In Memoriam - Frank Meyers

Mr. Meyers was a cop. First and foremost. He was a loving husband and father of six. We lost Mr. Meyers November 4th. I ran into my old friend Scott at the library November 8th and learned of his death from cancer. It is a huge loss.

Mr. Meyers was an officer with the Penn Hills Police for many years. He was a big man, both physically and spiritually. He was an honest, hard-working, old-school cop. His wife was my babysitter, so I spent a lot of time with that family. I loved Mr. Meyers. We all did. Scott said it best --"He was like John Wayne to me." Exactly. He was like John Wayne to all of us: big and strong, loyal, willing to fight for what he believed in -- fight to the last drop of blood in him if it came to that. He had quite a few opinions, and if you were around him any length of time, you heard about them. But if you were a good, honest, decent person, Frank Meyers liked you. And if Frank Meyers liked you, there wasn't a damn thing he wouldn't do for you, give you the shirt off his back if you needed it and wouldn't think twice.

I remember him as a very kind man. I never saw him leave the house without kissing his wife goodbye. He loved kids, calling his youngest daughter, Lori, "Punkin", helping me with my math homework, reassuring me that my stepfather wouldn't be mad at me over a bad grade on a math test (OK, so Mr. Meyers didn't know everything), ready with advice and guidance for his large brood. And occasionally, a kick in the pants if need be. I never saw him disrespect his wife, and on the rare occasions I shared a meal with him, I never saw him get up from the table without telling Mrs. Meyers how good the food was. That was Mr. Meyers.

And though there may be those who wouldn't appreciate me telling you this, I saw him cry one time. I don't know for sure why, but I think something happened to his partner on the police force(?) Before Mrs. Meyers ordered me outside, I remember being astonished; I had never seen a man cry before. But I'm glad I did. It brought him down from a pedestal he probably wouldn't have wanted to think we had put him on, made him more human. It made me see that even the strongest men could hurt, and that we need to be care-full with each other. And a few years later, when I saw John Wayne, dying of cancer, accepting an Oscar with tears streaming down his face, I knew I was right. If The Duke can cry, anyone can.

One of my favorite memories of Mr. Meyers was the time they took their RV off to camp for a week. I was 7 at the time, and left in charge of their very old Beagle, Bulle. Twice everyday, I cut through Mr. Kassouf's yard to the Meyers' yard to give food and water to Bulle, and pet him and play with him a bit. He was a companionable old dog, and I enjoyed taking care of him. It may surprise you to know that it never occurred to me that I would be paid for helping out; I helped out at home, and at that time was not paid an allowance or anything. Hell, an adult told you what they wanted you to do, and you did it, no questions asked. On the appointed day, the Meyers family returned and called to let us know they were home, I didn't need to feed Bulle anymore. My mum called me out to the living room, and told me Mr. Meyers was very pleased with how well I had taken care of Bulle. I smiled, very happy to have pleased Mr. Meyers. Then she added, "He wants you to go down there a minute, they brought something back for you." Surprised, I walked quickly down to their front door, and was greeted by a smiling Frank Meyers, who had a really cute little yellow leather teepee in his hand. "Here, Claudia, we brought this back from camp for you." I thanked him effusively, turned to leave, and with a twinkle in his eye, he chided, "Didn't you see the zipper there? You better look in there, and see if there's something in there for you." I opened it and there was seven dollars in the wallet, a fortune to a 7-year-old in 1972. I just jumped up and down and hugged him in my excitement and he said, "Well, you deserve something nice for taking care of Bulle. Mrs. Meyers and I knew we didn't have to worry about Bulle with you taking care of him and that was real important to us." I told him that I liked taking care of Bulle, that he was my buddy, and we played a lot together when Mrs. Meyers babysat me. And he smiled down at me (he was so big) and patted my cheek and said his famous, "Atta girl!", and I went on home.

I heard that "Atta girl!" in conversation with Mr. Meyers almost everytime I talked with him. He had a way about him when he talked to you, like no matter who was in the room at the time, he'd rather be talking to you than anyone else. He laughed often, and his smile was as bright as the sun. I asked him one time why he became a cop, and he gave me the stock reply, "I like to help people." But when he came to our little William McKinley Elementary School to talk as part of a Penn Hills Police Drug Awareness Campaign, he was really in his element. 'Cause he hated drugs and what they did to people, families; and he loved kids. Helping people wasn't just a job to him, it was who Frank Meyers was.

We moved away from the Verona Hilltop area, and the Meyers', when I was 13. I wish now that I had made the effort to talk to him while he was still alive. Sometimes I wonder what he'd think if he knew my stepfather was a child molester; that in order to keep him from hitting us worse than he did, my mother would tell him, "If you don't stop I'll tell Frank, and you know how he loves Claudia." And most of all, I wonder what he'd say if he knew that, as a result of my childhood, I decided to become a Social Worker, and like him, be able to help people?

"Atta girl!"

Rest In Peace, Mr. Meyers.

Love, Claudia