Doc, Major, Dad
Parting words for my father
Whether you knew him as Spence, Dr. Annabel, Doc, Major, or Dad, my father loved you, much as he loved his community. So many friends spent time with my father during his last difficult months, weeks, days, and hours. My family thanks you. It meant the world to him, as it does to us.
Spencer Phillip Annabel was born at Hornell’s St. James Mercy Hospital.
He grew up on the family farm along the backroad to Canisteo, NY. As farmers, his parents Albert and June dabbled in many things… strawberries, chickens, and cattle amongst them. The sale of 60 bred heifers put my father through medical school at the University of Rochester. There, he met my mother Carol, a nursing school student, and the love of his life.
A hometown boy at heart, he and mom moved their growing family to the Canisteo farm immediately after his medical residency. He opened a private medical practice in Hornell in 1976. His parents and grandparents lived a stone’s throw away. There was no place that pleased his soul more. He and my mother raised three kids – my brother Seth, sister Megan, and myself.
My childhood memories of Dad are mostly of him working.
When office hours were over, he’d come home and work some more. When he’d take a break from doctoring, he’d work with us - on the farm, cutting firewood, fixing roads, and mending fences. Haying in the summer. Plowing snow in the winter. There was always much to do. He never took a break, let a detail slide, or allowed a four-letter word to float through his brain without saying it aloud.
The man had an unrivaled ability to string expletives together in a way that formed meaningful sentences. I still remember a few of his best. Fortunately, they were never directed at anyone in particular. He’d air them only skyward; in moments of deep frustration; usually when he’d injured himself in haste… which happened often.
There were things he’d say to motivate us in those days. Amongst the more memorable was what would bark when one of us kids worked a baby snake or salamander out of a woodpile… “This is not a ******* nature study!”
I’m sure you could muster a memory or two like that if you ever tried to keep pace with Spence Annabel.
He softened some with age.
The man was particular… and peculiar.
My high school friends joke that dad once put them to work picking ticks off logs. That story is true… except they were ants.
He collected things; a great many things; model trains, cars, airplanes, Civil War art, soldiers, and military models from every American conflict. They filled his medical office, my parent’s home, and my grandmother’s.
Other parts of his collection were life-sized and sometimes functional… tractors and Corvettes followed by Civil War tents and cannons. He built a new garage to house them and trailers to tow them.
For several years, he even had a small airplane complete with a runway and hanger in our backyard. How he outdueled fate with that machine remains one of life’s great mysteries.
So, it seemed a natural progression when he announced plans to build a 3-bay museum in the farm’s old strawberry patch. Today it stands, packed to the gills with a few of his many possessions.
A marvel? To many, yes. To me, it is a monument to his unchecked compulsions and the toll they have taken from our family. Yet, within those walls lies the greatest lesson he ever taught me; the one he never learned; that it’s up to each of us to sort our own shit, lest it rub off on those we love the most.
That “museum” is the weakest measure of the man.
Now I’ll tell you the strongest…
His people.
His greatest feats were as a doctor, teacher, leader, friend, and father.
Not all doctors are created equal. For him, it was a calling. He loved helping people and had an uncanny knack for it. Whether through life-saving action, or the utterance of one right word in a very wrong moment, his personal connection with his patients bettered a lot of lives.
For 43 years, he practiced medicine in this community. Whether running a board meeting, sharing a greeting in the hallway, or mentoring staff, he always felt an intense commitment to the many friends he made there.
So, in the winter of 2014, when closure of St. James seemed imminent, he joined a task force of community leaders determined to find a path forward. The group’s herculean efforts resulted in the construction of Hornell’s new hospital and an affiliation with the University of Rochester - securing a future for medical care in Hornell. For all his accomplishments, this shared effort was the one he felt most proud.
Upon his 2020 retirement, he wrote a book documenting the history of the hospital – another lasting contribution to this community.
Mom and Dad were fortunate to find a second community in Civil War reenacting.
For several years they participated as members of the 21st Georgia - dad as a surgeon and mom as a civilian. Legend has it, old Doc Annabel would notch his tent pole every time one of his surgical demonstrations caused an onlooking Boy Scout to turn pale and hit the turf.
Later on, he and his friends founded Maxwell’s Battery, a Civil War-era Union artillery outfit. In 2021, his subordinates broke the chain of command to rename the unit “Annabel’s Battery”. To the men of the battery, I hope you know he loved you like sons and brothers.
He was a family man - devoted, loving, and loyal.
Though his stubborn Dutch children rarely asked for help, he was always there to steady the wagon - with an understanding ear - a helping hand – or a wise word. I’ll miss his voice the most.
To his three grandchildren, Maya, Clara, and Caleb.
Grandpa was so proud of you! He loved showing you his tractors and trains, giving you Ranger tours, and teaching you about the land. Your grandpa was a great guy. He was also a horse-guy, a bike-guy, a car-guy, and a plane-guy.
He climbed many mountains ages after his knees turned to dust.
He moved several others long after his back gave out.
He had a 2-0-1 lifetime record against cancer.
As a coach might say, “he left it all on the field” … in every way.
The man who was my hero…
Though he didn’t learn how to ride a bike until he was 26 years old, he became a passionate lifelong cyclist. He crashed hard… and often; got hit by a car… twice; and was chased by packs of angry dogs on the daily. Still, he loved it.
Cycling was about much more than exercise to Dad. It was his escape from all the stress of life. When his lung cancer returned a few years ago, cycling became his therapy. It made him feel alive, and it kept him alive - outpacing his prognosis by a solid five years.
In recent years “Burt Hill” became the mountain he would test himself against. His standard route involved a 1000’ climb to the top of the ridgeline. At least twice a week – in rain, snow, or sun; he’d drape decades-old lycra over his wizened frame; don the lord of all bike helmets, and strap down his portable oxygen generator. Then, he’d saddle up; e-bike chomping at the bit; oxygen tubes dangling from his ears like reins; and give old Burt Hill a good rogering.
Sometimes he’d stop to snap pictures of the windmills, sunsets, or critters. He’d post them on Strava; still doctoring; doing his level best to motivate everyone off their ass.
On days he made it to the top, he’d stop to rest on a farmside boulder. The monolith belonged to Jack, his high school classmate. Dad and Jack got reacquainted there a few years back. One day, Dad arrived to find a lawn chair set beside the rock. On the chair hung a simple sign. It said, “Doc Annabel’s Rest Stop.”
After regathering himself, Dad set course for a breathless descent of Windfall Road; a narrow ribbon of gravel; all that stood between our here-and-now, and his ever-after. He yearned for a tailwind; he tucked for more speed… on blood thinners, knowing full well what that meant. One small mistake and he’d take his last breath bleeding out in the ditch – alone. A good death he’d say. What it lacked in comfort would be repaid in dignity.
That is precisely how I will remember him; the wind in his beard; his heart on his sleeve; chasing one more sunset down his favorite mountain.
Well done pop.
I love you.
See you on Windfall.
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