Bob Eberle, Who Discovered the Barking Spider, Dies at 73
A beloved son, brother, cousin, uncle, husband, father, grandfather, and friend. A decorated Army veteran. An accomplished finance executive. Robert F. Eberle, Jr. was all of these things but he was perhaps best known for discovering the elusive Barking Spider.
The Barking Spider was first spotted by Eberle in New Jersey in the late 1970's, but its population was heaviest in the town of Fairport, NY throughout the 1980's. He tracked the Spiders’ migration back to the Jersey Shore in 1990, only to return to upstate NY years later, where they would eventually retire. Through all those years, Eberle had a knack for knowing when the Barking Spider was nearby. The loud bark, the telltale smell. His children were not always happy to be in the presence of the spiders, but they knew they were in the presence something powerful. It was once suggested that Eberle could summon the Barking Spider with one pull of his finger, but alas that mystery is one he takes to the grave.
In addition to his Arachnological discovery, Eberle also made contributions to the entertainment industry. His “kissyface” photo pose is said to be the influence for the Ben Stiller character Derek Zoolander’s “blue steel” pose in the 2001 american action comedy Zoolander.
Eberle also once set a land-speed record during a sled ride down an epic luge run constructed in his backyard.
Of course none of these things are true.
My dad died on Friday and my sisters and I have been looking at obituaries as we edited his with our mom. This is a link to what we came up with. It’s hard to fit a lifetime in 500 words or less, but I think it’s pretty darn good. I’ve been reading longer form obituaries too, and came across an interesting piece from The New Republic on The Art of the New York Times Obituary. In it they share that “Ten to 15 people call the obit desk every day, asking to have their unremarkable grandfather written up.” I get it. I do. But man, my dad was pretty damn remarkable. So he’s getting an Obituary, sort of New York Times style. Taking nothing away from the journalists who work the obit desk. They are legit writers (I am not) and they share amazing stories. But today is the day my dad gets written up.
Robert F. Eberle, second of his name, was the son of the late Robert F. Eberle, Sr. and Marion Little Eberle. They moved a bit growing up, but New Jersey was home. He is survived by his brother Richard Eberle, who is a cool cat in his own right.
My dad was a high school track & field star, but he didn’t mention it until I discovered track on my own.
He was a United States Army veteran, serving honorably in Vietnam where he earned the Bronze Star and the Army Commendation Medal for valor. It wasn’t until late in his life that he would talk much about the war. He shared that Vietnam vets still say “welcome home” to each other when they meet, because they all returned home from the brutality of war to the brutality of a country that was very against the war.
He had a standing bet with my maternal grandfather on the Army Navy game. The year my grandfather passed, Army had lost and my dad had not yet paid Grampy the $1 he owed him. So he slipped a dollar coin into Grampy’s pocket in the coffin, because he was a man of his word.
He gave me an internship at his company one summer during college. We commuted together to The World Trade Center. I learned how databases work and grinded on data entry and analysis. I got to see my dad at work, and we had lunch together. They were long days and I treasure that time.
He loved music. When we were kids he would play Fleetwood Mac, Steely Dan, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Eagles on vinyl in the family room. He loved listening to music in the car, and was behind the wheel for some epic family singalongs to New Kids on the Block on road trips in the minivan.
My dad was once on the subway in Manhattan when a mentally ill man came through the car talking smack to every individual on it. The guy was going person to person, throwing brutal insults and trying to get a rise out of people. When he reached my dad he said “And you! Look at you, there, with your….father face.” And my dad nodded at him and he moved on. “Not bad.” my dad would say when he told the story. There’s a scene in the movie Half Baked that makes me think of this.
He was really good at movie and TV quotes. Caddyshack and Seinfeld were two favorite sources.
He truly gave back to the community. The Red Cross, The Ronald McDonald House, Habitat for Humanity, The Boy Scouts, and his church communities. He happily gave so much.
He logged a ton of miles getting my daughter Kelly where she needed to be as she lived with her mom, not far from my parents, for much of her childhood. Many of said miles were logged while rockin’ out to Booty Shakin’ Hits. Really.
In 2012 he was diagnosed with cancer. A neuroendecrine tumor in his small intestine, also known as Carcinoid. It’s in the same family of cancers as what Steve Jobs had. It is a slow growing but very tricky bugger that wraps itself all up in your business, making it hard to impossible to fully remove. At the time we were told that he could still live another five years. In 2018, already past that five years, my dad wrote in regards to his cancer battle: “I have lost a step or two and about 70 pounds, but I am fighting.”
Every time he shared the result of another scan, or another procedure, I’d tell him he was a miracle of modern science. He would find a way to see the positive and say in his best Bill Murray voice, “So i got that going for me. Which is nice.” He also had the miracle of Gooba, which is my mom’s nickname from the grandkids, on his side. My mother was the very best partner to him. A tireless patient advocate. A master navigator of insurance claims and doctor appointments. A calming voice.
When he ended up back in the hospital this past November, my dad said his goal was to make it to 2020. When we said goodbye the last time I saw him, he knew it was likely the last goodbye we’d have in person. I knew he knew it. It was brutal. And, a gift. Just like life.
