A Tribute to Alfred Hobbs

The following tribute to Alfred Hobbs by Carl Fritz was read at the Anglada Memorial service for the longtime “Elder of the Tribe.”

Alfred, my brother, my friend:

Alfred Hobbs

Onward you go if onward there is: No fear, only enthusiasm and curiosity. I am grateful that you stopped here in Barra for a moment to say goodbye.

You amazed me: Setting off for the headwaters of the Amazon with as many physical limitations as you were dealing with? I would have questioned the wisdom of going downtown. But you, you wanted the wild places, the real jungle, the mighty river. All the way. Tip to toe. Down to the ocean and across. You wanted Africa: those connections from long ago. To see the, smell them, hear the music, feel the rhythms.

You were an amazing man, Mr. Alfred Scales Hobbs.

Who wants to risk dangerous roads in the most volatile geography of the Middle East? Yemen for gods sake! You did. But I understand and I love you for it. You were our own Marco Polo. And we thank you for it.

I thank you for times long ago when we sat and polished off a bottle of scotch, solving the problems of the world. I thank you for making me laugh as no once else has ever done. I thank you for the stray dogs and homeless hippies like me that you put up until we could get it together.

To say that you were an elder in our tribe is not nearly enough to give you proper honor and credit. At times you were a fair witness and we consulted you for opinion or judgment. At times you were father or grandpa. You settled disputes or gave direction. And sometimes you were our trickster. You advocated, you protested, you moderated, you counseled.

And occasionally, like the man of La Mancha, you attacked windmills with no hope of winning. But you survived it all. Then, of course, you created your famous “butta” to support our need to bray at the moon. I thank you for that and the pint of it you once gifted me. My friends thank you for it also. Somebody’s dog who still eats rocks thanks you for it.

Alfred, you even survived that terrible accident last year with injuries that would have killed a lesser man. Survived, maybe, to do the one last, heroic trip of your life.

You have always put me in mind of the King of Ithaca, Husband of Penelope, Father of Telemachus and creator of the Trojan horse trick. His words gave me the name I’ve secretly called you by in my mind:

“What shall I say first? What shall I keep until the end? The gods have tried me in a thousand ways. But first my name: let that be known to you, and if I pull away from pitiless death, friendship will bind us, though my land lies far. I am Laertes’ son, Odysseus.”

So now, Alfred, I can say to you: “Goodbye Grandpa, goodbye Friend, goodbye Brother. Goodbye Odysseus, your travels are done. Bien hecho. Now you can rest.”

Carl Fritz

Postscript:

Editor’s Note: St. Jude, pray for Alfred Hobbs and our CRAB People. Pray for El Weston and La Rosa; Pray for our students and the poor lunch-room worker; Pray for Mary Ann McCann; Pray for Ms. Singleton and Alfred Cordova; Pray for the TMS Board. Pray for the BB coach who prayed to you. Pray for Jeff Carr, pobrecito. (For mis amigos, remember, St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.)