Joseph Bert Dunch

On August 21, 2016, Joseph Bert Dunch, beloved husband of the late Helene Dorothy (nee Bagley); devoted father of Joseph M. Dunch and Ronald P. Dunch, and his wife Carolyn J.; brother of the late Alice Lepold; he is also survived by numerous nieces and nephews. He was born on March 1, 1926 in Thorpe, WV, a miner’s son; The family then moved to a farm outside Bordentown, New Jersey; preceded in death by his parents Joseph Dunch, who was born in Hungary, and his mother Elizabeth Szathmary born in Austria who passed away early. He was raised by his stepmother Elizabeth Szarka. He started his career at the George W. Swift Co., in Bordentown, New Jersey and worked as an apprentice machinist and a field service engineer. He was also a member of the Mission Fire Company in the Bordentown Township, NJ. and was chief for 5 years. A proud Staff Sgt. in the USMC from 1943 to 1946, was with the Marine Aviation Separation unit and served in WW II and the Korean War. He served in the central Pacific Arena in March of 1945 for one year. The Roosevelt Ave. home where the family resided was one he built himself. He and his family moved to Maryland in 1964. He worked for Koppers Co. in Glen Arm as plant manager and a field service supervisor. He retired from Koppers in 1983, having worked for the same company or its affiliates for 40 years.

Relatives and friends are invited to gather at the Schimunek Funeral Home of Bel Air, Inc. on Wednesday from 3 to 5 and 7 to 9 pm. A funeral service will be held at the First Presbyterian Church, Bel Air on Thursday at 10 am with interment to follow at the Bel Air Memorial Gardens. Online condolences may be left at www.schimunekfuneralhomes.com.

In Remembrance of Joseph Bert Dunch

(March 1, 1926 – August 21, 2016)

(As delivered by his son, Joseph M. Dunch)

“Honor, Courage, Commitment.” Many of you, I’m certain, recognize these words as those that define the core values of the United States Marine Corps. They also defined the core values ever -present in the life of Joseph Bert Dunch.

My father’s character exemplified these attributes, and they became the basis of a life well-lived. You may expect me now to become exceedingly complimentary, even lavishly so. Undoubtedly, you will find it understandable, pray, forgivable. But it is my belief that many others, perhaps anyone who knew him, considered him an exceptional man.

My Dad was an intrepid force. Growing up, and throughout most of my life, I never knew of a problem, dilemma, or difficulty that he could not solve or overcome. He wouldn’t tolerate, maybe couldn’t understand dalliance, delay, or procrastination. If something needed to be done, you did it. If you started something, you finished it. “What are we waiting for?” was his signature phrase. Fix a roof damaged by a storm-struck tree limb? Fell the 150-ft. tree that released the limb? Well, if it needs to be done… Build a house? He did that, too. And in the sprouting rural community just outside Bordentown, NJ, where he did build his first home, there was no fire house. And so… you build one of those, too. You don’t seek out others when you can do the job yourself. Even if you’ve never been confronted with this particular obstacle before; no matter how daunting the task, you figure it out. You do it! (My Dad was the Fire Chief, and, man, that was cool. I was proud.)

I was in awe of my father. I believed he was invincible. Nothing blocked his path that could not be conquered. Even as a young boy, I could sense the respect others had for him, too.

Truth be told, there’s almost nothing he couldn’t construct, or, if need be, fix, alter, or build from scratch. Seemingly simple things: ladders, picnic tables, saw horses, bookcases, wheelchair ramps …. Buy one? I can make one! You just do it. I recall, without all of the technical jargon, Dad’s story of how, as a relatively new Marine private stationed on an air base, there was this persistent problem with a particular model of bomber. The problem was in keeping the bomb bay doors closed. Repairmen were baffled, manufactured replacement parts kept breaking; nothing seemed to keep the doors shut. Brash, young Private Joe Dunch steps forward and asks if he could take a look at it. With the instincts developed as a farmer’s son and technique acquired as an apprentice machinist, he essentially designed and built an improved latch mechanism, within an hour, which solved the problem. His concept and drawings were forwarded to the manufacturer and they were incorporated into the design of the bomber. He apparently impressed his superiors with his ingenuity, for within a month, he was a sergeant.

Dad enlisted in the Marine Corps at 17 and would ultimately serve in the Pacific until the end of World War II. During the Korean Conflict he was a stateside drill sergeant. It was after his service to country, Dad took that ingenuity back to the industrial workplace. As a field service technician for George W. Swift in Bordentown, and then for Koppers Incorporated, both designers and manufacturers of container machinery, Dad’s skills were always in demand. I never heard it when we were all younger, but in more recent moments of reminiscing, you could tell he was proud of the fact that when the phone rang at the plant and some cardboard box manufacturer somewhere in the country needed assistance with a Swift or Koppers-made machine, they would typically ask, “Is Joe available?” “Is Dunch available?” Dad was good at his job, and I’m glad he took great satisfaction in knowing it. Later, he would become involved in design, and eventually would become plant manager at the Koppers Glen Arm facility. My feeling is that he missed being on the road, somewhere out there over two continents, solving problems. He had scads of interesting stories about those times, many ending with plant managers and company owners inviting him into their homes for dinner and offering him positions. Tributes to his prowess, his demeanor, and his resourcefulness.

When we were asked to consider bringing some mementos to display at Dad’s viewing, and I began looking around the house for items that might best indicate his favorite pastimes, I literally thought about displaying a variety of well-worn tools. Hammers, saws, wrenches… I ultimately thought that would be rather odd. You know, I think the only device that ever frustrated him or which he couldn’t adequately master was the dastardly weed-whacker. There were three or four of them disassembled in a corner of the workshop… We don’t really need to talk about that anymore…

Dad was always tinkering in that workshop, but he also thrived in the outdoors. He was an incredibly powerful, robust man. He was still splitting wood in his early 80s. I really believe he loved splitting wood.

My brother takes after Dad more than I in many ways. He got the gene that allows him to be extremely proficient when dealing with the mechanical, electrical, and electronic problems of life. I became… the ballplayer. So it was often a daunting, even a bit intimidating experience when I was called upon to help fell a tree, or work on the roof, or build something.

I got better. I always say, “Yeah, Dad and I built the deck” behind his house, or, “Dad and I finished the basement.” But I can’t say it without remembering, a bit sheepishly, the story of the 8-year-old who brags that he and Daddy shot the bear. Believe me, please, when I insist I got better…

I even enjoy splitting wood.

Steadfast grit, relentless determination, and unfathomable stamina: These traits also belong in any description of Dad. But I must add unquestionable integrity, stoic and unwavering devotion, and undeniable selflessness. His needs were always secondary. The needs and concerns and desires of his family came first. He took my Mom on crisscrossing trips all over the country in their motor home. I was trusted to go to work for two summers in Ocean City on the condition that I would save enough to buy my first car. After coming home after that second summer before the start of school I was surprised to find that he had bought me one. He told me to keep my money in the bank.

He disciplined, but always forgave the miscues and youthful mistakes of his sons. He, like his Dad before him, could be stern in that discipline. And I can still remember that lingering sting from fearing I had disappointed him. But my brother and I grew to learn that the toughness was meant to instill character in us.

The lessons, though, were not without whimsy at times. I recall being away at school, my freshman year in college, and receiving one of the weekly check-up phone calls which I dreaded getting. You know, public telephone in the hallway of the dorm… You don’t want any eavesdroppers to know you’re talking to your Mom… and then she tells me that the interior of the house is to be painted, and then asks what color I’d like my bedroom. I mean, this was not a conversation I was interested in having. I’m in college now, you know? I’ve got a party to go to… And I impatiently, flippantly replied in a way to let her know how I couldn’t have cared less about such mundane, trivial things… So, I return home for Thanksgiving break, I go back to my room, open the door, and I find… yes, it was, indeed, fire engine red… It still is… Lesson learned.

Dad was fond of fishing when he had the chance. He really loved his dogs. He enjoyed a good joke; he was charming, and he was a true gentleman, a dynamic presence with a magnetic personality. He could surprise Mom with a waltz in the living room. Upon arriving home from work, and out of the blue, he might yelp, a la Merle Haggard, “Ah, ha! San Antone!” from the song “San Antonio Rose.” He would even occasionally, actually sing, though, and as I recall, but ever only a part of one lonesome, wistful tune; just two truncated lines from the song “These Foolish Things.” “The winds of March that make my heart a dancer,” then some humming or whistling, and then the finish: “These foolish things remind me of you.” He did that for the last time just a couple of weeks ago.

In recent years, Dad had a love-hate relationship with Rosco the squirrel. Rosco was, and is, the pesky, indefatigable seed thief of the bird feeder. Chase Rosco away. Rosco returns… Chase Rosco away. Rosco returns… I think, secretly, he admired Rosco’s tenacity and determination.

As a child of the Depression Era, living and working on a farm, he learned that wastefulness was almost sinful. And throughout his life, everything was saved, believing some piece of this, that, or the other was salvageable. Everything had a potential use or purpose. I saw it all as clutter and junk. Why in the world is he hanging on to this? Eventually, I began to see, to imagine, how in each errant part, or the odds and ends from some obsolete appliance; some broom handle…there was the possibility for some future ingenious project. You never know when you’re gonna need one of these… I understood. Today, I consider that transformation one of my most treasured family traits.

I used to think that my Dad running into a burning building on a mission of rescue was one of the bravest things somebody could do. I remember watching him, from a basement window, in the midst of a rare New Jersey tornado, hopping the fence around our property and running to the fire house. He was a man of bold confidence and fearless resolve. You had to respect, even be thrilled by that kind of commitment. But my respect for him escalated into the stratosphere over these past ten years or so. That’s when, nearing 80, he began to face one of his greatest challenges. When my Mom’ s health began to seriously falter; when she could no longer walk; when she lost her sight, he became her caregiver, her champion. His dauntlessness in coping with her insurmountable afflictions helped her to be brave. He encouraged her to face her fears and to be a fighter. He approached this challenge as he did all others: with courage and intense devotion to his cause. He helped Mom be courageous. It was only after Mom’s passing that it became evident that he, too, had been struggling with his own afflictions. I discovered, with profound shock, and despite my insistent denial, that my Dad was mortal.

I will not detail those struggles here. I will only testify that what I’ve experienced and shared with Dad since then has provided for me, with magnified clarity, an even deeper respect for all that he was and all that he believed. He was a man of unflinching will, irrepressible determination, unquestionable integrity, and impeccable loyalty to the love of his life; with faith in family and friends, with faith in God, and with a warrior’s spirit and dignity until his final day.

Honor, courage, commitment.

Believe me; I could go on and on.

Let me just say that my Dad is my hero, my source of strength. I mentioned earlier that, in my youth, I was in awe of him. I still am. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to live up to his example, though the bar be set high.

And so, I believe a great man has departed. He was certainly the greatest man I’ve known. I know our family will forever cherish our memories of both he and Mom. We will miss them both, and do our best to honor them both. We will miss you until we meet again.