My Dad

The following was the memorial I read to the audience at my father’s funeral. To me, it says everything about the biggest hero in my life.

On May 21, 1929, Grace and Liggett Gray were blessed with their first child, Peter Lansingh Gray. He set off on an 88-year journey called life. On January 25, 2018, Pete left for heaven, where he is now in the company of his mother and father, as well as our Lord. Pete was a very faith-driven man, always searching for more knowledge about God, but never questioning God’s grace and bounty. Pete was always grateful for what he had, and always reminded his family to give thanks for our blessings. He never allowed his scientific mind to interfere with his belief, instead taking advantage of his deductive skills to strengthen his faith. Pete was a man who was grounded, had a purpose in his life, and lived for that purpose.  I am blessed to have known him and called him Dad, and I am honored and humbled to be able to share a little about him with all of you.

In the last couple of weeks among us, Dad was experiencing something called “outside of the box thinking.” I believe the medical term is dementia. Despite this handicap, Dad still managed to come up with great solutions to problems he might encounter. One day he asked Mom to bring him his college diploma. He was staring at a sign on the wall of his hospital room that asked patients to provide feedback about their care. When mom asked him why he needed the diploma, he said that he needed to prove that he was allowed to be there. Looking back at the sign, Mom read the headline: “Tell us about your experience.”

Dad, we made a copy of your diploma and placed it in your jacket pocket. If anyone else asks for your experience, you should be good to go.

I would like to share a few of Dad’s other memorable ways of “thinking outside the box” throughout his life.

• When he was a bachelor, Dad did not own an electric mixer. Instead, he took a single beater and inserted it into the chock of his power drill. Problem Solved.
• When I needed to do 10 chin-ups every day for a week to get my Fitness Skill Award in the Boy Scouts, Dad had to find a place where I could do them. He got an old broom and a kitchen towel. Then he led me to the downstairs hallway, set one end of the broom through the side of the stairs on the step that was the same height as he, and laid the other end of the broom on the hand towel sitting on his head. If I kept my legs bent, I could then do my chin-ups. Problem Solved.
• One year, Dad, Lynne and I were in Connecticut visiting family. We all went sailing in Long Island Sound, participating in a day of family fun regattas, including one race called the “Peanut Race.” Everyone was sailing in small boats called “SunFish.” Just before the peanut race started, a power boat (oh, excuse me… a “Stink-Pot”) motored through the sound and dropped a couple hundred tennis balls into the water. The goal of the race was to pick up as many of the spilled “peanuts” (the tennis balls) as possible. Dad told Lynne to lie down with her head over the bow and her feet just barely touching the cockpit. He then had me sit on top of her ankles so she would not need to hold on to the boat. This way, she could focus all her efforts on reaching for tennis balls and then holing them up for me to grab and dump in the cockpit. Dad then pointed the boat straight at any tennis balls, not worrying about how to keep them from being pushed away by the boat’s side-wash. Lynne and I grabbed and stowed the loot as fast as we could. We easily won the race with this technique. Problem Solved.

Dad really had a knack for solving problems. He also had a knack for telling stories, and sometimes even throwing in a couple of learning opportunities (Cameron. Cody. I told you I came by that skill honestly!). He shared one of those stories with me while we were on one of our bare-boat charters in the BVI.

Dad was a member of the crew of the 1952 Bermuda Cup’s winning yacht, the Carina (which incidentally was the first class-C yacht ever to win the race). He was responsible for navigating what ended up being the race-deciding 4-hour shift just before dawn on the final day, managing to gain time on the competition in doldrums so bad that they were mentioned in books on the history of the Bermuda Cup. For those of you that are not familiar with sailing in the doldrums, essentially there is NO wind, so your boat seems to just wallow in the water. I remember Dad focusing on this part of the race. He described that shift to me in great detail. If you asked Dad what time it was, he would tell you how a watch works. Dad explained his tactics for maneuvering through this stretch, also sharing how he wasn’t sure how things would turn out, but he was sure that whatever the results, he would have done his best.

This is characteristic of the way Dad shared so many stories with people. He wasn’t bragging about his feats or abilities. He wasn’t worried about how other people perceived him. He only cared about his family, his Lord and doing what he thought was right. He was always a humble man, yet always wanting to help others improve themselves through his experiences. Dad often told me that trying was the most important part. “Son, I don’t care if you are a garbage collector. Just be the best garbage collector you can be.” Notice that he did not say “the best in the world.” He said, “the best YOU can be.” His standards were very high, but they were ALWAYS attainable.

Dad, I know you are watching us right now. This story is for you. 11 years ago, I had a particularly rough customer engagement at work. Sparing all the details, I will say that this engagement ended up testing my metal to its core, and it could easily have ended my career. I clearly recall telling myself several times “If this engagement fails, it will not be for lack of trying.” In the end, the engagement was successful, and I ended up working three more engagements with the same customer. I have shared this story and that phrase with co-workers, friends, and my kids many times, trying to impart the importance of giving it your best effort. Dad, I clearly got that message from you. Lesson Learned!

The final story I would like to share about Dad took place on another sailing trip to the BVI. We were chatting after dinner one night and Dad started reminiscing about the rehearsal dinner for my wedding with Peggy. He told me how much it meant to him to have me say out loud, in front of everyone at the dinner, that I loved him. He then paused for a minute, sighed and said that he had never said that out loud to his father. He felt sure his father knew, but Dad was raised in a culture where men just didn’t say that to each other. I think it was one of Dad’s very few regrets in life. On January 25, 2018, at 6 PM, I sat in Dad’s room at Anchor, holding his hand while he slept peacefully. I told him how proud I was to know him and that I loved him. I also said that he would soon be with his father, and he could tell him the same thing. A few hours later, he packed up his troubles in his old kit-bag and set off to go have that talk with his father.

Dad, I love you, and I always will!