REN CROUCH

This story commemorates a treasured college pal. 1/1/2017

REN CROUCH

I am writing this story with a heavy heart. I feel blue. While visiting Angie’s relatives in Florida this past January, I had an emotional reunion with an old college chum who lives in Largo, just north of Tampa.

My friend, Rene DeGourcey Goodman Crouch, is as unique as his name that derived from an English father and French mother. They sent their teen age son to Baltimore to live with relatives when Germany began bombing London. After graduating from high school, the Royal Navy called him into their service. He spent his military years pleasantly sailing all around the Indian Ocean. He returned to the United States and enrolled at Stevens Institute of Technology in 1947. I met him when he joined my fraternity,

He stood out from the crowd. At age twenty-two, women ignored his bald pate, adoring his cosmopolitan charm. What woman could resist a man with that name of his? He could speak some French, mumble words in ersatz German, sing an endless repertoire of lewd songs and out drink everyone in my crowd. Ren became the editor of his class yearbook, a member of all the important academic societies, easily wearing the unassuming mantle of the proverbial Big Man on Campus. When I think of him now, the words urbane, witty and charming come to mind.

A few years after graduating I attended Ren’s marriage to a very lovely girl from Annapolis. They produced three daughters. His and his family lived in Largo, Florida, where he could satisfy his lifetime love of sailing. We did not meet up again until 1979 when his employer sent him to Phoenix in the capacity of Project Manager overseeing the addition to Sky Harbor Airport Terminal 3. The demands of that job limited our time to socialize. His family hated Arizona, so he arranged to transfer back to Largo less than a year later.

I drove a rental car from Ft. Lauderdale to Largo to see Ren. I found him beset by misfortune. His wife had died of cancer a few years earlier, and his middle daughter committed suicide shortly afterwards. His oldest daughter had married a Mormon physician, moved to Idaho and never keeps in touch with him. At the time of my visit, his youngest unmarried daughter had moved in to live with him while her broken leg healed.

That evening, I found Ren to be as affable, funny and entertaining as ever, but his body trembled as he suffers from a rare nerve disorder. It left him with a loss of muscle control of one side of his face, affecting his speech. He could hardly put pen to paper, or drink from a glass or cup without spilling.

His home looked out upon the Gulf. “What a fantastic view this room provides.”

“Do you like it? I designed it myself to replace the one a tornado destroyed in 1991.”

Aside from these minor mishaps, things were going well for my old friend.

We sat up all night regaling each other with memories of our happy college days. His daughter sat up with us.

“Ren, she reminds me of my daughter, Ellen.” A few drinks later, I phoned Ellen in San Jose to tell her this news. Ren got a big kick of the fact that I could relate to his daughter. We all had a wonderful evening. I found it difficult to bid him farewell the next day, realizing we would not meet again.
            My alumni magazine reported Ren’s death a few years later. The obituary contained few details. I tried to contact the daughter I had met on my visit to learn more about the circumstances, but she had moved and left no forwarding address. Ren passed out of my life without fanfare, but left a huge pain in my heart.

I am both sad and astonished that my life has been spared the misfortunes that seem to beset many others. Somebody up there loves me. .

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