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Eulogy
for my brother Mark Vincent Wahlner (Anderson).
Good
Morning. Thank you for asking me here today.
It
is impossible for me to begin this, knowing that the last
thing my brother Mark would have tolerated would be to have
his little brother say words over him at a memorial service.
But
I am not the little brother anymore. Last week for me, had
been a sloven week. As I sat down to begin writing this,
despite trying to keep busy, I have saddled myself with
a filthy and overloaded car, undone dishes and myself surrounded
with every photograph of Mark that I have in my possession.
They fill me with unbeleaveable sadness. This familiar person,
as familiar to me as one of my own hands or legs —
is no more.
The
photos take me to a time long ago when all us Wahlner kids
were growing up in Encino, California. They bring up names
and words that I haven't heard uttered aloud for years.
The Phillip's. The Tang's. St. Cyril's. Balboa Isle. "The
Carport" The Griffith Park Boys Camp, Sunday Rebellion,
and more.
Mark
was born April 24, 1954. Joy came next in '56, I arrived
in '57, (the height of the baby boom — there are 12
million of us) and Kristin rounded up the troupe in 1960.
I
mention this because it was only in the context of my family
that I knew and can speak about Mark. My mother tells me
that before the arrival of the others, Mark was somewhat
solemn. At that time, the one thing that could always make
him light up was being in his bright red pedal car.
So
it was the sibling quartet that made Mark's personality
emerge. We all had plenty of room and time to be off on
our own — like all good Swedes, but when all the kids
were together, Mark stood ready to lead any charge, settle
anyone's hash, call the shots over any dispute.
Mark
was my big brother. What made him my big brother was that
he had his own room, his own bicycle, and his own piggy
bank. Looking back, I think that ours was a happy family.
Despite some setbacks, we were all bright and healthy. My
parents had an penchant for allowing each one of us a lot
of individual freedom, with a clear understanding of the
consequences that come with rule flaunting.
I
remember Mark as The Explorer. Since he was the oldest,
the rest of us "kidlettes" stood by open mouthed, while
Mark struggled with each of the situations life had to present.
We watched what would happen to him as he grappled with
subjects like the demerit system at school or the questionable
delights of having to haul out the trash barrels every Wednesday
night (an honor which was eventually handed down to me).
Mark had his own distinct way of meeting each and every
challenge, and the rest of us kids could see the result
of his tactics.
Mark
was our leader. Even though we all adored going to the Sunday
Brunch at the Queen's Arms (which was sort of a cross between
a steakhouse and a storybook castle), I don't think there
was anybody who liked going there more than Mark did.
We
were children of the television age. When Saturday morning
rolled around, it was usually Mark who twisted the dial,
focusing his attention on favorites like Fireball XL-5,
while the rest of us screamed and hollered because we were
being deprived of our ration of The Flintstones.
One of my earliest recollections was the family watching
shows like The F.B.I. and Mission Impossible,
although I suspect that our big favorite (other than watching
old monster pictures on Saturday afternoons) was The
Jackie Gleason Show on Saturday nights. Mark identified
with Ralph Kramden somehow, while I got to be Norton, the
sewer-worker. There was something to his Fred Flintstone/Ralph
Kramden to my Barney Rubble/Ed Norton, with Mark always
fighting to get ahead with some scheme, combined with my
comic relief and tomfoolery. I could always make him laugh.
There
were trips to Balboa Island at Newport Beach in the summer,
where Mark, who just couldnÕt seem to lie in the sun, discovered
the 3-car ferryboats which plied between the island and
the mainland. Evidently, he found watching the mechanics
and procedures involved with running the ferryboat fleet
(of three), more interesting than hanging around the family,
but I was always able to find him there, watching, asking
questions of the crew, taking it all in.
For
Mark, the interest concerned on how everything was
organized. What were the shifts for the crew, why was there
a red light on the port side, green on the other. It was
because of this thoroughgoing study of the subject that
made me believe that he was the captain!
There
were trips to Lake Arrowhead, sometimes with the Jansen's,
in Winter. Mark would always be leading the rush to get
out the sleds and the snow dishes, and he could always find
the right spot for extended downhill thrills, despite the
injuries which were sure to follow.
In
our yard, we all played badminton, and hide-and-go-seek,
learned how to ride our first bicycles and we had a skateboard
slalom, which was more like riding a bobsled, where one
got timed with a stopwatch. If it got too hot, Mark always
knew how to keep the plastic popcicle making thing in the
refrigerator going, so that there was always plenty. He
had a fondness for Big Sticks as well.
We
went to the movies every now an again. St. Cyril's Catholic
School arranged a group trip to Beverly Hills to see Ben-Hur
in 1968. Mark though it was pretty good. I thought it was
the bloodiest movie ever made. I recall that one of Mark's
favorites at that time was a strange double-feature of 2001:
a Space Odyssey and Captain Nemo and the Underwater
City. I think the latter enticed Mark, because it was
a tale of a quest for GOLD.
Mark
had a friend with who lived next door. Frank was the son
of an Army guy, so his vision of what was within the bounds
of the possible appealed to Mark, I think. They delighted
in playing the role of malevolent evildoers to the hilt.
The lived to pants people. That was their mission
in life. Their focus on doing anything they could do to
embarrass the kids in the neighborhood led them to create
a social heirarcy — a pecking order, so to speak. The
best way to do this was to find a tree in a remote area
and to construct a treehouse and to decide who might be
considered for admittance and who not.
Things
like this were what set Mark apart from the rest of us —
he was older, and so therefore, he was entitled to find
his way, while the rest of us watched. His word, in many
ways, was law. If he felt that the time had come to roughhouse
and to chase me around the house — it was time for
roughhouse, and for me to be chased around the house. One
did not ask why.
It
all seems like one zillion years ago. Those carefree days
of childhood. Then the reality of Junior and High School
enters the picture, and one is faced with different challenges.
Mark
continued to be the Explorer. He tried to get on the swim
team at Birmingham High School in Van Nuys. I couldn't imagine
why he would want to do that — we didn't even have
a swimming pool. I donÕt think it was for romance. I think
he tried it out just to see if he could.
One
summer, Mark spent a week at the Boy's Camp they had in
Griffith Park. He decided to become a councilor there. I
think he did that for several years — he must have
been good at it. He had the oversight of a "Hogan" of maybe
12 kids. Mark would return home on the weekends so exhausted,
that his Rip Van Winkle sleeps became legendary in our family.
He could sleep though ANYTHING. None of us could believe
it. We could stomp through his room, hammer nails into the
wall above his head, play Beetle 45s in the room next to
his — nothing.
Finally,
in order to get Mark up on Sunday morning to go to church,
my Mother found a way to awaken him. She didn't play the
Bach organ piece "Sleepers Awake!" no. She threw a pitcher
of water on him! Boy, did that send a message to the rest
of us kids: "Do Not Push It."
He
learned how to drive a car fairly early (me — I didn't
get a license until I was 19). He got a job someplace that
would give him access to cars — he was working as an
attendant at a Mobile Station in Sherman Oaks. Just as he
would jump into any pool, he would decide that he was going
to do something, and he would just jump in there and do
it. Sometimes, my folks would drive him to work and pick
him up. Other times, he was allowed to "borrow the car,"
which would enable him to work long, hard hours.
But
the suffering was worth it. He typically focused on another
goal. To buy an old car and fix it up. His target was a
'56 Chevy two-door, a classic. My father, Mark and I worked
to clear out a space next to the garage that was later filled
in and became "the carport." The car was brought in and
diagnosed: it was not worth the effort. He did some body
work on it. I think this was the hallmark of my brother's
temperament; adventurous but cautious.
Next
came the '65 Charger. It was silver, it was a fastback,
and it was a total groove. Mark looked surprisingly sauve
and sophisticated behind the wheel. There was so much room
in the back to haul stuff, my grandmother Toni (herself
a Baracuda fastback driver) approved. Suddenly, Mark was
being asked to drive everybody around and schlep big things
I wanted hauled about.
When
a young man's fancy is turned by modes of transport, there
is nothing that can turn it back. Mark became smitten with
big-rig trucks. He wanted to drive them, and find out how
they worked. He wanted to know all about them.
I
donÕt think any of us kids knew what to make of this extraordinary
idea. But that was the kind of family we were. Even if the
other guy was making the biggest mistake imaginable, we
all just hung back and waited to see how it would all play
out.
I
didn't see Mark much during that time. I am not sure any
of us did. I was involved with my own struggle to find a
place in the world. We only saw each other at the holidays.
Mark stuck with the truck driving for a number of years,
but one day, he said to me, "You know, I have been driving
those trucks, and I thought it would be fun, and it was
fun — for a while.
"But
then I started to take a really good look at the kinds of
people I was sharing the profession with in the diners and
the front offices and the gas stations. I don't want to
become one of them." I think he gave it up right after he
said that to me.
Eventually,
Mark got married, and it was one of the joys of my life
to visit the first home that any of us kids owned —
with a view of the ocean. The ocean is such a big object
— why is it so difficult to have a home where one can
see it?
It
was so much fun to see my sisters and my parents and grandmother
rattle about in the "Condo in Redondo." They were so full
of advice, I don't know how Mark stood it.
But
as our lives moved on, I saw less and less of my big brother.
There were the occasional meetings at Christmastime, where
I heard all about Mark's views on things, but there was
never a time when he and I couldnÕt share a laugh over something
bizarre thing that might be happening to either one of us.
As
a family, we have been getting together now and again to
go on a cruise. It is a good idea. My parents have only
one requirement for the voyage, which all my friends think
is charming: The whole family is required to attend cocktail
hour in their stateroom just prior to dinner. Other than
that, you can do what you want. I have video footage of
all of us during the last one, and Mark is there.
The
stateroom is somehow impossibly small. In order for one
person to go out into the hall, somebody else had to stand
aside. Through it all, Mark remains calm and serene.
We
had a long talk out on the forepeak of the vessel during
a rather blustery day. It was overcast and the spray from
the prow of the ship was making conversation difficult.
We talked about — I don't remember what we talked about.
But I do remember that brotherly interest he had in what
I was doing, that sense that, even if he could not live
in my back pocket, or he in mine, he still was my brother,
and there was comfort in that. I could always make him laugh.
I hope I was a comfort to him.
I
should think that if we don't have the family cruise this
year, I will go mad. But no matter where it is that we go,
no matter how small a stateroom my folks get, without Mark,
it will always seem empty.
Mark
tried so many things in his life, and he tried most of them
with the full measure of his God-given talents. It wasn't
always smooth or easy for him, but he fought a good fight
— so will I.
I
used to look at the photos of my brothers and sisters and
think one thing, and now, I can only think of another. But
I will always think of him — I know that we all will.
—Kurt
Wahlner
My friend Mark,
Mark
look around at the people who have gathered here today for
you. You affected every person you knew because you
exemplified the meaning of Integrity, Loyalty, Honor, Family,
Community. To utter these five words and associate them
with your name is a small testimony to the impact and impression
youÕve made on the lives that you have touched.
My
first impression of you was your Integrity.
I know the same is true with many people that have met you.
Integrity was the strongest impression that you left them
with.
I have tremendous respect for loyalty. It is very high on
my personal list.
I saw your Loyalty
to your family,
with business,
your faith in God.
You
maintained a level of respect that can only be described
as honor.
You were a man of your word.
You gave to your fellow people freely.
You stood up for what you believed in but respected other
peoplesÕ beliefs.
You carried yourself with dignity in your dealings with
people, whether business or otherwise.
You respected other peoplesÕ dignity by virtue of your actions.
I am proud to say that my life was touched by yours and
I am a better man for it.
Family
and business.
Just that one statement is a huge accomplishment. To take
the demands of owning and growing your own business and
then balancing that with your family life is an achievement
unto itself. Usually one or the other suffers, family or
business. I know that home and family was your measure of
success.
What greater measure of wealth can there be?
You were a very wealthy man.
Mark,
you gave your all in the community.
Your approach to life was to participate in life.
You participated in your homeownersÕ association.
You gave to the Rotary Club of Novato, a charitable organization
designed to give back to the community.
You participated in your church congregation instead of
sitting on the sidelines. You created community by
participating in every aspect of life.
What do we have if we do not have each other? Your actions
spoke loudly in this matter.
You were very visible.
And always with a smile on your face.
I
would like to ask all of you sitting in this room today
to remember Mark Anderson in this way. With a smile
on his face.
Because Mark gave his soul to everyone around him.
He worked hard, dedicated himself to his faith and his family.
I am asking that each of you keep him alive in your thoughts.
He brought life to any room that he occupied.
Do him the honor in his passing of keeping him in your hearts,
and always with that smile.
Every person that has spoken to me about you Mark has indicated
that you were a man of fiber and character. Each one of
them has complimented you. I wish that you had heard what
I have heard them say about you. Something in me tells me
you know.
Mark,
this room is filled with people who have come to show their
honor. If there is one thing that brings us all together
here, each of us is here with love in our hearts. Love in
our hearts to honor a man that touched us all in some way.
Mark,
may you receive the perfect rest.
—Kirk
Hylan
God's
Garden
God
looked around his garden
And found an empty place,
He looked down on the earth
and saw your tired face.
God's garden must be beautiful,
He always takes the best.
He knew that you were suffering,
He knew that you were in pain,
He knew that you would never
be well on eaarth again.
He saw the road was getting rough
and the hills were hard to climb,
So He closed your weary eyelids
And whispered, "Peace be thine"
It broke our hearts to lose you
but you didn't go alone;
For part of us went with you the day
God called you home.
—Dana
Bridgeman
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