{"id":21174,"date":"2025-05-09T04:01:11","date_gmt":"2025-05-09T08:01:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/aleta.life\/?p=21174"},"modified":"2025-06-04T02:42:05","modified_gmt":"2025-06-04T06:42:05","slug":"honoring-bob-kemble","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/aleta.life\/index.php\/2025\/05\/09\/honoring-bob-kemble\/","title":{"rendered":"Honoring Bob Kemble"},"content":{"rendered":"
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POSITION: 41\u00b023’57.2″N 73\u00b057’58.4″W<\/a><\/h6>\n

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\u201cSpring at West Point\u201d, Ginger said, \u201cis grey and depressing.\u201d Sure enough, barren trees covered the hills surrounding the United States Military Academy<\/a> and the cold, cloudy weather felt more like February than mid-April. Only a clutch of yellow forsythia here and there broke the sombre monotone. Had spring been in full blossom, however, we might have missed views of the Hudson River and sculls being rowed earnestly just below the promontory.<\/p>\n

Looking uphill, beyond the football pitches and the graveyard, stand a series of muscular slate granite buildings: the classrooms and dorms of the Academy. Crenelated in the manner of late 19th century gothic revival, the campus reflects a pre-World War I vision of America\u2019s military. An army still shaking off its dependence on European role models. Further uphill, through the naked branches of sawtooth oak and horse chestnuts, sit two and three-storey red brick houses for the faculty and their families.<\/p>\n

Ginger, like her oldest buddy Carol, spent her childhood at West Point. Between them they gave me an insider\u2019s tour. As we drove around, they reminisced about who lived where and what happened to them. They talked fondly about their grade-school teachers and their good fortune at having the run of the sports facilities. In winter they competed on swim teams and ice skated on any one of a half dozen rinks. A small ski area gave them the basics of what became a lifelong passion for both of them.<\/p>\n

Bittersweet<\/h6>\n

Carol was born at West Point when her father, Bob, was teaching there as an associate professor. Later, when Lieutenant Colonel Kemble<\/a> was made a permanent faculty member, the family moved into one of the large residences. The house was big enough that each of the five kids had their own bedroom. There was enough space left over for guests to stay overnight and not force the kids to double up.<\/p>\n

For children who grew up at West Point, returning there later in life is often bittersweet. For many the journey down memory lane includes the burial of a parent. In late 2007 the Kemble Klan returned to West Point to bury their mother, Helen. This time it was to lay their dad\u2019s mortal remains at peace next to his wife\u2019s.<\/p>\n

HONORING BOB<\/a><\/h6>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

I had never attended a funeral with full military honours before. And nothing less would be accorded Carol\u2019s father. It was, as you might expect, highly organized. A procession of ten or twelve cars rendezvoused at the main gate and, right on time, proceeded slowly into the Academy with headlights lit and blinkers flashing.<\/p>\n

Eventually, the cars pulled into the circular driveway of the Old Cadet Chapel<\/a>, at the entrance to the cemetery. Colonel David Bowlus, West Point\u2019s current chaplain, greeted each of us as we started up the steps to the chapel. Like a good chaplain should, Col. Bowlus immediately put us at our ease. My sense was the chaplain could read people in seconds. With that rare gift, he understood what levels of empathy, humour, and gospel were appropriate for each conversation.<\/p>\n

Old CADET CHAPEL<\/h6>\n

\"\"<\/a>About 40 people attended the service, including all of Carol\u2019s siblings and her extended Chinese family. Carol\u2019s sister Keith led the eulogies with her memories of growing up in the army and her time at West Point. Geoff, the younger of Carol\u2019s two older brothers, picked up the story from when Colonel Kemble left the army and took an appointment as President of the New Mexico Military Institute. Cyndy, Carol\u2019s younger older sister, closed the eulogies by talking about the period of Bob\u2019s retirement and travels.<\/p>\n

John Brown\u2019s Body<\/a> by Stephen Vincent Ben\u00e9t was part of Bob\u2019s core curriculum when he taught humanities at West Point. In his last wishes, he had asked for a reading of \u201cI Heard the Song of Breath\u201d from that work. That task fell to Carol, who prefaced her reading by saying it was only last year she had come to understand the importance of Ben\u00e9t\u2019s epic poem to her dad. It was just one of the many gifts she got from our time caring for Bob in Albuquerque. Bob had also requested a reading of the “Cadet\u2019s Prayer”, for which Carol\u2019s elder brother Chris stepped up. Everyone spoke from their heart and did their dad proud.<\/p>\n

Military Burial<\/h6>\n

\"passing-the-flag\"<\/a>After the chaplain\u2019s remarks and prayers, we made our way outside under cold, grey skies for the final honours. The threatened rain held off and the wind kicked up and rustled the trees at particularly poignant moments. The chaplain led the traditional burial service with words and prayers. A full honour guard fired a 21-gun salute 25 yards off. As the last volley\u2019s echo faded away, a bugler blew taps.<\/p>\n

A flag ceremony followed and was conducted with the utmost gravitas. Traditionally, a flag is draped over the casket and at the time of burial it is folded 13 times with great precision by the members of the honour guard. Because Bob was cremated, there was no casket. A circumstance that was clearly familiar to the honour guard. They didn’t miss a beat. Once the flag was folded into a tight triangle it was handed with a rock steady salute from the last soldier in line to the Sergeant First Class, who to this point had stood at rigid attention overseeing the ceremony.<\/p>\n

Accepting the flag, the sergeant turned to the presiding officer and looking directly at him, passed it to him. Continuing to look unwaveringly at the officer, the sergeant bent slightly at the waist and tilted his head downwards. He then saluted the flag for at least a minute. It seemed like Bob’s spirit was cocooned the flag, and that the salute lasted a lifetime. At the conclusion of the ceremony, the officer presented the flag to Carol\u2019s brother Geoff. Afterwards, in keeping with tradition, shell casings from the 21-gun salute were distributed among the family.<\/p>\n

Kemble Klan<\/h6>\n

\"\"<\/a>Retreating from the cold, the group made their way to the Class of \u201949 Lodge for lunch. The Lodge was a gift from Bob\u2019s graduating class to the cadets. It was the first time such a huge gift was made by a graduating class and made possible by Bob while he served as class president. Having only seen photos of the lodge, I had learned a great deal about it from Bob. Walking in for the first time, I experienced what can only be described as received nostalgia.<\/p>\n

For the rest of the day and into the night, we communed with our extended family and talked about our memories of Bob and his legacy of contribution. As imperfect as families are, Bob and Helen had constructed a big, welcoming tent that became known as the Kemble Klan. Long may it stand. Godspeed Bob.<\/p>\n

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