David Forest

My Uncle David, who would have been 95 in February, was the youngest of my five uncles. He was 12 years old when I was born, which means I might have known him longer than anyone alive today. He was the kid everyone called "Doody," a bright, inquisitive guy with a wide smile and a positive outlook. He served his country during World War II as a crew member of a C-47 aircraft dropping supplies and parachutists in the China-Burma-India theater of operations. When the Japanese surrendered in 1945, he was assigned to Shanghai and was part of the first wave of U.S. troops to enter the city. After the war, he worked for the General Services Administration at Floyd Bennett Field, then at a Curtis-Wright plant in New Jersey, making aircraft parts and checking quality control. He retired in 1981 and moved to Florida. Although he and I lived in different parts of the country, we did manage to speak regularly. His memory was amazing. (So was his hair, which remained full and flowing all his life.) A lot of older folks can recall details of the long ago, but have a hard time recalling what they did the day before. Not Uncle David. He remembered everything. The last time we spoke to each other was on the morning of Thanksgiving Day. I called to wish him a happy holiday, he talked in his usual animated way about family and politics and the days when he lived on Second Avenue and St. Marks Place. I told him I loved him and we said goodbye. Later that day, he was taken to the hospital in Delray and went into cardiac arrest. I am grateful his end was peaceful and painless. I celebrate his life and I shall miss him very much.