Roy Pellerin, born in 1933, passed away comfortably and with dignity on May 17, 2011, in the company of family members.
Roy was a New Jersey kid, though he was actually born near Boston, with French Canadian roots. He had a tough Army father and a strong mother. Roy had an independent and adventurous mind, and he was smart. He raced Flathead Harleys on dirt tracks, read the classics and skipped class in high school to go see Gene Crupa play the drums in a Manhattan nightclub. He joined the Air Force in ’53, earned an officer commission in ’54. He had his wings at age 20, with no college degree. He was stationed in Japan, a B-26 pilot. Toward the end of his life he placed pictures of Bud Stanka and his other AF pals on his bookshelf. Officer clubs, jazz bars, low-level skip-bombing practice… The photos from that time suggest much more, a time well spent.
After leaving the Air Force he acquired a Corvette convertible and began his studies at Boston University, where he also met and married Nancy Blake, my mother. They moved to Tucson and Roy completed his degree at the University of Arizona. He earned a degree in economics, but his craft was programming, initially on IBM mainframe computers with punch cards and spinning tapes.
Tracy was born in 1959, and I came along in 1960. Roy and Nancy moved to California and then to Seattle. Roy worked at Safeco, Airborne Freight, Eddie Bauer, Tel-Tone, and other companies.
1974 was a pivotal year for Roy. Divorce, and a subsequent trip to Mexico to clear his head… I wanted to go with him, and I skipped school for four weeks to do so. We traveled five thousand or more restless miles in a maroon-colored Monte Carlo, from Seattle to Topolobombo and Tampico, to Acapulco to Aguas Calientes, Mexico City and Mazatlan, “Peoples Guide to Mexico” on the seat between us.
To know my father was to know the books he read, and the places he traveled. He was not a big talker. He wore a shirt and tie for nearly two decades… and then he didn’t. He was a late-life beatnik, an artist, a massage therapist, lived in a flat in the Mission District of San Francisco and took spontaneous trips. He told me once that Beirut was his favorite beach. He claimed to have spent his 50th birthday on a French nude beach. He heard the Bagwan babble nonsense while flanked with Uzi-toting bodyguards; he explored and soon rejected all manner of new-age fakery. Roy was not easily bamboozled.
I have a picture of him taken by someone at Tel-Tone, in his office just before he gave it all up. The picture was taken just after he had returned from some trip to some sunny place, probably Mexico again. He looks wild, feral, hair long and face unshaven, ready to tear up the Wall Street Journal that sits in front of him on his desk, unread. But there is humor in his face in that picture, a playfulness in his eyes that suggest there are things we don’t know, and never will.
Roy was a great fan of Jazz, from Bessie Smith to Miles Davis and everything in between. I remember a warm night in San Francisco, 1995 or so. I was there on business and he suggested we go to The Ramp to see Kitty Margolis and her quartet. That was a great show, the kind of vibe he loved.
He had a long-term friendship with Betty Bryant, and he mourned her recent passing.
Roy left us after struggling for more than a decade with diabetes, heart troubles, arthritis and Parkinson’s. His body was failing, but his mind was sharp, and so was his sense of humor. He will be dearly missed.