked her to dance and she said yes, which I still think was generous of her. We talked for three hours. I drove her home and we sat in the car in front of her parents' house until midnight. We were married the following October. Fifty-four years. Three kids. Seven grandchildren. I still don't entirely know what she saw in me that night, but I've spent a long time trying to be worth it.

The Year Everything Changed

In 1982 I lost the hardware store. We'd had it for six years — I'd borrowed money from my father-in-law, hired three guys, built something I was proud of. And then the recession hit, and the big box stores were coming, and it was over in about eighteen months. I was thirty-six years old and I had nothing. Carol never once made me feel like a failure. She went back to work as a secretary and didn't say a word about it. Our oldest was nine. We told the kids we were making some changes. I got a job selling commercial plumbing supplies and did that for the next twenty years. It wasn't what I'd dreamed of. But I showed up. I provided. I think that year taught me more about who I actually was than any good year ever could have.

“I want my grandkids to know that a good life isn't about big moments. It's about what you do on a Tuesday.”

— Robert, 79

What I Hope They Remember

People ask me what I'm proud of. I always say my kids, which is true, but that's not quite right either — you can't take credit for who your children become. They become who they are despite you as much as because of you. What I'm proud of is that I stayed. I kept showing up. When things were hard, I didn't leave. I didn't check out. I think that's underrated — just staying in the room, staying at the table, being there. I want my grandkids to know that a good life isn't about big moments. It's about what you do on a Tuesday. The small kindnesses. The kept promises. I want them to know that their grandmother was the best person I ever met, and that loving her well was the thing I did that mattered most. I'd tell them: find someone who laughs like that. And then try every day to be someone worth laughing with.

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