Victor Harold and Jean Appel Family

Victor and Jean Appel

Victor and Jean Appel, were longtime members of the church. They were devoted to its ideals and principles. Both contributed in so many ways. The Appels were an integral part of our church community for nearly 50 years. On the passing of Vic, on September 15, 2019, Pat Oakes wrote, " His passing brought back a flood of memories—his lively intellect (he served on the UT faculty in the Department of Educational Psychology for many years), his enthusiastic support of the numerous projects he initiated such as the annual church Christmas party which involved a potluck supper and children making decorations who then decorated the tree in the fellowship hall, the planting of the peach trees along 23rd Street and San Antonio Street, the annual Luther Burbank plant swap on the church porch with folks bringing cuttings to share, his love of gardens and gardening, his service on various boards and committees in the church, and his gusto in hymn singing. Well done, Vic—a good and faithful servant!"

Vic Appel Obituary

Dr. Victor Harold Appel, 89, of Austin, Texas (recently living in Wilton, CT) died September 15, 2019, following complications of a hip fracture. Vic was born June 28, 1930, to Jeanette and Maximilian M. Appel, in Mexico City, Mexico. As a young boy, he lived in Texas and California before graduating from the University of California - Berkeley in 1951.

From 1951-1953, he was an army military police officer in the Korean War. Following his military service, he earned his PhD in Psychology from The Ohio State University.

Vic married Jean Audrey McArdle in 1956. They were married 45 years, raising 3 children and delighting in their grandchildren. Vic taught psychology at the University of Texas, specializing in career counseling. He enjoyed mentoring his many graduate students. He was active in the American Psychological Association, Austin/UT community, and his church.

Those who knew Vic best will remember him for being a loving family member and friend. We will remember his passion for teaching, gardening, fishing, singing hymns with gusto, wearing Hawaiian shirts, speaking Spanish, reciting poetry, coordinating Easter Sunrise services on Mount Bonnell, helping others discover their path in life, and most of all for his larger than life, "never met a stranger" personality. We will also miss his optimism, sense of humor, playfulness, and active imagination.

Vic is survived by his three children, Cheryl Appel, Debbie Appel Knowlton and Gregg Appel, son-in-law, Bob Knowlton, daughter-in-law, Carolee Appel, six grandchildren Katie, Jake, Josh and Abbey Appel and Emily and Samuel Knowlton, and brothers Bruce (Solveig) Appel and Craig (Phyllis) Appel, and his church family/friends and cousins/nieces/nephews. He was preceded in death by his parents, older brother Jerry, first wife Jean and second wife Betty.

Funeral services will be held at the Congregational Church of Austin, 408 W 23rd Street, Sunday, November 10 at 1:15, with burial following at 4:00. A visitation will be held Saturday, November 9 from 3-6 PM at Weed Corley Fish Funeral Home, 3125 N Lamar. Friends may also greet the family at the church and enjoy refreshments and a light lunch one hour prior to the service. Memorial contributions can be made to the Congregational Church of Austin UCC, Westlake Hills Presbyterian Church's program for dementia support "The Gathering", the Royal B. Embree Jr. Presidential Endowment Scholarship, Habitat for Humanity, the Stephen Ministry Austin, Mary House Catholic Worker of Austin, or to the charity of your choice. .

Amy Harris video, singing What a Wonderful World, a favorite of Vic Appel, January 5, 2020, Congregational Church of Austin.At the end of Amy's singing someone in the audience shouted, "Well Done!" in memory of Vic's "vocal appreciations."

There is an Appel Family Photo Album following the eulogy below:

Eulogy of Victor H. Appel, PhD

Written by his daughter, Debra Knowlton, November 10, 2019.

Disclaimer: My eulogy comes from the perspective of having had a close father-daughter relationship with my dad for over 58 years. Thus, I will definitely be a bit favorably-biased as I tell it! But it is my authentic experience, so I must be true to that. Thank you for listening. It means more than you will know to me.

Welcome Dear Friends and Family,

I’ll start my talk with gratitude.

Thanks to everyone for helping our parents and family, in such a devoted and loving way, over the past two decades. It “takes a village” to raise a family, but it also “takes a village” to care for a parent with cancer or dementia--which was the case for our family with our parents. Thank you for being a part of that village.

When our minister, Tom, gave my mother, Jean’s, eulogy 18 years ago, he told the story of a missionary trip he’d been on in the rain forests of Central America. The truck carrying the volunteers, including Tom, got stuck in the mud. They could have given up at that point. But instead, everyone got out of the truck. Together, they lifted that darn truck up, out of the mud, and forward--enabling them to continue on with their journey. Tom then likened our family to that fearless band of volunteers, in the middle of nowhere, who worked together to fix the immediate problem and then move on to whatever they would encounter next…He applauded our family for lovingly coming together, despite living far away, to help Mom as she bravely battled cancer for three years…until eventually she lost that battle.

I feel that Tom’s story is kind of like a broken record when it comes to Dad’s situation. Over the past 18 years, Dad’s family and you, his friends, have come together to try to help him move forward, despite the obstacles that slowed him down.  

Thank you for the friendship and love you have given Dad and our family now…and for so long.  It has been mind-boggling. Your love for us over all these years has been Christ’s love. I am happy and privileged to have been a part of that.  

Thank you also for being here today…to help mourn the loss, and celebrate the life of our dear dad, grandpa, brother and friend.

Specifically—

Thank you for waiting almost two months to have this service, to accommodate my family who had a complicated schedule.

Thanks to those of you in our family who came from out of town--California, Houston, and Kerrville… to be here with us today.  

Thanks to my husband, Bob, and my sister-in-law, Carolee, for their support, patience and sacrifice, as we cared for Mom and Dad for so long.

Thanks to my sister, Cheryl, for repeatedly putting her own priorities and commitments on hold, in order to come from across the country, with very short notice, to care for Dad.

Thanks to my brother, Gregg, for patiently, generously and faithfully helping me address Dad’s financial and legal battles over the past 15 years, for being a sounding board for me as I tried to problem solve what sometimes appeared to be insolvable challenges, and for driving all the way from Kerrville to check on Dad, at my request, when he had concerning medical issues.

Thanks to Uncle Bruce and Uncle Craig for their endless support of Dad and our family, as we all struggled to figure out how to manage Dad’s emotional, medical, legal and financial challenges during his 15-year illness.

Thanks to our kids, Emily and Sam, who since they were babies, have travelled from NY to Texas to spend their vacations visiting their grandfather, even if it was in an institution or hospital, because their parents asked them to do it, and because…well…with their silly, fun and, at times eccentric, grandpa, there never seemed to be a dull moment. And because they quickly grew to love him dearly.

Thanks, posthumously, to my stepmother, Betty. After Mom died, she did her best to be Dad’s companion, soul mate, and caregiver… so that in his old age, he would not be alone or lonely, and so he would be safe and happy.

I would also like to posthumously thank and honor my amazing mother, Jean Audrey McArdle Appel. When Dad’s larger than life, gregarious and sometimes quirky personality got him into trouble (and many of you know what I am talking about), she would lovingly rein him in, redirect him, and make him look good. For 47 years, Mom loved and cared for Dad, despite the fact that it was challenging at times. Together they helped raise a wonderful family.  With her inherent goodness, unconditional love, devotion, strong resolve and organizational skills, Mom allowed Dad to be himself…but also kept him on the right track. She gave our family wholeness and goodness. I’m lucky to have personally experienced her awe-inspiring life mission of outreach. It continues to serve as a model and goal for me to which to aspire. I will love you always, Mom.

And now, it’s time for me to talk about, and to, Dad.

I won’t dwell too much on Dad’s lifetime achievements--professional, personal and within the church community-- although they are numerous and laudable. Please see his obituary for details. I will say though, that Dad was a courageous hero, both during and after the Korean War. At 21, he served as a military policeman in a prisoner of war camp. At 23, he rescued his mom and younger brother, Craig, from a domestic violence situation, moving them permanently across the country to be safe. Even though he didn’t have a very good role model in his own father, he did his best to be a good father to us, throughout his life. He also advocated for people of diverse backgrounds or in need: people of color, people of different sexual orientation, people who were homeless, and people who were undocumented immigrants, even when it was not always socially acceptable to do so.

Finally, I’d like to share with you a “goodbye for now letter” that I’ve written to Dad. I hope it can help bring inspiration to you, and closure for me.

 So here goes.

To my precious dad, Vic,

This is one of the most difficult talks I’ve ever had to make, but I know I must do it. It will help me heal.

I want to talk to you about my feelings around losing you-- including sadness, joy, and hope.

First the sadness. Losing you and our treasured father-daughter relationship is like someone ripped a big hole out of my guts…Each day since you’ve been gone, I’ve been feeling a big void.

I’m also sad because our relationship, although extraordinarily special, was not perfect. Neither of us were perfect. There were times when I hurt you. There were times when you hurt me, and others whom we both loved. That was confusing to me. Maybe part of the problem was your evolving dementia, and my need to try to control scary life circumstances, which, in retrospect, I’d never be able to control anyway. At any rate, we did our best to make amends. Though our differences were not ever fully reconciled, we came close enough to that end…It was close enough… We moved on… I’m so glad we did.

I’m also sad because I miss you. I miss your deep love for me… your patience and forgiveness when I didn’t always do right by you…your affirming, positive, and encouraging attitude towards me, and towards people in general.

 I miss your playful, silly, gregarious, and sometimes outlandish way of interacting with others. I miss the way that you made me laugh. I miss the way that you made others laugh, even when at times, things in my world...your world...the world at large... seemed pretty dark and bleary. You did this throughout your life-- even up until the very end. You had the post-surgical nurse smiling and laughing as you sweetly flirted with her just one hour following your hip surgery…and just 6 days before you died.

I miss your imagination and creativity. At the risk of embarrassing yourself and all of us who were standing next to you, you did silly things. You pretended you were George Washington, John Phillip Sousa, John Quincy Adams, Sir Walter Raleigh, and your Hispanic alter-ego, “Don Fernando Rafael Arredondo.”

I remember the time when you convinced an occupational therapist at your facility that your name was actually “George Washington,” a sixth generation descendent of our first president, and that you had no idea who “Victor
Appel” was. Your ploy worked. She left thinking she had the wrong pt., and you got out of having to have another boring therapy evaluation.  

I remember how you loved to tell stories, that delighted me as a child, and delighted Emily and Sam when they were small. You loved to tell exciting stories of your travelling to the moon in a space ship, just to see if it was really made of “green cheese.” To this day, Sam is fascinated with the prospects of future space travel. Even after you were older and demented, you told sweet allegorical stories about an elephant named “Charlie.” Some were sad, and some not. One of the happier ones was about an elephant who was the king of the jungle. Using his mighty trunk, he blazed a trail in the jungle for the other animals, so they could all make their way to the watering hole, following him. Once there, the elephant, his queen elephant wife, and all the animals refreshed themselves in the cool waters of the pond. The elephants playfully squirted water on one another. Just for the fun of it. 

I remember how you loved to make jokes, even at the risk of sometimes being politically incorrect.  With a twinkle in your eyes, you recently told my teenage son, Sam, that women make passes at men who wear glasses. And by the way, Sam does wear glasses.

I miss the way that you used to spontaneously recite lines of poetry. One line that has stuck in my mind ever since childhood, and which will continue to do so for the rest of my life, is from “On Flanders Fields,” by John McCrae--

“To you from failing hands I pass the torch, be yours to hold it high!” you used to triumphantly say to me…and to your family…and to the random employee at the grocery store, whom we’d just met after you warmly greeted them…Well, you get the picture…you would say it basically to anyone who would listen.

 I miss the challenge inherent in that favorite quote.

Admittedly, I wasn't always sure of what it meant. When I was a young kid following you around the grocery store, and you’d blurt out this quote, I wondered what the “torch” was…and why you were “passing it” …and why you would say that your hands were “failing,” when, after all, your strong and warm hands, which often held my tiny ones, certainly did not seem weak to me.

But as I matured, and you became elderly, I finally got it.  You were leaving me a legacy. The torch was having a cause, and passing it was your legacy. YOU were encouraging me (and the world) to enthusiastically pursue whatever cause or passion that has meaning for us… just as you were aspiring to do in your own life. Some of the causes which you “held high” were teaching graduate students, doing career counselling, raising a family, going to church, serving others, believing in the inherent goodness in people, making them smile, eating shrimp scampi, and gardening. You knew that other people’s worthy causes might be entirely different from yours. But whatever they are, you reminded us that we should triumphantly and valiantly pursue them…even if we fail… no matter what. It is the effort that counts.

Secondly, I feel joy. Joy that you and mom were wonderful parents. Joy that I could receive unconditional love and support from both of you. Joy that you both always believed in me, even in those times, when I failed or fell flat on my face. You helped to pick me back up and guide me. I’m convinced that it was your love and affirmation that served as the foundation for my own success in life. Your love enhanced my growth, achievement, and sense of self-worth. You both affirmed that I, as your child and a child of God, am able, worthy, loved, loveable, and capable of loving others. How lucky I was to have learned that…

I will do my best to follow the legacy you have left us. To seek joy, wonder and delight in life... to pursue my passions that bring me fulfillment…to serve others in need and the world which you held so dear.

You often told us that of all your accomplishments, you wanted to be remembered best for being a great dad. Well, you can rest assured that you were. It was clear how much your family meant to you. You beamed when we were around you.

Another childhood memory I have of you is when you used to say, “Deb, we are a very rich family! Do you know why?” I would hesitate, pondering the question. I knew our family was middle class and comfortable, but certainly not wealthy. Before I’d
have a chance to reply, you would excitingly exclaim, “Because we have each other!” 

Yes, we were “rich” in having one another.

Perhaps then as a child, I took that sentiment for granted.  But later in life when the times got tough, as they inevitably do sometimes, I realized how lucky I am to have such a loving family.

Finally, I feel hope. Hope that the reason I hurt so much, is because I lost so much. Because I loved so much. And while having hope after loss may seem counterintuitive, I realize that my grief is just another way to validate and honor the specialness of the loving relationship that we had. I’m hopeful that I will carry the love we shared forward… to others in my life…both now and in the future. I’m hopeful that doing so will help me heal.

As we bury your remains today, it will be a concrete reminder that you are physically gone from our lives.

But I will do my best to keep your legacy alive...to seek the joy, wonder and delight in life …to be hopeful and optimistic…to pursue my passions that bring me fulfillment and meaning…to serve those in need and in the world.

I will have faith that your spirit now lives on in Heaven with a loving and merciful God. I will have faith that someday, many years from now, we shall all be joyfully reunited. 

Until then, I remain hopeful for the future--because even though now I have lost both you and mom, you live on in me. Your love for me did not die, and never will. It remains in my heart. You and Mom have become a part of me. A part of me that I am extremely proud to be. I will do my best to continue to make you proud of me, too.

My hope and prayer is that all of us here can continue to move forward as family and friends with that same love.

So, goodbye for now. I will miss you both, Dad and Mom.

 I love you dearly, always have, and always will.

Your daughter,

Debbie