Comment from Gerry Phillips:
Wow, haven't seen or talked to Bill since the late 60's. We used to hang together camping in his backyard etc. Out Dad's were both fireman. He had this great 62 corvette with a cool paint job and hood scoop. Amazing how you can remember after all these years. Anybody know what happened to him?
Gerry P.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
For William Adams
From Dan McCabe:
I remember meeting Bill and recognized him as a good person. His parents and sister, Robin, moved to our neighborhood within a few years. My father and I built their house, which Bill senior spent many years fine tuning for comfort and beauty. I built my first house one house removed from them and built the house in between us. I tended to work long hours and was frequently invited in the warmer months to join them on their lovely screened porch for cool drinks and long conversations. (I think that was their way of creating peace and quiet) Bill's family was warm hearted and generous. They did not deserve the loss of their loved and worthy son and brother.
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From Debby Larus Doolittle
I remember Bill. He signed my yearbook. I worked with his sister Robin Adams at WSYR radio. She was so glad that someone she knew, knew her brother. He died suddenly just before graduation swimming at Brickyard Falls. That is all I know and remember. I know there are others of you who remember. Please post if you do.
Debby
I remember meeting Bill and recognized him as a good person. His parents and sister, Robin, moved to our neighborhood within a few years. My father and I built their house, which Bill senior spent many years fine tuning for comfort and beauty. I built my first house one house removed from them and built the house in between us. I tended to work long hours and was frequently invited in the warmer months to join them on their lovely screened porch for cool drinks and long conversations. (I think that was their way of creating peace and quiet) Bill's family was warm hearted and generous. They did not deserve the loss of their loved and worthy son and brother.
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From Debby Larus Doolittle
I remember Bill. He signed my yearbook. I worked with his sister Robin Adams at WSYR radio. She was so glad that someone she knew, knew her brother. He died suddenly just before graduation swimming at Brickyard Falls. That is all I know and remember. I know there are others of you who remember. Please post if you do.
Debby
For Elizabeth Durand
Liz DurandLiz was very shy but had a fascinating history. Her parents, the Durands,
were really her adoptive parents after her birth parents, heirs to the A.B. Dick fortune, died in a famous murder-suicide in NY.
They were super high rollers and it was said that Liz was neglected as a child. She moved to Manlius when she was very young after the Durands left high society to come live 'in the country,' which is exactly what they did: Mr Durand had that wonderful Nursery on the Cazenovia Rd.
Even though I kind of lost track of her in H.S., I vividly remember walking from the Pleasant St School to Christ Church for Jr Choir practice, stopping at the Drug Store where we got Liz to steal candy for the rest of us.
I believe she died of a brain tumor at the age of 36. I think she had 2 or 3 children.
Contributor:
Harriet Shaw Applegate
For Bruce Coleman
Tribute from Debby Larus Doolittle
Bruce was married to a lovely woman named Carmen. They lived in Buffalo where Bruce was an architect for the City. At his memorial service there was an outpouring of fond memories and tributes. He was well thought of by his colleagues, friends and family.
Bruce's sister Syd, is married to my brother, Dudley Larus and they live in Atlanta. His other sister Betsy also lives in Georgia with her husband Bill. His mother, Lois, still lives in the family home on Farley Lane in Manlius.
Bruce was mowing the lawn and died suddenly from cardiac arrest. It was a shock to all who knew him and a great loss. He was well liked by all. He was an ardent supporter of charity work, his city neighborhood and music, a life long love. In fact he had just purchased a mandolin that he was looking forward to playing.
I was close to Bruce in the 70's and 80's when he was still exploring his occupational choices. I attended his wedding to Carmen along with Frank Carroll and others from the class. I also flew from St. Louis to Buffalo to attend his celebration of life memorial gathering. Dave Vermilya, Frank, Tad and Jane Collins were also there. We miss Bruce. He was a dynamic person who brought much to his friends and his home and family.
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Tribute from Tad Collins
Bruce Coleman was my best friend. We shared interests in music, sports, and nature. He was at once a silly, self conscious, outrageous goof, yet also an intelligent, concerned and ultimately responsible world citizen. I loved him for his quick laugh, his self deprecating humor, and his sudden fits of exuberance. He was a loyal friend. We discussed pressing political and philosophical issues of the day. We also counseled one another on a myriad of personal dilemmas. On impossibly long walks up Brickyard Falls Road into the country we’d go in all weather, in all seasons. We’d laugh, cry, and rail at the universe on those walks. We’d return weary, thankful, closer.
We played bluegrass music together; worked construction jobs together, acted in some high school plays together, and dated each other’s sisters. Later, in college, we marched on Washington , got high for the first time, and tried to discern our place in the world. We worked on Cape Cod one summer, living in a tent, and pooling our earnings to graduate from bicycles to an old pickup truck by season’s end. After college, we spent some months together in Germany , as newly free young men- me back from the Marine Corps, Bruce back from teaching English in Japan , by train across Russia on the Trans Siberian Rail Road . We sought various forms of European cultural enlightenment from the back of a motorcycle. Leonardo would have been proud.
Married, and separated by distance, the infrequent rendezvous to “catch up” characterized our past couple decades. Occasionally a class reunion visit or a family vacation would bring us back together for a day. We’d always try to steal time away from the celebrations for yet another long walk. It would usually include one or more of my young boys in tow. We quickly would find the same easy conversational give and take, slipping right back into the banter, the remembrances, even the unresolved philosophical conundrums. It was magic. It hadn’t been lost or forgotten. We continued to embrace one another in our friendship of shared times and changing views.
I was at first unfamiliar with the man whose life was celebrated in Buffalo at the funeral of Bruce Coleman. There wasn’t much fluff, as is sometimes the case. Frankly, it was quite impressive. I learned that Bruce Coleman had earned his stripes as a respected architect, local political activist, and beloved family patriarch. I knew nothing of these identities. Bruce Coleman had become a known name in Buffalo , a local celebrity of sorts. Respected and loved by people I never knew. No one knew of our lifetime friendship, save his family. As the service progressed, I came to understand that Bruce’s friendships were many and deep. I was jealous and proud at once.
Some nuns from a Finger Lakes area Convent came and sang. He’d apparently redesigned their nunnery, and in the process made some long lasting friends with the sisters. A local businessman recounted a yearly social/ political event created by Bruce in Buffalo . Dubbed the “Twelve/Twelve/Twelve” event, invitees met annually on December 12th at noon (12/12/12). A growing group of eclectic personalities, at Bruce’s invitation, gathered to hoot and holler, and maybe jawbone for a social cause if there was time and opportunity. In recent years it had grown to include many of Buffalo ’s glitterati. Finally, a fellow designer/ architect described the Bruce I knew, shining a small mirror down from the upper story of a downtown office building to pester an unsuspecting pedestrian below. He retained the boy and the joy as a man.
Bruce inherited a family. His wife, Carmen’s tribe of sisters, cousins, parents, and kids galore adopted him. He was their music man, Mr. Fixit, the “go to” confidant, the arbiter of conflict, the shoulder to cry on, and the Hulk of hysteria. He taught guitar, and encouraged the youngsters. “Brucee” was simply the mensch in a big sprawling extended family in Buffalo , New York . After the funeral, Jane (Gaitley, now Collins) and I visited the family home. The vacuum his absence created was most felt there. Heartbreaking, but beautiful, too; lots of kids missing their uncle Brucee. Dazed friends and family wondering aloud how they would ever go on without his smile, his hand.
So. We will all miss him. I loved him, and feel privileged to have called him my best friend. The FM class of ’66 lost a player. He gave more than he took; and he left us smiling.
C2 Tad Collins
Bruce was married to a lovely woman named Carmen. They lived in Buffalo where Bruce was an architect for the City. At his memorial service there was an outpouring of fond memories and tributes. He was well thought of by his colleagues, friends and family.
Bruce's sister Syd, is married to my brother, Dudley Larus and they live in Atlanta. His other sister Betsy also lives in Georgia with her husband Bill. His mother, Lois, still lives in the family home on Farley Lane in Manlius.
Bruce was mowing the lawn and died suddenly from cardiac arrest. It was a shock to all who knew him and a great loss. He was well liked by all. He was an ardent supporter of charity work, his city neighborhood and music, a life long love. In fact he had just purchased a mandolin that he was looking forward to playing.
I was close to Bruce in the 70's and 80's when he was still exploring his occupational choices. I attended his wedding to Carmen along with Frank Carroll and others from the class. I also flew from St. Louis to Buffalo to attend his celebration of life memorial gathering. Dave Vermilya, Frank, Tad and Jane Collins were also there. We miss Bruce. He was a dynamic person who brought much to his friends and his home and family.
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Tribute from Tad Collins
Bruce Coleman was my best friend. We shared interests in music, sports, and nature. He was at once a silly, self conscious, outrageous goof, yet also an intelligent, concerned and ultimately responsible world citizen. I loved him for his quick laugh, his self deprecating humor, and his sudden fits of exuberance. He was a loyal friend. We discussed pressing political and philosophical issues of the day. We also counseled one another on a myriad of personal dilemmas. On impossibly long walks up Brickyard Falls Road into the country we’d go in all weather, in all seasons. We’d laugh, cry, and rail at the universe on those walks. We’d return weary, thankful, closer.
We played bluegrass music together; worked construction jobs together, acted in some high school plays together, and dated each other’s sisters. Later, in college, we marched on Washington , got high for the first time, and tried to discern our place in the world. We worked on Cape Cod one summer, living in a tent, and pooling our earnings to graduate from bicycles to an old pickup truck by season’s end. After college, we spent some months together in Germany , as newly free young men- me back from the Marine Corps, Bruce back from teaching English in Japan , by train across Russia on the Trans Siberian Rail Road . We sought various forms of European cultural enlightenment from the back of a motorcycle. Leonardo would have been proud.
Married, and separated by distance, the infrequent rendezvous to “catch up” characterized our past couple decades. Occasionally a class reunion visit or a family vacation would bring us back together for a day. We’d always try to steal time away from the celebrations for yet another long walk. It would usually include one or more of my young boys in tow. We quickly would find the same easy conversational give and take, slipping right back into the banter, the remembrances, even the unresolved philosophical conundrums. It was magic. It hadn’t been lost or forgotten. We continued to embrace one another in our friendship of shared times and changing views.
I was at first unfamiliar with the man whose life was celebrated in Buffalo at the funeral of Bruce Coleman. There wasn’t much fluff, as is sometimes the case. Frankly, it was quite impressive. I learned that Bruce Coleman had earned his stripes as a respected architect, local political activist, and beloved family patriarch. I knew nothing of these identities. Bruce Coleman had become a known name in Buffalo , a local celebrity of sorts. Respected and loved by people I never knew. No one knew of our lifetime friendship, save his family. As the service progressed, I came to understand that Bruce’s friendships were many and deep. I was jealous and proud at once.
Some nuns from a Finger Lakes area Convent came and sang. He’d apparently redesigned their nunnery, and in the process made some long lasting friends with the sisters. A local businessman recounted a yearly social/ political event created by Bruce in Buffalo . Dubbed the “Twelve/Twelve/Twelve” event, invitees met annually on December 12th at noon (12/12/12). A growing group of eclectic personalities, at Bruce’s invitation, gathered to hoot and holler, and maybe jawbone for a social cause if there was time and opportunity. In recent years it had grown to include many of Buffalo ’s glitterati. Finally, a fellow designer/ architect described the Bruce I knew, shining a small mirror down from the upper story of a downtown office building to pester an unsuspecting pedestrian below. He retained the boy and the joy as a man.
Bruce inherited a family. His wife, Carmen’s tribe of sisters, cousins, parents, and kids galore adopted him. He was their music man, Mr. Fixit, the “go to” confidant, the arbiter of conflict, the shoulder to cry on, and the Hulk of hysteria. He taught guitar, and encouraged the youngsters. “Brucee” was simply the mensch in a big sprawling extended family in Buffalo , New York . After the funeral, Jane (Gaitley, now Collins) and I visited the family home. The vacuum his absence created was most felt there. Heartbreaking, but beautiful, too; lots of kids missing their uncle Brucee. Dazed friends and family wondering aloud how they would ever go on without his smile, his hand.
So. We will all miss him. I loved him, and feel privileged to have called him my best friend. The FM class of ’66 lost a player. He gave more than he took; and he left us smiling.
C2 Tad Collins