Herb Gerlach

Herb Gerlach

Sometime before dawn, November 16, 2016, the world began to ponder how it was going to get along without Herb.
He was born in Oakland ninety-one years ago and raised in the wilds of Piedmont--Wildwood Gardens to be exact. It was there that he and his one-year younger brother Richard concocted a code called 'Curly-talk', named for their beloved, eponymous stuffed-toy pig: and they were convinced this lingo was unfathomable to grown-ups. Their parents Helene and Herb Sr. were indulgently mystified by this alien tongue, to the delight of their sons. That sort of bemused generosity was inherited by both the boys.
Time passed pleasantly for the brothers as they navigated their youth, frequenting various Scout Camps, traveling to Alaska and Hawaii in the '30s, and only rarely drawing blood during their fraternal discussions. In this period Herb was seduced by the sport of baseball, devouring stories and statistics from his Dad's copies of the Sporting News and the Spaulding Almanacs. Perhaps with some clairvoyance he was always partial to the NY Giants in the major-leagues [the Cardinals being 2nd in his esteem] and heard radio re-creations of ballgames and live broadcasts of the World Serious. He saw many a game of both the Oakland Oaks and the San Francisco Seals, featuring players as hallowed as Joe DiMaggio, Ernie Lombardi and Lefty Gomez.
Having graduated high school with minimal torment, a more ominous period began at the invitation of the Selective Service. His father was in the infantry in WWI and suggested Herb choose the Navy with the phlegmatic [and debatable] statement, "You'll die clean". He shipped out to Hawaii in '44 as a pharmacist's mate on the USS Minneapolis, a sturdy if antique cruiser that seemed to always have a fair share of Admirals aboard; this guaranteed the ship was usually a good distance from any shooting. There were the occasional kamikaze attacks, but he was generally below decks, assessing the penicillin stocks in advance of the next shore leave. Both he and his brother returned to dry land in '45, relatively unscathed.
Courtesy of the GI Bill, he attended and graduated from Cal before joining the family business, known to the cognoscenti as "The Button Factory". It was then that he met the love of his life and partner for 61 joyful years, Marnie, a.k.a. "Toots". They settled in San Francisco where they had a son Thor, who wasn't nearly as inconvenient as he could've been.
As the '70s began, certain celestial circumstances propelled Herb to the employee of Bakewell & Co where he designed profit-sharing and pension plans for small businesses. It was also there that, through various company sorties to South and Central America, he found he enjoyed travel very much when it didn't involve a boat. He and Marnie made extensive, self-determined journeys to Canada, Mexico and Europe up until 2015; he both studied and acquired certain fluencies in Spanish, French and Italian.
Besides travel, he spent his lengthy retirement volunteering at the deYoung and the Legion, SCORE, and NERT on occasion; gleefully attended as many Giants' games, Symphony concerts, and parties as possible; and until last July, would don a snazzy hat and suit and go downtown on the trolley to attend a conversational-French class.
Also noteworthy, besides his ability to make people sincerely guffaw at the oldest of old jokes, was his fondness for good Scotch, a martini with two olives if you don't mind, and the sight of the sun or candle-light illuminating a glass of red wine. At your convenience, please raise a glass or two to this departed bon vivant. Or join us at his memorial: please contact 9foldmuse@gmail.com for details.
Herb is survived by his wife Marnie, son Thor and his partner Beth, niece Robin and husband Pete, and grandchild Maddy, all of whom would like to thank Bruce Bochy for allowing Herb to see 3 World Championships for the Giants after the heartbreaking losses of 1962 and 2002.
All who knew him, even briefly at a picnic or cocktail party, were treated to his great bonhomie and subtle wit, and would agree that the world is diminished by his absence. He is, and always will be, inexpressibly missed.