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Karen Kuchta Filchak posted a condolence
To Preston's family:
I worked with Preston in the Windham Extension office from 1979 to his retirement in 1985. I learned of Preston's rare sense of humor almost immediately upon my arrival. His half smile and the twinkle in his eye were the only things that betrayed his punchline...something that, in time, I learned to look for. He would frequently reach in his front pocket and pull out his little black appointment book to look for the few key words of a story that he wanted to share. Preston had the gift of making people laugh and smile each day.
I offer my sympathies, thoughts and prayers to eeach of you at this time.
Sincerely,
Karen Kuchta Filchak</b></font><br><br>
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Perry-Lynn Moffitt posted a condolence
These were the words I read at my Uncle Preston's memorial service on July 22, 2006.
My name is Perry-Lynn Moffitt, but I am speaking for both myself and my sister Holly, who was unable to be here today.
Holly and I are from the small side of the family, Mary’s side, with only six first cousins as compared to the Roberts side with 19 first cousins. But what we lacked in numbers we made up for in symmetry with same sex siblings, each born three years apart. My parents, Mary’s sister Ethel and her husband Walton, had two girls born three years apart; Mary’s brother Emil and his wife Helen had two boys, Roy and Ralph, born in the exact same years as my sister and I; and Preston and Mary’s two sons, Richard and David, were also born three years apart.
Holly and I grew up with four wonderful and loving uncles: Emil, Tally, Bill Moffitt, and Preston. Emil, at 95, is still young and vibrant enough to be sitting with us here today. We had a fifth uncle, whom we would have adored and who, I have no doubt, would have adored us in return: William Cuff, who was killed in World War II at the age of 19. But Preston is unique among these men because he was the only one who was our friend first, before he became our uncle. Preston Roberts was 25 years old when he took a job in Watertown, New York, a place the natives claimed had only two seasons: winter and August. Preston had rented a room in the home of two maiden sisters who happened to live across the street from us. This meant that he also lived across the street from the First Congregational Church of Watertown, as well, because our father was the minister there and the parsonage was right next door, a proximity my mother hoped would not be repeated in subsequent ministries–and it never was.
My sister Holly was 5 at the time and I was 2. To us, Preston seemed taller, stronger and handsomer than most men we knew. He also had the charming trait of loving to play with us. We remember the exciting way he would swing us around in circles by our arms in the backyard, my mother watching, certain that our thin little limbs would snap off at any second. Preston, with so many siblings and cousins of his own, knew that little girls have firmly attached arms, as twiggy as they might have looked in those days. And we knew it, too. Whenever he completed a swinging session, we always managed to catch our breath long enough to demand, “Again!”
Another game he played sounded worse than it felt. Preston called it “Crack-a-knuckle” and it involved taking our tiny hands in his great big ones and squeezing them. Holly and I can’t remember whose knuckle cracked–if it was his or ours–but we laughed with glee and shouted “Again!” as soon as that game was over, too.
He delighted us with knock-knock jokes, only one of which I remember:
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Amos.
Amos who?
A mosquito bit me.
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Andy.
Andy who?
And he bit me again.
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Spinach.
Spinach who?
‘Spin itching me ever since.
The other aspect we loved about Preston was that he hadn’t acquired the often annoying trait many grown-ups develop of talking down to kids. When Preston asked you a question about school, or your summer vacation, he did so as an adult, expecting a grown-up answer. We basked in that element of trust and esteem.
So it was with great delight that our beloved aunt who was 15 years younger than our mother and fifteen years older than Holly, a true generation straddler, chose Preston to be her husband and our uncle. I remember the warm day they were married, the dark coolness inside the church, and the matching crisp pink frocks Holly and I wore. There was a reception in Emil and Helen’s basement, decorated beyond recognition with twisted crepe paper, punch glasses and a cake. I’m pretty sure I recall tin cans tied to the car when the newlyweds drove off.
In one very strong memory I have of Preston, he was standing in our kitchen in the Watertown parsonage and telling me how to preserve the freshness in a packaged loaf of sliced store-bought bread. In fact, I think of Preston whenever I bring a loaf of bread home, open it and then carefully follow his instructions every time I remove a slice. This habit presented an ongoing conflict with my husband, the son of a deli-owner, who swore you must freeze a loaf of bread as soon as you brought it home. I couldn’t stand the fact that I had to toast the bread even if I wanted an untoasted sandwich, so I demonstrated Preston’s formula–and, more importantly–proved how well it worked. Here is Preston’s secret: always leave the heel end in the bag until you arrive at the other heel. And always gently poof out the air from the bag before you seal it back up again. Believe me, it works extremely well, except in the summer when mold can pose a problem after a week or so.
Holly and I also admired Preston’s handiness with wood, with the exception of the time he was making a wooden fruit bowl and sliced off the tips of a few of his fingers. I am now the happy user of the hanging silver chest Preston and Mary built together for my mother back in the 1960s.
As with most memories, Holly and I have some freeze-framed images of Preston: We remember our mother telling us in Watertown that Preston was coming to dinner and our rushing to the living room window to watch for him to cross the street in his distinctive long-strided lope. We remember Preston rising early to go swimming with us off the dock by the Green Camp in Roberts’ Cove. Preston leading us around the annual Woodstock Fair where everyone–and we mean everyone–seemed to know him. The proud father greeting us when we visited after Richard was born. Three years later, the same scenario, but with David in the crib. My taking Preston’s hand at the seemingly impossible moment when we stood together by his youngest son’s grave. Preston laughing over exchanged jokes around the dining room table with my husband Edward, who has a similarly wry, dry sense of humor. Preston taking photos of me and my newborn son, David, on Broadway in New York City. Preston guiding both of my children around a dairy farm to see how cows were milked and how each one had a name used by the farmer, his family and his helpers. Preston ushering my two kids through all the excitement of the Woodstock Fair–where everyone still seemed to know him. Preston immediately adoring his two grandchildren. And my most recent memory, Preston enjoying my daughter, Justine, as she navigated some fun and funny websites on his computer one afternoon while he was still living at home.
Although I’m a PK–that stands for Preacher’s Kid–some people realize, including Jamie, that many of my beliefs don’t follow traditional religious tenets. One belief I cling to is that when people are gone, they can somehow sense, in whatever form their senses take beyond death, when we are thinking of them, that they can feel the love we had for them and recall the same memories we cherish. So may Preston Roberts realize how much Holly and I and our children loved him and will remember him until our own senses have been altered and we can feel the love from the lives that we have touched.
Preston, may you rest in peace and bask in our warm memories of you.
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