My father, John M. Dupy was an honest, hard working man who had a profound love for his family.  He zealously pursued almost every enterprise: whether making his famous chili or catching, cleaning and frying fish for a family cookout, he did so with unbridled enthusiasm.  And he expected his passion for whatever project he was involved in to be contagious.  I don’t think he ever fully understood why some of us, for example, didn’t share his fervor for cleaning and preparing some previously unheard of food product after a hugely successful shopping trip, or for planning all the details of his latest “dream vacation.”   Dad loved maps, but most of all he loved showing us maps.

Dad had an eternally passionate love for my mother.  From taunting and teasing (chasing her across the playground to kiss her) in elementary school, pursuing her in high school, secretly marrying and then devoting his life to loving her, he was her man.  One of his last conscious acts was to silently make a hugging gesture, signaling that he wanted to see her once more before he died.

 Dad liked people.  He could make a first-time meeting into a probing interview of one’s personal life, usually without appearing intrusive.  He could ask a female check-out girl about a blemish (“yes, it is a hickey!”), explain to a young couple shopping for meat what certain unusual cuts might be (“they’re bull testicles”), or give sage advice on any subject, at any place, and at any time.  I think people who were meeting Dad for the first time must have been captured by his friendliness and sweet personality.  I think people like Dad just as much as he liked them.

Dad loved his grandkids.  That’s not to say he didn’t love his kids—he did.  I just don’t think Dad ever considered us completely raised; it seemed to be an on-going project for him to continue tweaking our lives in the direction he thought we should go.  But his grandkids were his true delight.  He inserted himself into all their lives and instructed them on things we “kids” as parents left for him to teach.  He taught my daughter to drive because I couldn’t.  He taught most of his grandkids to water-ski, even though he himself had never skied in his life.  He took grandkids on trips, made them waffles, and instructed Mom to paddle them on the rare occasions he thought they needed disciple.  Funny thing, Dad never backed away from paddling when we kids were growing up!  Probably one more lesson on life and living Dad gave to me and the rest of his kids: raise your children, but treasure your grandchildren.  He was right.

That’s my dad.  He truly was one of a kind.  All of us who loved him have our favorite stories—the kind of tales that bring tears to your eyes and have you rolling on the floor with laughter.  His head-strong unrestrained approach to life left a mark on each of us.  I miss him.  

                                                                                         Lovingly submitted by                                                                            James H. Dupy