• Doane Beal & Ames
    South Dennis, MA
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Robert Preston Anders

Robert Preston Anders

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July 29, 2014
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July 29, 2014
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February 21, 2001
With our deepest sympathy. Karen and George (C.J.) Sanner. (Chip's ex-wife and son). You are all in our thoughts and prays. We love you Me-mommy.
February 20, 2001
He was a remarkable man -- a color-blind painter, the greatest cook in the world (despite the fact he couldn't even eat solid foods), and one of the funnies people I have ever met (myself included).

He taught me to laugh at the world, because it made no sense. He showed me that it didn't matter what anyone else thought about you, and you can behave as ridiculus as you'd like to because others will laugh right along with you. He also showed me that people will give up their old-fashioned views of the world and can adapt to just about anything.

I will miss the way he lights up family gatherings, and his impromptu sketches of just about anything. I will miss the talks he and I had, and the insight he was able to give me. I will miss even the stupid jokes that he would tell and no one else thought was funny.

There can be only one Dedaddy, and you couldn't ask for more.
February 19, 2001
We have known Bob Anders our entire lives. Our family still hears stories of the great times shared by Bob and Norma and our parents, Kit and Sam Robinson, a family friendship of over 50 years.

We will remember Bob for his wonderful sense of humor, deep love for his family, amazing artistic talents, and for his strength and courage. A man we all admire.

We share in your loss, and our thoughts and prayers are with the entire Anders family.

Rick, Kathy and Ron Robinson
February 19, 2001
My earliest memories of my Dad were mostly happy ones.

And while I have alot of memories about Dad and my brothers and sisters, I will limit this to just my own memories.

I remember family outings to Point Lookout....a day at the beach to play in or near the water, and to catch Blue Crabs and Rockfish. I remember going to Magruder Park to watch the fireworks and have picnics. I remember going to Norman's Tavern (aka³Rocky-Roll²) for food, cokes and the bowling machine. I remember him painting the house. I remember going to Atlantic City for the Lions Club Conventions. I remember the Bull Roasts at Bowie Race Track. And I remember him taking me to Lanham Inn some Saturday and Sunday mornings after dropping mom off at work. He would then go home and take a nap on the couch.

I also remember when he caught me smoking, and made me sit on the front porch and smoke one of those stinky Philly Blunt cigars. I remember when I got caught stealing a Mounds candy bar from the drug store, and how he crammed it in my mouth to deter me from stealing ever again. I remember how he cried when I left to go in the Navy and how he said that I ³was now a man². And I remember his disappointment when it didn¹t work out. And I remember trying forever to get back into his good graces.

I remember the look of anguish on his face the day after the car accident that injured his knees, put Mom in the nursing home with her injuries, and broke Russell¹s nose.

But most of all, I remember one Saturday afternoon that we spent at Spinnaker¹s drinking beer and shooting pool and talking. The topic that day was the diagnosis of cancer and his upcoming first operation. That was another day that I saw him cry. And we cried together. And the more we drank, the more we cried and the more we talked. I cried again later that day at Longfellow¹s Pub. But it was a different cry. This was the gut-wrenching cry of someone in mourning. I think it was that day that I said goodbye to the Dad of my childhood.

The next memory that I have is seeing him on the gurny being wheeled into the ICU at Cape Cod Hospital. Tubes going everywhere. The long row of staples in his neck, and that fact that his head what twice its usual size.

Since then, most of my memories of Dad are pretty much a blur. So much had happened to him over the past 18 years, that it never seemed to end from that day.

And the one question that I found myself asking over and over again, is WHY? Why was he putting himself through all of this, when at the end of it all, he had no real quality of life but that which he was able to make for himself. And somehow, he managed to answer that question, at least for me. It was Christmas in Harwichport, and either Eddie or Jennifer got a microscope from Santa. The two of them were in the kitchen looking at the slides that came with it. Suddenly, they both ran into the livingroom and asked Dad for a sample of his blood to view. Without hesitation, he pricked his finger and smeared blood on the slide. Given all that he had been through, it amazed me that he would do this. Then it hit me. He wasn¹t doing all of this for himself. He was trying to show the rest of us, and I think, to a greater degree....his grandchildren, that life was worth living regardless of the ³quality of life². You were alive and should make the most of it.

Now he is gone. We have all grieved in our own way. And the grieving is not over. To my sister Pam, who is not dealing with this well, I wish you inner peace soon. Do what I do. When the pain and grieving become too much, look back and find one of those happy moments like I do. Pretty soon the pain gives way to the happier memory. And you regain the strength to forget the pain until the next time.

For all of Dad¹s complexities such as that Uncle Gil had in his eulogy, Dad was, above all else, my Dad. I say good night and I love you to him every night now, and that helps me sleep.
February 17, 2001
Boy! Pam,, I didn't know Him, but from I have read, I would have loved to know him, he seems like my kind of guy!
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