I knew from the moment I first saw him, sitting in a blue and yellow polo shirt, at a desk in a dorm room at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, that I loved him more than he would ever understand.
Rob was funny, clever, passionate and had a way with words. His wit was sharp and quick and sometimes searing. His laughter was contagious. He loved expensive Italian clothes and whatever he wore, fit perfectly and was in impeccable condition. He loved tuxedos - white, black, dinner, tails - and they loved him (although, even he had to admit that the powder blue one with ruffles he wore to his prom was over the top).
His best friend was a mirror and he loved to visit, or at least glance over at his friend often. Ever the optimist, he sang along with any song that came on the radio - whether he knew the words or not. A creative soul, he never let facts get in the way of a fun story. He read whatever he could get his hands on, and was oh, so good at giving you the shorthand version of the storyline. A storyteller, in almost every sense of the word, he talked with his whole body and he talked and talked and talked, telling anyone, anything, anytime, anywhere.
Rob had a childlike innocence to him, ever willing to try something new or different. He loved the lights of Paris, the blooming trees in Spring, the smell of the ocean and the feel of the sand under foot, decorating Christmas trees, the rocky mountains of Scotland, the sounds of the waves hitting the shores of Lake Michigan in summer, his cat, the feel of the warm sun on his face, the hustle and bustle of the streets of London, the camera lens looking his way, the Eurythmics music playing loudly from a red convertible on a highway outside of Quebec, the taste of garlic, large, approving mirrors and the sight of sales signs in Montreal. He never allowed money to sit idle in the bank - or even his pocket for that matter. Never the mechanical type, he appreciated a good, cheap mechanic and, better yet, a car with working brakes and a muffler that didn't drag on the pavement.
I loved this guilt free spirit and, for more than a year, we planned a wedding and rehearsal dinner that took place in a small intimate room in Canada, overlooking the sparkling lights of Detroit and the river in-between. His opposite, I would have preferred a small, intimate occasion, but he would have none of that, wanting a BIG lavish party, filled with joy, laughter, music, lots of adoring cameras, with his treasured nieces as flower girls. More concerned about his wedding appearance than the bride ever was about hers, he carefully researched the tuxedo which would make him look like the man of her dreams, and planned the music and menu in detail, looked forward to the bubbly and especially to the dancing - he loved to dance and, did he ever look good doing it.
A month to the day before the wedding, as he lay in bed at a hospital, he listened as the doctor coldly delivered a death sentence. While he offered to call off the wedding, that thought never even crossed my mind and, on a rainy, wet day in May 1990, we were married as planned, with an unknowing family, dancing, celebrating and sharing our love.
For a short while longer, we laughed at the small things. We traveled across oceans and shores. We danced in our small living room and in the gardens of Versailles. We marvelled at the simple joys of life. We sang crazy songs. We loved, knowing our time was short. We lived like there was no tomorrow. And he asked me to remember that he was not a saint.
After a heart-breaking year and a half in which Rob lived untroubled by the chaos of our lives, he died, at home in Dearborn, Michigan in October 1994 with his cat at his side and while the trees were bright orange, yellow and red. His pallbearers were all women in their high heels and he was buried beneath two shag-bark hickory trees in the town where we met, as a lone piper in his kilt wandered through the cemetery.
What he loved, he loved through and through, and with deep passion. What he didn't, he avoided for life was meant for joy.
He was joy.
******************************************************
This non-saint was born to Barbara Sue Creer and her husband, Robert Clare Allen, Jr. in Owosso, Shiawassee County, Michigan. Rob was the brother of Mary Jo Allen Smith and Joseph J. Allen, the adoring uncle of Stephanie, Shaina, Morgan, Jacob and Tyler, and the grandson of Robert Clare Allen, Sr (aka Grandpa Bob) and Blanche Gurden Allen, and Joseph Creer and Mary Raymond Creer. He was the step son of Shirley Smalley Allen.
Many thanks to the special angel who sponsored my husband's memorial.
Rob was funny, clever, passionate and had a way with words. His wit was sharp and quick and sometimes searing. His laughter was contagious. He loved expensive Italian clothes and whatever he wore, fit perfectly and was in impeccable condition. He loved tuxedos - white, black, dinner, tails - and they loved him (although, even he had to admit that the powder blue one with ruffles he wore to his prom was over the top).
His best friend was a mirror and he loved to visit, or at least glance over at his friend often. Ever the optimist, he sang along with any song that came on the radio - whether he knew the words or not. A creative soul, he never let facts get in the way of a fun story. He read whatever he could get his hands on, and was oh, so good at giving you the shorthand version of the storyline. A storyteller, in almost every sense of the word, he talked with his whole body and he talked and talked and talked, telling anyone, anything, anytime, anywhere.
Rob had a childlike innocence to him, ever willing to try something new or different. He loved the lights of Paris, the blooming trees in Spring, the smell of the ocean and the feel of the sand under foot, decorating Christmas trees, the rocky mountains of Scotland, the sounds of the waves hitting the shores of Lake Michigan in summer, his cat, the feel of the warm sun on his face, the hustle and bustle of the streets of London, the camera lens looking his way, the Eurythmics music playing loudly from a red convertible on a highway outside of Quebec, the taste of garlic, large, approving mirrors and the sight of sales signs in Montreal. He never allowed money to sit idle in the bank - or even his pocket for that matter. Never the mechanical type, he appreciated a good, cheap mechanic and, better yet, a car with working brakes and a muffler that didn't drag on the pavement.
I loved this guilt free spirit and, for more than a year, we planned a wedding and rehearsal dinner that took place in a small intimate room in Canada, overlooking the sparkling lights of Detroit and the river in-between. His opposite, I would have preferred a small, intimate occasion, but he would have none of that, wanting a BIG lavish party, filled with joy, laughter, music, lots of adoring cameras, with his treasured nieces as flower girls. More concerned about his wedding appearance than the bride ever was about hers, he carefully researched the tuxedo which would make him look like the man of her dreams, and planned the music and menu in detail, looked forward to the bubbly and especially to the dancing - he loved to dance and, did he ever look good doing it.
A month to the day before the wedding, as he lay in bed at a hospital, he listened as the doctor coldly delivered a death sentence. While he offered to call off the wedding, that thought never even crossed my mind and, on a rainy, wet day in May 1990, we were married as planned, with an unknowing family, dancing, celebrating and sharing our love.
For a short while longer, we laughed at the small things. We traveled across oceans and shores. We danced in our small living room and in the gardens of Versailles. We marvelled at the simple joys of life. We sang crazy songs. We loved, knowing our time was short. We lived like there was no tomorrow. And he asked me to remember that he was not a saint.
After a heart-breaking year and a half in which Rob lived untroubled by the chaos of our lives, he died, at home in Dearborn, Michigan in October 1994 with his cat at his side and while the trees were bright orange, yellow and red. His pallbearers were all women in their high heels and he was buried beneath two shag-bark hickory trees in the town where we met, as a lone piper in his kilt wandered through the cemetery.
What he loved, he loved through and through, and with deep passion. What he didn't, he avoided for life was meant for joy.
He was joy.
******************************************************
This non-saint was born to Barbara Sue Creer and her husband, Robert Clare Allen, Jr. in Owosso, Shiawassee County, Michigan. Rob was the brother of Mary Jo Allen Smith and Joseph J. Allen, the adoring uncle of Stephanie, Shaina, Morgan, Jacob and Tyler, and the grandson of Robert Clare Allen, Sr (aka Grandpa Bob) and Blanche Gurden Allen, and Joseph Creer and Mary Raymond Creer. He was the step son of Shirley Smalley Allen.
Many thanks to the special angel who sponsored my husband's memorial.
I knew from the moment I first saw him, sitting in a blue and yellow polo shirt, at a desk in a dorm room at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, that I loved him more than he would ever understand.
Rob was funny, clever, passionate and had a way with words. His wit was sharp and quick and sometimes searing. His laughter was contagious. He loved expensive Italian clothes and whatever he wore, fit perfectly and was in impeccable condition. He loved tuxedos - white, black, dinner, tails - and they loved him (although, even he had to admit that the powder blue one with ruffles he wore to his prom was over the top).
His best friend was a mirror and he loved to visit, or at least glance over at his friend often. Ever the optimist, he sang along with any song that came on the radio - whether he knew the words or not. A creative soul, he never let facts get in the way of a fun story. He read whatever he could get his hands on, and was oh, so good at giving you the shorthand version of the storyline. A storyteller, in almost every sense of the word, he talked with his whole body and he talked and talked and talked, telling anyone, anything, anytime, anywhere.
Rob had a childlike innocence to him, ever willing to try something new or different. He loved the lights of Paris, the blooming trees in Spring, the smell of the ocean and the feel of the sand under foot, decorating Christmas trees, the rocky mountains of Scotland, the sounds of the waves hitting the shores of Lake Michigan in summer, his cat, the feel of the warm sun on his face, the hustle and bustle of the streets of London, the camera lens looking his way, the Eurythmics music playing loudly from a red convertible on a highway outside of Quebec, the taste of garlic, large, approving mirrors and the sight of sales signs in Montreal. He never allowed money to sit idle in the bank - or even his pocket for that matter. Never the mechanical type, he appreciated a good, cheap mechanic and, better yet, a car with working brakes and a muffler that didn't drag on the pavement.
I loved this guilt free spirit and, for more than a year, we planned a wedding and rehearsal dinner that took place in a small intimate room in Canada, overlooking the sparkling lights of Detroit and the river in-between. His opposite, I would have preferred a small, intimate occasion, but he would have none of that, wanting a BIG lavish party, filled with joy, laughter, music, lots of adoring cameras, with his treasured nieces as flower girls. More concerned about his wedding appearance than the bride ever was about hers, he carefully researched the tuxedo which would make him look like the man of her dreams, and planned the music and menu in detail, looked forward to the bubbly and especially to the dancing - he loved to dance and, did he ever look good doing it.
A month to the day before the wedding, as he lay in bed at a hospital, he listened as the doctor coldly delivered a death sentence. While he offered to call off the wedding, that thought never even crossed my mind and, on a rainy, wet day in May 1990, we were married as planned, with an unknowing family, dancing, celebrating and sharing our love.
For a short while longer, we laughed at the small things. We traveled across oceans and shores. We danced in our small living room and in the gardens of Versailles. We marvelled at the simple joys of life. We sang crazy songs. We loved, knowing our time was short. We lived like there was no tomorrow. And he asked me to remember that he was not a saint.
After a heart-breaking year and a half in which Rob lived untroubled by the chaos of our lives, he died, at home in Dearborn, Michigan in October 1994 with his cat at his side and while the trees were bright orange, yellow and red. His pallbearers were all women in their high heels and he was buried beneath two shag-bark hickory trees in the town where we met, as a lone piper in his kilt wandered through the cemetery.
What he loved, he loved through and through, and with deep passion. What he didn't, he avoided for life was meant for joy.
He was joy.
******************************************************
This non-saint was born to Barbara Sue Creer and her husband, Robert Clare Allen, Jr. in Owosso, Shiawassee County, Michigan. Rob was the brother of Mary Jo Allen Smith and Joseph J. Allen, the adoring uncle of Stephanie, Shaina, Morgan, Jacob and Tyler, and the grandson of Robert Clare Allen, Sr (aka Grandpa Bob) and Blanche Gurden Allen, and Joseph Creer and Mary Raymond Creer. He was the step son of Shirley Smalley Allen.
Many thanks to the special angel who sponsored my husband's memorial.
Rob was funny, clever, passionate and had a way with words. His wit was sharp and quick and sometimes searing. His laughter was contagious. He loved expensive Italian clothes and whatever he wore, fit perfectly and was in impeccable condition. He loved tuxedos - white, black, dinner, tails - and they loved him (although, even he had to admit that the powder blue one with ruffles he wore to his prom was over the top).
His best friend was a mirror and he loved to visit, or at least glance over at his friend often. Ever the optimist, he sang along with any song that came on the radio - whether he knew the words or not. A creative soul, he never let facts get in the way of a fun story. He read whatever he could get his hands on, and was oh, so good at giving you the shorthand version of the storyline. A storyteller, in almost every sense of the word, he talked with his whole body and he talked and talked and talked, telling anyone, anything, anytime, anywhere.
Rob had a childlike innocence to him, ever willing to try something new or different. He loved the lights of Paris, the blooming trees in Spring, the smell of the ocean and the feel of the sand under foot, decorating Christmas trees, the rocky mountains of Scotland, the sounds of the waves hitting the shores of Lake Michigan in summer, his cat, the feel of the warm sun on his face, the hustle and bustle of the streets of London, the camera lens looking his way, the Eurythmics music playing loudly from a red convertible on a highway outside of Quebec, the taste of garlic, large, approving mirrors and the sight of sales signs in Montreal. He never allowed money to sit idle in the bank - or even his pocket for that matter. Never the mechanical type, he appreciated a good, cheap mechanic and, better yet, a car with working brakes and a muffler that didn't drag on the pavement.
I loved this guilt free spirit and, for more than a year, we planned a wedding and rehearsal dinner that took place in a small intimate room in Canada, overlooking the sparkling lights of Detroit and the river in-between. His opposite, I would have preferred a small, intimate occasion, but he would have none of that, wanting a BIG lavish party, filled with joy, laughter, music, lots of adoring cameras, with his treasured nieces as flower girls. More concerned about his wedding appearance than the bride ever was about hers, he carefully researched the tuxedo which would make him look like the man of her dreams, and planned the music and menu in detail, looked forward to the bubbly and especially to the dancing - he loved to dance and, did he ever look good doing it.
A month to the day before the wedding, as he lay in bed at a hospital, he listened as the doctor coldly delivered a death sentence. While he offered to call off the wedding, that thought never even crossed my mind and, on a rainy, wet day in May 1990, we were married as planned, with an unknowing family, dancing, celebrating and sharing our love.
For a short while longer, we laughed at the small things. We traveled across oceans and shores. We danced in our small living room and in the gardens of Versailles. We marvelled at the simple joys of life. We sang crazy songs. We loved, knowing our time was short. We lived like there was no tomorrow. And he asked me to remember that he was not a saint.
After a heart-breaking year and a half in which Rob lived untroubled by the chaos of our lives, he died, at home in Dearborn, Michigan in October 1994 with his cat at his side and while the trees were bright orange, yellow and red. His pallbearers were all women in their high heels and he was buried beneath two shag-bark hickory trees in the town where we met, as a lone piper in his kilt wandered through the cemetery.
What he loved, he loved through and through, and with deep passion. What he didn't, he avoided for life was meant for joy.
He was joy.
******************************************************
This non-saint was born to Barbara Sue Creer and her husband, Robert Clare Allen, Jr. in Owosso, Shiawassee County, Michigan. Rob was the brother of Mary Jo Allen Smith and Joseph J. Allen, the adoring uncle of Stephanie, Shaina, Morgan, Jacob and Tyler, and the grandson of Robert Clare Allen, Sr (aka Grandpa Bob) and Blanche Gurden Allen, and Joseph Creer and Mary Raymond Creer. He was the step son of Shirley Smalley Allen.
Many thanks to the special angel who sponsored my husband's memorial.
