The Over Brothers during La Mirada Theater run of Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night"

"I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit."

-- William Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night"

John and I packed on 100 pounds each for our roles and it shows in this promotional picture from our recent month-long run in Southern California.

On the Passing of My Father

"Dear, dear! That was a great pity," Howard Pyle writes in his story "The Three Little Pigs and the Ogre." My father uttered the words countless times as he read the book "The Wonder Clock" to my brother and me. No one was a better storyteller. Each page seemed written expressly for him, so captivatingly, so easily did he perform Pyle's prose. We were just kids at the time. But if you asked us this very hour, we'd tell you the same thing. The words seem just as apt today, at the passing of my dad. John and I won't hear him read to us again. And that is a sad, sad thing indeed.

Bill and Jane Over, San Diego's Pacific Beach, April 2010.

William E. Over

May 16, 1928

Feb. 22, 2011

He called San Diego home, but Bill Over was born in Indiana, where his family owned a successful Indianapolis foundry. The Great Depression exacted a terrible toll on that business, as well as the health of his father. He was but a boy when his father died. His mother was fortunate to find work, albeit out of state, and she moved her young brood to Tucson, Arizona.

            Bill thrived under the sun, assuming student leadership roles in high school and at the University of Arizona. New York Life took note of the gregarious graduate, hired him, and moved him to its San Diego office. It was here that he met his wife of 52 years, Jane. Here, too, his son David was born.

            Intrigued by the aerospace industry, Bill assumed a post with the Convair corporation that landed him at the company’s missile-silo sites in Topeka, Kansas and later Plattsburgh, New York. After the birth of his second son, John, Convair relocated the family to Rochester, New York, where Bill shifted to the role of recruiter. He would move the family again, but would work in recruitment and industrial relations -- something he loved -- for the rest of his career.

            The Overs returned to San Diego when the Solar corporation called Bill back to the city he so enjoyed. Soon thereafter he joined the Rohr corporation, where he remained until his retirement some 25 years later.

            Bill loved sports. When his sons showed promise as baseball players, he assumed leadership roles with Clairemont Mesa Little League. When John displayed prowess on the links, Bill and he would go head to head. The two would continue the contest until just months before Bill’s death. John recalls beating him but once, and only then by a stroke or two.

            Golf was a point of connection for Bill and Jane as well. They played regularly with Frank and Dixie Rugnetta and Keith and Betty Keithley, friends they’d known since their days in Topeka 47 years earlier.

            It took the disease 82 years, but cancer at last caught up with the athlete. He said of his life, “I had a good run.” It was the day before he’d enter Sharp Memorial Hospital for the last time. He looked out upon his street corner, took note of the blue sky above, the green of his lawn below, and smiled.


Below are my father's obituary notices for the (Tucson) Arizona Daily Star and San Diego Union-Tribune. The Star ran the following writeup, along with a photo of Dad, on March 4.

OVER, WILLIAM E. The former Tucson resident and University of Arizona graduate died Feb. 22 in San Diego, where he made his home. He was 82 years old. Mr. Over is survived by his wife of 52 years, Jane, and sons David and John of Los Angeles. His brother, Franklin, has called the Old Pueblo home for more than 60 years. Their sister, Miriam Ludy, lives in Indiana. Mr. Over was born in Indianapolis but moved to Tucson to attend high school and college, where he was active in student leadership. After graduation he served overseas in the U.S. Army. Back again stateside he worked in insurance and, later, industrial relations and recruiting for the aerospace industry. His career led him from Southern California to Topeka, Kansas and Rochester and Plattsburgh, New York before settling him in San Diego, where he raised a family and lived for more than 45 years. He had the distinction of working for some of the most important companies in his field. At the Rohr Corp. he enjoyed employment of more than 25 years before retiring and trading his briefcase for a bag of golf clubs. He and his wife played the game they loved almost weekly, until just months before Mr. Over succumbed to cancer.

OVER, WILLIAM E. Services were held March 4 at El Camino Memorial Park for the 45-year Clairemont resident, who died Feb. 22 at Sharp Memorial Hospital. He was 82 years old. Mr. Over is survived by his wife of 52 years, Jane, and sons David and John of Los Angeles. Mr. Over was born in Indianapolis, Indiana and educated in Tucson, Arizona. There he attended high school and college, and was active in student leadership. After graduation from the University of Arizona, Mr. Over served overseas in the U.S. Army. Back again stateside he worked in insurance and, later, industrial relations and recruiting for the aerospace industry. His career led him from San Diego to Topeka, Kansas and Rochester and Plattsburgh, New York before settling him once more in America’s Finest City. He had the distinction of working for some of the most important companies in his field. At the Rohr Corp. he enjoyed employment of more than 25 years before retiring and trading his briefcase for a bag of clubs. He and his wife held Chargers season tickets for 32 years, but it was the game of golf they loved most. The two played almost weekly, until just months before Mr. Over succumbed to cancer.

On March 5, we celebrated Dad's life with a get-together at the house. Below are the words I shared.

Welcome, everyone. Dad would’ve been happy to see you all here, crowding into this tiny living room. It’s fitting that we meet here, in this place, because here is where he kept his favorite chair, did his crosswords, watched Tiger Woods on TV.

From here he also watched me and John, Pete and Panch, Tom and Ted play street football. He watched Craig and Charlie skateboard from the top of the slope outside to just around this corner. It’s a pretty steep grade. Oh, but there’d be trouble if a skateboarder got scared, bailed before completing the turn, and wiped out on Dad’s lawn! He loved this grass. He kept it as carefully as groundskeepers maintain the field at Qualcomm Stadium. He watched it as much as he watched us.

This room was, too, the site of many a great salon on the arts. Dad and I would listen to records – he in his chair and I seated on the floor – and talk about what we were hearing. From his own collection, we explored Harry James, Bobby Darin, Bob Newhart and Herb Alpert.

He even had stuff by the 5^th Dimension and Bobby Gentry, a younger person’s album featuring songs by writers he’d consider wayward liberals. It was outside his normal milieu. I decided he’d been drawn to the album by its attractive cover art, a painting of the singer I always thought looked a little like Mom -- if she’d been a wayward liberal.

From my stash there was Harry Nilsson, Elton John, Peter Frampton and John Denver. He found gimmicky Frampton’s use of the talkbox on “Frampton Comes Alive.” The crowd would go wild and Dad would say, “What the hell are they so happy about?” I would try to describe the genius of the moment. “Nope,” he’d reply, shaking his head.

Of Denver he thought more highly. He appreciated his way of painting a picture. From the song “Looking for Space” – a touchy-feely number I was surprised he liked – Dad would call out the line, “Sometimes I fly like an eagle.” “That’s good,” he’d say.

Here, in this room, Dad held forth on theology, how to get a girl, and how to get rid of a bully. But it was his thoughtful consideration of John Denver’s song about soaring emotion I think I’ll remember best. I like to think of his soul coasting above Torrey Pines Golf Course, looking down on all that lovely green grass.

Partners

On her 30^th birthday, Chelsea Stanhope purchased a treadmill and moved it into her bedroom. The impulsive move was completely unlike her. The machine was expensive. The most she’d run since high school were the few yards from the parking lot to the sale rack at Loehmann’s. Yet for years the two lived happily enough, as many couples do, keeping a polite distance from one another so as not to stir up trouble.

Their relationship changed when Chelsea returned early from a night of speed dating. Co-workers had raved about the experience and suggested she go. But in two hours she hadn’t met one man who moved her. As she transitioned from table to table, she found herself actually missing the office – which for her was saying something. She couldn’t run away from the restaurant fast enough.

“Never again,” she promised the treadmill, yanking piles of clothing from its arms and tossing them upon the bed. At last, a power cord was revealed. She plugged it into the wall. After that the two had a standing date each night of the week. The machine never did do much for her love life. But at work each morning she would fly from the first floor to the fifth in seconds flat.

            With great power comes great responsibility. This was why her boss, Capital Partners Inc.’s chief financial officer, trusted only Chelsea with fetching his egg whites and Americano from the commissary each day. He’d call for her after digesting his Wall Street Journal.

            “Secretary!” he’d thunder. The word would knock around the walls of his aerie high atop the company’s east tower before striking out toward her desk, where it would slap her straight across the ear. Chelsea would appear in his archway a moment later.
            “Mr. Winterstone?”

            “Breakfast.”

            “Of course, sir.”

            He'd stand at his cathedral-sized windows to track her streaking across the courtyard to him, steam rising from the piping-hot breakfast in her hands. His face would crack a little about the mouth which, for him, amounted to a million-dollar smile.

            Winterstone would never realize it, but the steam he saw wafting off his eggs was, in reality, coming from Chelsea’s own simmering head. “The title is executive assistant,” she’d fume to herself. “And the name is Chelsea. You’ve only had five years and 11 months to figure that out.”

            When she’d reappear in the doorway, he’d already be motioning her to his massive desk. “Come along then, secretary,” he’d boom. “Quickly, before my repast grows cold.”

           

An unexpected dividend to Chelsea’s treadmill investment was how steeped in literature she’d become. Her nightly workouts had afforded her the opportunity to listen to the audio book So You Want to Kill Your Boss over 30 times. She’d taken every dating quiz Cosmopolitan had published in the last year. And at the suggestion of Self, she’d lately decided to “date herself.”

            Indeed, she’d asked herself to a docent-lead slide talk on manga at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art next weekend. The event sounded marvelous. All the same, though, she was going to play it cool. She’d wait a day then call herself to accept her invitation.

            Chelsea’s adult exercise habit had also given her the chance to run through all the comic books she’d adored as a kid. She’d re-read the adventures of Superman, Spider-Man – even Aquaman, whose ability to marshal schools of flounder she guessed would’ve been the source of much snickering at meetings of the Justice League. God knows that kind of foolishness at Capital Partners would have gotten sacked even the King of the Sea.

She suspected the progressive editors of O would condemn her for it, but Chelsea feared she still believed in such fairytales. The realization surprised her to no end. It came to her as she read and, try as she might, she found it was something she couldn't outrun. Deep down she wanted to be rescued, at least escorted from the premises.

She hardly seemed in need of help; she had put herself through administrative professional school and was paying on her own condominium. Winterstone, however manifold his faults, authorized her taking home a nice salary. Undeniably though, within Chelsea was some small hope that a hero would swoop in to save her from her single-serving dinners and reservations for one.

            Chelsea decided she’d just jog in place until her champion arrived. After all, he was likely just rounding the corner. She figured it was only fair to break things off with herself. At the manga talk at MOCA she’d tell herself, “It’s not you. It’s me.”

Crude and Anonymous

My wife believes Facebook is the realm of terrorists. There is very little accountability and too much opportunity for users to be crude and anonymous. This is her idea of evil – someone’s being “crude and anonymous.”

I think that’s a heavenly turn of phrase despite, for her, its diabolical leanings. It’s versatile, able to serve as the title of a buddy-cop film or the name of a book. I’d kill to be in a band with that handle.

But none of this wordplay means a thing to her. She lives in a world less lyrical. Be accountable, she demands. Man up. If you’re going to send her a note suggesting she show you her girls, save the keystrokes. Do it in person.

Lucy’s cat, Guinevere, appears all too happy to see others in the crosshairs like this, for it means her own reign of terror is able to fly under Lucy’s radar. What else is it but terrorism when the animal leaves a steaming pile of vengeance at the foot of the bed because you’ve given it dry food instead of wet at 3 a.m.?

Later, the creature looks at you with innocent eyes and mews. She has no idea how that sickening mess got there, officer. Perhaps you left it there yourself, she suggests with a cock of her head.

The bungalow we all inhabit is almost 100 years old. The cold winter air seeps easily through its bones. Last night, instead of holding the cat close, Lucy clutched an electric blanket to her chest. This morning, I found the device on the floor, topped by a drying brown exclamation mark of what used to be Fancy Feast Seafood Surprise. I’m a man who enjoys punctuation, but this was well beyond any rule cited by Strunk and White.

I brought the offense to Lucy’s attention.

“Well, did you clean it up?” she said testily.

“Me? Why should I clean it up?”

She shot me a look.

“What?”

She held her gaze.

“Wha -- I certainly hope you don’t think I did this,” I said.

“Just clean it up."

Reaching under the kitchen sink for the Resolve I noticed Guinevere, crude and anonymous, waiting beside her bowl. I wanted to give her a piece of my mind. The little evildoer stared back at me with black eyes full of threat.

Then I picked my clothes from the bedroom floor.