Of all of my friends, there’s no one I’ve known longer than Cynthia Slavens. We were born within two months of each other and shared a wooden playpen while our parents chased after our older siblings. We went to the same schools, overlapped teachers and friends, and graduated the same year. Her parents—“Uncle” Bob and “Aunt” Nancy to me—were cornerstones of my childhood and Cynthia once proudly announced in elementary school that she and I were “god-cousins.” Other friendships in my life may have grown deeper or been more influential, but I can’t imagine there’s anyone, besides family, that I’ve known for a longer time.
For years, our relationship maintenance has happened exclusively through Facebook, so when Cynthia called early one morning I had a sad suspicion as to why. We hadn’t spoken in ages and her voice was deeper and more mature. It wasn’t the voice of the little girl from the elementary school playground; that girl couldn’t have never delivered the news that her father, known to many as “Dr. Bob,” had passed away the night before.
Our families’ bond goes back to a modest apartment building in Syracuse, NY, where two young couples were just starting their married lives. It was there where they played contract bridge on flimsy card tables and drank Cutty Sark scotch and water. It was there they survived the blizzard of ‘66, when nearly four feet of lake effect snow needed to be uncovered to traverse the parking lot. It was there where Bob Slavens, at the time a medical resident, convinced my dad to quit smoking cold turkey by simply showing him pictures of smoke-damaged lungs.
As our fathers’ careers progressed, our families moved out of the city and into the suburbs filled with big houses and good schools. Because my father loves the latest and greatest, my parents landed in a brand new 4-bedroom colonial. Dr. Bob did not share my Dad’s love of “new and shiny” and the Slavens wound up with a slightly older house, by about 100 years. Sitting on almost four acres on Palmer Road, a long driveway led to a red split-level house and detached garage. There were groves of trees to explore, a pond to throw rocks in, and beautiful views of the surrounding farms and hills.
At the hub of the red house was a family room with two walls almost entirely composed of windows. Within that glass room, our families spent endless hours together, usually some permutation of the six combined kids splintered off from the adults. It was behind the couch in the glass room where Dr. Bob found a dyed hard-boiled egg that Cynthia and I used for an egg hunt a few months earlier. It was where we watched The Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday Nights and celebrated Christmas dinner on even numbered years.
The Slavens and the Matsumotos had a tradition of each family alternating hosting Christmas dinner every other year. If it was our year to be guests, the glass room where the kids’ Christmas “show and tell” would take place, displaying our best gifts from the morning—my Mork from Ork in egg spaceship or my older sister’s electronic Simon. I remember I was in the glass room when I was given a Styx album by Aunt Nancy that Cynthia’s older brother coveted. As Kevin raved about the musicianship of Dennis DeYoung and Tommy Shaw, I couldn’t care less about the keyboards on The Grand Illusion. As I looked at the weird album cover art, I didn’t hide my disappointment well.
Dr. Bob had no such trouble receiving gifts graciously. Every year he got the same thin rectangular box from my mother filled with homemade fudge carefully wrapped in multiple layers of Saran Wap. And every year, upon revealing my mom’s concoction of chocolate, sugar, and walnuts, Dr. Bob acted like he just won the lottery. His eyes lit up and his voice became loud and histrionic as he profusely thanked my mom for his new consumable treasure. Every Christmas, he turned into a little boy who just received a bright red bicycle that he desperately wanted, but wasn’t sure he deserved.
For the last couple weeks, I’ve been thinking about those Christmases and those times our families were together. In those social settings, Dr. Bob was a versatile actor. He could play the life of the party if the situation required it, but he never required all eyes to be on him. When I was younger, Dr. Bob was a loud, silly clown entertaining the children. As I got older, he let me lampoon him mercilessly and was glad to be the butt of the joke. Whether he was delivering the punchline or playing the straight man, his voice, his smile, his eyes, his sheer presence—just brought you joy.
His stories about his childhood hometown of Cortez, Colorado were legendary. Hearing him describe this one-stoplight town, I envisioned it like Castle Rock, Oregon from Stand By Me or Radiator Springs from Cars if you need a newer reference. He nostalgically described getting off work as a teenager and driving up and down Main Street in his car. As Dr. Bob would tell it, the essential pre-cruising errand was acquiring milk and cookies from the local drug store and having them nestled on the bench seat next to him. Who needs the nightlife of modern Miami or New York City when you can have cookies and milk scoping for hotties in 1950s Southwest Colorado?
Dr. Bob wasn’t just about laughter. He was highly intelligent and thoughtfully reflective—one of the great philosophers in the greater Manlius, NY area. He once described a quality of shyness he felt was a strong component of his personality. I couldn’t believe that goofy, chatty Dr. Bob characterized himself as shy. While it didn’t mesh with my image of him, it was my first lesson in learning that socially skilled people don’t need to be extraverts. I suspect that there were times Dr. Bob had to retreat within himself to maintain his public persona.
Thinking back now, I’m amazed at the respect and access he provided me. I was Ted and Millie’s goofy and immature son and he let me in his world literally and figuratively. When Wegmans, the first megamart in the area, opened on E. Genesee Street, Dr. Bob and Cynthia took over the Slavens’ family grocery shopping routine. He told me these trips to Wegmans not only stocked the refrigerator, but also strengthened their father/daughter relationship. As he recounted walking the aisles, debating quantities of produce, and thinking about dinner recipes for the week, I could tell this was important to him. Maybe because Cynthia was his only daughter this was a good way for the two to spend time together? Maybe Dr. Bob had been searching for a meaningful activity to connect? I don’t know how the shopping trips came to be, but I know I was a stupid kid years from fatherhood and he didn’t need to share that experience or insight with me. But he did. He did because he was honest and comfortable sharing who he was, even with immature 12-year olds.
I think about Dr. Bob and Cynthia grocery shopping a lot in conjunction with my own fatherhood and trying to meet my kids where they are in life. Once I became a parent, I wish I told Dr. Bob that I remember him telling me about his Wegmans trips and that he was a role model for me. Sadly, it’s just another cautionary tale in telling those we love how we feel while they’re still with us.
My mom and I flew back home for the funeral and Cynthia delivered a flawless eulogy starting with a well-placed Roman Roy Succession joke. I was immediately taken back to 11th grade speech class where Cynthia and I competed for top marks. Back then I thought Cynthia got away with weaker material and coasted on her dramatic background and acting abilities. As Cynthia noted at the service, she would never have better material to work with as she honored her father’s memory with sharp insight and humorous stories.
Many in the crowd at St. David’s Church were Dr. Bob’s patients. In addition to being a close family friend, he was a brilliant ophthalmologist who helped thousands in a career that spanned five plus decades. He served multiple generations of families, and the cards and flowers that poured into Palmer Road from his professional life are a testament to the difference he made in people’s lives. I sat in his examination chair in fifth grade and he told me I needed glasses, but to me he was so much more than an eye doctor. Maybe I had an opportunity to know him better, but maybe that’s the way he made everyone feel, whether you were getting gas permeable contacts or playing volleyball at a Memorial Day picnic.
To me, he was more “Uncle Bob” than “Dr. Bob,” but perhaps he did more for my vision than just prescribing my first pair of glasses. Over years being a consistent presence of my childhood—through his character, his honesty, and his sincerity—he absolutely shaped how I view the world. I would not have the perspective I do without his influence. Even though he hasn’t dilated my pupils in years, Dr. Bob has helped me see the world through a unique lens, fostering kindness, humor, and connection.
After the church service, there was a “shindig” on Palmer Road complete with multiple food trucks and some live music. I spent a long time talking to a 16-year old named Spencer, the son of one of Cynthia’s childhood church friends. We talked about high school (he attends my alma mater), video games, and how he has no interest in driving. I didn’t have gems of wisdom about shyness or family grocery shopping to pass along, but I tried to have a conversation without hierarchy or status. That’s what Dr. Bob did better than most adults I knew as a kid; he wasn’t stubbornly attached to being an authority figure. (Cynthia may think differently) Dr. Bob was a guy who wanted to be a part of a good group and good conversation and he made all groups and conversations better.
Before the night was over, I ventured back into the glass room and paid my condolences to Aunt Nancy. I sat down next to her and listened to her ramble on about the social importance of visiting your local post office or bank in person and the art of personal letter writing. Aunt Nancy can get a lot of thoughts out in one breath and as I took in her monologue, all I could think was that the glass room, like so many things from childhood, was so much smaller than the one in my memory.
It had been a long time since I’ve been in that glass room or swam in the pool it overlooks. Since I left home in the early nineties, I’ve only been back a handful times. A Slavens delegation made it to my wedding, but it was impossible to tear Dr. Bob away from his work and his beloved Central New York. It’s been 30 years since I’ve spoken to him, yet his death has left me profoundly empty, and disproportionately sad. Part of my childhood is now gone; something that was once true in my life is no more. And when we lose the people who represent truth in our lives, we lose a bit of our identity as well. Not only is the world a sadder place without Dr. Bob, I’m less whole.
The link to this now missing truth is my friend and god-cousin, Cynthia. We have not played major roles in each other’s adult lives, crossing paths only for “marrying and burying.” But there once was a time when Dr. Bob’s daughter was my best friend, when we roamed through the woods behind her house and sat on her tire swing. Even though our lives have taken us in different directions, Cynthia is the connection back to a simpler time and a reminder of bonds forged in childhood. Dr. Bob’s wisdom, charisma, and charm live on in his daughter and I hope we can see each other when the situation doesn’t call for a clergyman. Cynthia—you bring the Cutty Sark. I’ll bring the fudge.
Beautiful, Steve
Great tribute Steve!