Photography

       


Robert Lee Moore, Sr.

September 17, 1930 ~ January 23, 2018 (age 87)
Obituary Image

On January 23, 2018, Robert Lee Moore, Sr.  Beloved husband of Mary Viola (nee Voll). Devoted father of Mary V. Smith (David), Robert Lee Moore, Jr. (Mary), the late Richard D. Moore (Michele), Kay A. Kilgore (John), Ronald G. Moore (Candace), Jeffrey S. Moore (Tracy), Angela L. Bach (Tim).   Loving Grandfather of David, Bobby, Sara, Jeremy, Amy, Justin, Melissa, Dawn, Nicholas, Jordan, Breanna, Trisha and Mindy. Great Grandfather of Cora, Rylee, Andrew, Jonathan, Brooke, Bailey, Avery, Lyra, Arlo, Bentley, Kinsley, Guilanna, Brooklyn, Nathan and Lacey. Dear brother of the late, Melvin, Margaret, Mary, Helen, Mildred, Evelyn and Doris
Friends may call on Tuesday 4-7pm at the CANDLE LIGHT FUNERAL HOME by Craig Witzke  1835 Frederick Rd. Catonsville, MD 21228 and on Wednesday from 9:30-10:00 am at Our Lady of the Angels, 715 Maiden Choice Lane. Where a Mass will be held at 10:00am. Interment Crestlawn Cemetery. For online condolences and additional information visit: WWW.CANDLELIGHTFUNERALHOME.COM

 

Eulogy: By Kay Kilgore 

Who is Robert “ Bob” Moore. He is the 8th born child to parents that could neither hear nor speak.

He is a 9 year old boy when his father was hit and killed by a car. He is a 16 year old young man that quit school and went to work to help support his mother. He is a 21 year old Marine sent off to Korea for 2 years

He is 23 years old when he married the love of his life, His “Miss America,” my mom.

Most important for me, he is my Dad.

My Dad is a remarkable man.

I am one of 7 kids.  Growing up was not easy and making ends meet was a struggle for my parents. For much of my childhood my dad worked 3 jobs, one during the day, one in the evening and one on weekends. Time spent with him was understandably limited but as I have gotten older I realize that he was doing exactly what he should have been---supporting his family. I saw Dad go off to work when he was injured and when he was sick, vomiting in a bucket on the way out the door. He never complained or made us feel like it was too much for him to handle.

As all of you can imagine, raising 7 kids in a 3 bedroom, 1 bathroom home had it’s challenges. Dad generally kept his cool amidst the noise and chaos that comes with having children. His laid back attitude served him well as we kids could surely be a handful.  A particular story that comes to mind involves myself and my 3 younger siblings, Ron, Jeff and Angie. My parents grocery shopped every weekend. Cereal was in high demand in our house and it was not unusual for them to buy 8,9 or even 10 boxes a week. In those days cereal boxes always had a prize in them, usually at the bottom of the box. The 4 of us would wake up ready to open those boxes, squeeze the sides in, shake the cereal around, bend the box some more eventually see the prize. In would go a hand to pull that prize out. When we finished retrieving each one we would leave the boxes open and misshapen on the kitchen table. When my Dad finally came downstairs and made his way to the kitchen he would find the boxes. He would reclose each one, putting them back in the cabinet. He never yelled at us for it, however, once in a while we would hear him mutter to himself, “I am the only man in America with round cereal boxes.” I am sure he was happy when cereal boxes no longer contained prizes.

My dad was a kind, gentle----though the 4 boys could really test that---ingenious---fixing things with wire hangers whenever possible---and giving man. Were there challenges in his life? Absolutely, but never did he give up. He took things as they came, handled them as best he could and moved on. He never asked “ why me,” he never held a grudge against those who wronged him and he remained hopelessly in love with my mother for 69 years. She and she alone was his, as he said, “Miss America.”

Dad was not perfect---No human being is---but I can say with doubt that his family was always his priority and his life was based on exactly that…his family and for me, he WAS the perfect Dad.

Until I see you again Daddy, I love you so much.

 

Eulogy: By Mary Smith

My parents met in 1947 at Edmonson Village Shopping Center.  My mom was 13, my dad was 18.  "Vi" & "Rob" as they were then called fell in love.  They went to dances, to movies, wrote love letters back and forth when my dad was in Korea,  professing their love and desire to be married and have lots of children. She called him Ra Ra, and darling.  He called her his little Honey, his dearest darling. There was no one else for either of them. 

Rob & Vi,or Bob and  Mary as they were called later in life  married and by 1955 had their first child. Mom stayed home, and my dad of course worked.  Long days, and sometimes three jobs at one time.  Yet he managed to fit in so much more.

There were his dinners on Saturday nights, hot dogs and beans.  Every single Saturday night!   Then there were his pancake breakfasts, made with the lightening fast speed my dad was known for. He was the one who buttered our bread at dinner from the head of the table, cut our meat, and dished out the ice cream at night.  Not an easy task amid the seven of us whining "she got more than me",  He would reply irritated as he plopped a little more ice cream into the complainers bowl, "There, you happy now?"  Of course that led to, "hey why did she get more? I want more." 

He was the one who put us on the ceiling when we were toddlers, jumped in the pool with us, threw the baseball back and forth, and grilled the chicken and burgers. He was the one who watched "wrastling" on tv as he called it with my brothers.

My dad was also the one who nightly had to deal with four boys in two sets of bunk beds in one room, doing everything but going to sleep.  My Dad's nightly calls up the stairs, "In a minute I am coming up there and knock a few heads together."  Not that it ever made a difference.  Inevitably, up the stairs he went carrying a belt, or a broom.  The yelling and screaming would start, but in fact most of the time he never managed to strike them.    As he would leave the room and head down the stairs, my sister and I would hear the laughing and carrying on starting back up.

My dad seemed to have his own language at times, and it took me years to figure out what certain words were.  Well, “Godaheil" he would say when he was surprised or amazed.  "Go to hell" I figured later.  Mise well, may as well.  Without a lot of money, dad learned to improvise. When the lenses in his glasses broke, he glued them back together. When our old car was not running, he added some cream of wheat to the radiator. When the license plate would not stay on the car, he tied it on with a rope which led to my mother being stopped by the police.

Each night my dad came home from work driving the  old country squire station wagon. I could hear him coming from what seemed like three blocks away...the muffler was so loud. Here comes Mr. Moore, the neighborhood kids would say and I would cringe in embarrassment.  But it was that car, we all piled into and flew down the highway at 70 mph to Atlantic City, and that car my dad taught me to drive on, and that car we took long Sunday rides ending at snowball or ice cream stands

Over the last 9 months I have gotten to know my dad in ways I never did.  One thing I have learned about my dad is he loved like no other.  He loved each of us dearly, made us feel special, accepting each of us as we are and for who we are.

The love he had for my mother, his Mary, was endless, boundless. It truly was unconditional.  

My dad was in the hospital for about 7 weeks.  The last ten days were spent in hospice.  His one concern was always my mom, his love, his Mary.  He held on long and hard for her and managed at the very end to show her his love with his face tilted up, eyes open looking at her.

As he passed from this world into heaven, I can just imagine the scene.

My brother Richard standing, huge smile on his face, arms outstretched waiting for him.  And as my dad falls gently into heaven and my brothers embrace, my dad saying
Well "Go to hell!"

We love you Dad!  Until we meet again, may all the love, peace and happiness you deserve be with you.  

 

Eulogy: By David Smith

I was fortunate enough to grow up in a house that was a five-minute walk to my grandparents, and most of their children grew up and moved out into the same neighborhood, just like my parents did. Their house was a central gathering point, a place of love and good times. Many of the best memories of my childhood are wrapped around those frequent visits to Granny and Pop’s house, spending time there almost daily, seeing aunts, uncles, cousins, and my great-grandmother. As a kid, when my mom and grandmother worked late, Pop and I often spent the evening together, playing cards or games, sharing a laugh, and most importantly, eating dinner at the York Steak House, where we shared our common love of food! And dinner out with Pop always meant there was going to be room for dessert!

When I think of those times in Edmonson Heights, I also have a lot of memories of Pop helping everyone. He was always willing to offer a hand at something and make time to do so. It could be a car ride, a painting project, building a deck, or even fixing things. He could fix almost anything, often with unconventional or ingenious methods. And most of time, while Pop was working on something, or even doing chores, you would hear him whistling a tune along the way.

One of Pop’s favorite things to do was go bowling. Of course, bowling was a family affair, and with a family as large as this one, the leagues were well represented by us. He loved to bowl—and was good at it. But he had no ego and was even keel, win or lose, regardless of how well he did. He just liked to be there, bowling, making friends, and having a good time. My uncle Jeff and I would often decide last minute to go bowling on Saturday nights and ask Pop to come as well. There were times we would just stop by the house and ask him to go at that very moment. I don’t care what time it was, how late, or how little notice, I can’t remember a time where he wouldn’t go. Shoes and jacket would go on, and he would be ready. It could be with his trademark limp if his foot was bothering him that night, but out the door he’d go.

Because, at an early age, Pop’s foot was crushed in an accident and his parents, who were raising a large family with little money, could not afford to send him to a real doctor. The outlook of him walking was not good. But not only did he walk, he rarely let that foot slow him down. He might limp, struggle, or have to crawl up the steps at the end of the night, but you never heard him complain and he always kept moving forward—it never stopped him. And this is a fitting allegory for his life. Because while Pop’s life was filled with obstacles, he faced the challenges without complaint and with strong determination. For example, Pop was always a hard worker, especially when it meant providing for his family. After his father died, Pop dropped out of school by 6th grade so that he could help his mother out with the bills. And later, after having his own family of seven kids, Pop worked three jobs to provide the best life he could to his family. These were labors of love, because Pop loved his family so much, he just wanted to do the best he could for them.

It would have been easy or even understandable for someone to throw their hands up and get frustrated, angry, or succumb to a more negative attitude. I might have. But not Pop. He exhibited a quiet strength that is admirable and just did what needed to be done. Even through this final ordeal, I never heard him complain.

Over the last several months I have thought a lot about my grandfather, what he’s meant to me in my life, and began to fully appreciate him as a man, who was, in his own quiet way, a positive role model and someone that we all could learn from to be a better person in this world. He was gentle and caring, selfless and giving, and helped everyone when they needed a hand. He faced life, regardless of situation, without complaint with his sweet-tempered nature, often while whistling a tune.

I was lucky enough to be able to spend a lot of time by Pop’s bedside this past month, many late quiet evenings. We would talk when he was able, and one of the most frequent topics was his family. He would talk about Granny—his best girl. He talked about how he worked as hard as he could for his family. But most of all, he would often say how much he loved this family and everyone in it. And hearing that, it has been so clear that Pop’s motivation in life has been driven by the love he has for his family. We have been truly blessed to have had a person like Pop in our lives for so long and I know he will be missed by many. Pop, I love you.


Poem: By Jeff Moore 
I have changed my address to heaven,
I've crossed the great divide.
I know there's no sorrow or crying,
Because I've reached the other side.
I am so happy to be here
For the Lord himself I see.
I've changed my address to Heaven,
I bid this world goodbye.
I now live forever with Jesus in heaven
My new home in the sky.
I have no burdens or heartaches
And from tears I am now free.
I've changed my address to Heaven,
I'm safe forevermore.
For the Lord built a mansion,
And my name is on the door.
You can find us walking together,
For where He is, I will always be.
I've changed my address to Heaven,
That's the place you'll find me.


 


Donations may be made to:

Charlestown Benevolent Fund
719 Maiden Choice Lane, Baltimore MD 21228
Tel: 1-410-737-8892
Email: emily.fowler@erickson.com


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