Alexander Bates Callow Jr.

Professor Alexander Bates Callow, Jr. died on Jan. 6, 2017 after a long fight against dementia and weakening health. His body gave out before his mind did. Luckily, he still knew the people around him and his sense of humor never failed. He would laugh at his own jokes in an infectious way as if it was the first time that he, himself, heard it.

"My Dad became a history professor so he could get paid telling stories," his oldest son, Scott, would insist. Family members would unsuccessfully scold him for RE-telling stories about his foibles as a seaman in WWII. From all accounts, he drove the First Mate mad from his mistakes.

"It was because of Uncle Ed and his adventures (as a lifelong seaman) that I became a merchant seaman for four years during World War II," Alec wrote. Since he was only 15 years old when he enlisted, he wasn't old enough to join the Army. His ship carried supplies and ammunition and only had two guns for defense. He described periods of crippling anticipation throughout the entire ship - a type of mental terrorism - as everyone waited, at the same time everyday, for the kamikaze pilots to dive bomb the ships.

The war turned him from a self-described juvenile delinquent into a man, and developed his sense of fairness and inclusiveness. But he never completely grew out of his youthful, mischievous nature.

Grandson Gavin fondly remembers hearing Alec giggle as he told stories about his young hoodlum days, especially the one about him pretending to light cherry bombs and throwing them into the open windows of cars driving by.

Alec was proud of the fact that, after his stint in the Korean War, he hitched-hiked penniless down the Alaskan highway soon after it was opened, and later down to Mexico, spending adventurous summers between college years. He attended UCSB on the GI bill when the campus was located on the hill above the city of Santa Barbara.

Alec and his wife, Marie, met through family. On their first date, Alec took her on a sailing boat, thinking he attained the skill of sailing through osmosis from his years on the large military ships. He flipped the boat and both of them ended up swimming in the ocean. Luckily, Marie was athletic and simply backstroked away from the sails, leaving Alec free to dive into the depths of the Pacific to retrieve his wallet before it disappeared into the black. The story was very dramatic ... every time it was told. Alec's wit and good nature prevailed over the accident, and they were married in 1953.

Alec earned his PhD. in American History at UC Berkeley. His thesis was published into the book, "The Tweed Ring", a story about blatant and extreme political corruption in NY City after the Civil War. He would often quip "A wonderful gift idea for friend and family."

His first teaching job was at Purdue Univ. in West Lafayette, Indiana, and the remainder of his career was spent at the University of CA, Santa Barbara. His specialties were American Urban History and the history of organized crime in American cities. His biggest professional passion was his students, and he consequently inspired generations of loyal students. Many became professional historians, professors, and police officers. One student became one of the first female FBI agents.

Alec formally retired in 1991 at the age of 66, but was actually still lecturing at UCSB in 1997 when he wrote, "I like my job so much it's too hard to quit."

While raising his sons with Marie, the family camped, fished, backpacked the Sierra, hiked near home, and biked throughout Goleta, Mountain Drive and Montecito.

Alec was always playful with his wife and made up countless nicknames for Marie. He was also the noisiest watcher of sports and would blurt out comments in foreign languages that he made up, sometimes racing through the house, shouting "Hika-shamma!"

After the boys matured enough to be put aside, Alec and Marie embarked on an extensive travel regime started during Alec's semi-retirement. They loved taking cruises and went on two around-the-world cruises and visited such places as Europe, China, the Amazon River, Alaska, Africa, Hawaii, the Antarctic, and Greenland. Their children would sometimes lose track of which trip that they were on. "Have you ever been to Djibuti? ? I have," Alec would taunt his sons at a family dinner when the conversation paused.

Alec treated people at home and throughout his travels with respect and kindness, regardless of class, race and intellect. He showed a sincere interest in all kinds of people. Granddaughter Allison wrote, "My grandpa was very funny. But he also cared a lot about our world and I think he's always inspired me in that way. Because he does it with witty humor and joy."

Alec was an amateur magician (considered becoming a professional as a young man), a lover of music, especially jazz piano and Ella Fitzgerald, a serious bicyclist, and earned the nickname "Greyhound" from his grizzled backpacking friends. The entire family agrees that he had an unholy attraction to ice cream.

Alec leaves behind his wife, Marie, two sons, Scott and Sean Callow, four grandchildren, Allison, Julia, Casey and Gavin, and three daughters- in-law, Traci Callow, Ginny Westcott and Karen McClure.

The sparkle that Alec brought to life is encapsulated in his last words to his wife, Marie. She left the rehab hospital, expecting to see him the next day, saying "See you later alligator" and he replied "See you in a while crocodile."

A small, private memorial will be held in the future. If you would like to see Alec, a short slide show can be seen on YouTube, titled "Alexander B. Callow Jr." Donations in Alec's honor can be sent in lieu of flowers to Hospice of Santa Barbara.