The Moshers: Jack and Karen: The Autumn of Their Lives.

I write this message to the thousands of people that Jack and Karen Mosher touched in the 80 years that they moved from season to season. I am embarrassed because I planned on writing it in the summer, but no excuse will suffice.

We lost them both in a blink of an eye. Firs

t, Karen’s unexpected death in her sleep, then Jack’s in similar fashion weeks later. The memorial was held after Karen’s death in Palm Desert. I do not know if there will be another for Jack. Knowing Jack, he wouldn’t want a big fuss over him, but he always took great joy in celebrating Karen and the gifts she brought to his life and his children’s lives.

I met Jack in the teacher’s workroom at Mt. Carmel High. He looked like Earnest Hemingway and he sounded like him. The more I had coffee or played golf with Jack, the more I realized what a full life he lived. He wasn’t much of a phone talker, but he’s the only person I ever knew who answered my calls with a chipper, “Well, hello there, Bobby.” I always called him “Chief.” Just walking the golf course with the Chief was a lesson in loyalty, honesty, goodwill, and love.

Karen was his angel. She was the piano teacher to so many children who tried their best for her. My wife Pam and I watched both our children play and sing, Anna did most of the singing and Nicholas did most of the playing. Karen’s patience and generosity was a testament to that word again: love

They fell for each other when they themselves were mere teenagers and their affect never wavered through the tumultuous decades that followed: Vietnam, civil rights, the sexual revolution and the technological advances to come. What always amazed me was that they were always on the right side of history, and as the times changed, they grew and adapted—embracing new ideas, new skills.

Many of you reading this had “Mr. Mosher” as your teacher or your European tour guide or your coach on an Academic team, etc. For me, he was always one of my mentors, but despite never taking a class from him, I learned so much. He knew I didn’t know Picasso from Pacino; Carl Jung from Neil  Young; from Walt Whitman from a Whitman’s Sampler—but Jack, who knew so much, did not parade his worldliness. He would wink at me when he knew that I had finally gotten it.

After Karen’s death, I called. I got a very subdued, “Hello,… Bobby.” Then he said, “You know, I was always the one who was supposed to go first.” I was not sure what to say, even though that is what most everyone thought, but I never expected death to catch up with them so soon.  I said I hoped to see more of him since his family was nearby in Carlsbad. However, he solemnly replied, “I don’t think so.” It was foreshadowing, and he knew it. Those words were his last to me.

He and the love of his life Karen now rest in a better place…together. And piano plays an Irish jig.

God Bless them both.

 Bob Pacilio and all of us who had the great pleasure to be a part of the Mosher’s Café.