Some Real Words for a Real Person (Frump on Rodeen)

My Friend and Brother, Gerald P. Rodeen

By Bob Frump

For those of you who knew Rodie and his profane exuberance for life, love of family, nature, conservation and hunting, this is indeed a shock and I can only conclude that an illness caused his death as surely as cancer or heart disease causes death.

He charged through life. Obstacles were generally dismissed in a patented Rodeen phrase: "Fuck the fucking fuckers."

As recently as this summer, when I was in Dallas on my own, and a bit off my feed, in conditions that made my college dorm room look neat, feeling listless and without energy, complaining about getting older, and generally feeling sorry for myself, Rodie set me straight in typical fashion and style.

. "Listen, motherfucker, we got ten good active years left, at least, and I don't know about you but I am not going to sit back and watch them go by. I am going to grab them by the balls and you get up off your ass and start doing the same."

I did.

And somewhere in the months ahead from that point, Jerry slipped the other way. I am not sure what stole over him, but he was not completely the person I have known since childhood who shared every random thought, doubt and desire with his friends. He had been flat and listless these past few months, friends said, as the meds took their effect -- or rather did not. He was Jerry -- and yet he was not.

I reached out to him two weeks ago and asked him if everything was okay, and I was reassured by the call. Yes, he'd gotten the book I sent to him, "Pheasants of the Mind," but he was reading Keith Richards biography and remarked about the Rolling Stones member had been addicted to heroin for more than ten years and how what we all went through was "nothing compared to that fucker." He would get to my book soon and let me know.

I did sort of a double frisk with him. His health was good? Yeah, yeah. Tired, you know, but good. He'd talked openly about depression four or five years ago and how Cymbalta or a similar med had snapped him right out of it and he was glad he sought treatment. The door was always open to that type of discussion and Rodie was nothing if not self aware. How was that going? Oh, fine, fine. No problems. He said nothing about bi-polar disorder, which he apparently was being treated for.

Prostate cancer treatment holding up? Yeah, yeah, completely clean. Anything bothering you? Folks are fading now, losing it some, and that was a big chore for his sister, Becky. The call ended when he pulled up into Federal District Court for a case, and he was focused on the job. Paul, his son, said he had planned the suicide for a long time, so I would imagine he was thinking about it then. or the part of him that grew ever more ascendingly in control, was.

My mind wonders back through a lifetime of friendship and of the many memories, one particularly illustrates Jerry's philosophy. We were canoeing as 20-somethings before he went to law school. We came past a part of the stream where a rope was tied to a tree -- a swing and drop to a deep part in the generally shallow Brandywine River.

Steve Dilks and I saw the rope and it meant nothing to us. Dots did not connect. Rodie saw it and said, "Whoa! Motherfucker! Pull this baby over to the bank. I gotta do that."

We cautioned him to be careful. "It looks shallow," I said.

With that devil's gleam in his eye, he backed up and slacked up the rope, took a mighty charge and a swing, let loose at the highest point of the swing, where the rope was about to noodle and drop, and then let go.

There was a splash and also a hard thumping sound. Rodie came up gushing serious blood from his forehead and nose, bloody but exuberant.

Told you to be careful, I said.

"Ha! You two motherfuckers don't get it," he said. "You're safe and sound in the canoe, but you never are going to have the experience I just did, ever, and I may have got hurt but I took the shot, and that is what life is about, not sitting in the goddamn canoe."

Rodie helped me swing out there and live life. Forever and always, through his actions, words and example, he got me the fuck out of the canoe.

No doubt there are shouldas here. I feel it. His family no doubt feels it. It is natural. Or so I've read.

Rodeen would scoff at it. He did not live in a world of shoulda, woulda, coulda and if the old Jerry somehow were alive and someone said, "I shoulda done more for you," his reply would be, "Don't flatter yourself motherfucker." He was the ultimate champion of personal responsibility.


I have no idea what lead to his death, I only know how he lead his life. For that I am thankful -- and mournful that such a force has left us.

It would be my strong preference, as Steve suggests, that all you good people stick around and live happy lives, and if you are not, reach out to your friends and family, who will tell you without fail in one way or another how much poorer this world will be without you.

Bob