Monday, July 10, 2017
Frank was kind, easygoing, and genuinely loved by those who had the privilege of knowing him. The only other person I have ever known who fits this description was my late mother’s foster-father, the late Antonio “Teddy” Racioppi.
I liked Frank for myriad reasons. Frank was a fellow chemist. I felt a special kinship in that regard. He too worked with diazo compounds (CAUTION!) during his tenure at IBM-Endicott. <https://www.google.com/patents/US3421895> Indeed, thermal contact-paper is still used to print cash-register receipts. They now serve as an enduring reminder of his professional efforts. Although he did not work specifically with the corresponding carbene reaction intermediates, as I do, he liked to remind me that the short-rifle carbine (also pronounced ‘carbeen’) was standard issue for soldiers. I deeply respect him for serving in the United States Armed Forces.
He appreciated German culture, which drew me even closer to him, because my Doktorvater (doctoral “father”) is German and because I lived in Austria for two years. I’ll always remember the splendid time we all had at Plachutta restaurant in Vienna, where I first tried the appetizer steak tartare (seasoned raw ground-beef), Viennese Tafelspitz (roast beef) mit Kren (horseradish sauce), and ice-wine with tiramisu dessert. We also enjoyed dry-rubbed ribs at the Siebenstern Bräu restaurant. Now I prefer dry-rubbed ribs way more than sugary barbecue-sauced ribs. Only Frank liked lamb chops like I do, and I was happy to hot-smoke salmon and lamb-burgers for us. There were countless birthday, Father’s Day, etc. dinners he treated me to. I will never forget when he sat next to me at the Chinese food buffet and helped to crack open crab legs for me, when I was graduated from college in 1994. Whenever I have crab legs with Joey, I will think of Frank. Whenever I see pistachios, I think of Frank. Who else will nostalgically recall stories about Yazoo City, Mississippi over Christmas-dinner coffee? He had a great mind and memory; he was a wonderful storyteller.
Whenever I smell baker’s yeast, I think of Frank making homemade bread and “liquid bread” (i.e., beer). Earlier this year, I asked him how to make (the ancient) honey-based alcoholic beverage mead. Why? Because I knew he was the right person to ask. Despite his failing health, he was happy to discuss the process and its difficulties. Frank was a beer-making enthusiast and a beer-drinking enthusiast. I will always remember our “millennium” tour of the Ottakringer Brauerei in Vienna in 1999. He felt at home around the large barley-malting vats and the tall top- and bottom-fermentation vessels. I think he knew more about the beer-making process than did the tour guide. Frank was a good judge of the different samples we tried in the tasting room, at the end of the tour. He told me that imported beer is more bitter than domestic beer because more hops, which acts as a natural preservative, is used. I remember Frank proudly showing me his hops garden.
I owe my interest in and knowledge of PGA golf to Frank. I knew absolutely nothing about the game before I met him. Now, I find it very relaxing and love seeing double-eagles and chip-in birdies. My son and I still call the sport “boggy,” coined by Joey when he was little. I associate an ice-cold “Arnold Palmer” with golf and, thus, Frank. I habitually brew my own iced tea because of Frank.
I fondly recall the family trips to San Francisco, California and his driving us down the winding and picturesque Lombard Street and across the Golden Gate Bridge. As a father should be, he was so proud of his accomplished son Ted, his daughter-in-law Stephanie, and grandson Gregory. The high moral character of his caring daughter Sarah proves that “the apple does not fall far from the tree.” I am forever indebted to Frank Haining for being loving and hospitable to my only son, Joey. Frank married well. His longtime and devoted wife Sandy, who is a superhero in her own right, dovetailed nicely with him.
I had the privilege of knowing Frank Haining for twenty-five years. If given the choice between bowling a 300 game, pitching a perfect game, crushing a hole-in-one on a par 5, or kibitzing with Frank for one more day, well, that’s not even a choice—is it? I thank G-d for lending us a true humanitarian, Frank Haining.
