A Letter Home, May 13 1945

Editor's note: Some of the language in this letter (referring to Germans as "Jerry", for example) reflect the strong feelings that prevailed then, only weeks after the war had ended. Over time, Ira's feelings about his role in the war and the suffering of innocent civilians would undergo a change.

Sunday, May 13, 1945
Polebrook Army Air Field
England

Dear Folks,

I spent a very interesting day Friday. I worked from 5 a.m. Friday until 1 a.m. Saturday - 20 solid hours - but on a very good cause. We flew down to Linz, Austria to repatriate prisoners of war. We landed at a Nazi airfield in Austria to pick up 30 French POWs who had been released after 5 years in a Jerry prison camp and flew them to an airfield in France. We must have seemed like angels to them, the way they fell all over themselves trying to be helpful and expressing their gratitude. It's a long story, though.

Before we took off from here, we were sprayed all over with DDT - an anti-louse powder - as most of them had lice and there's' a typhus epidemic in the Reich and Austria. The plane was also sprayed, so we were well protected.

I flew as navigator; we only flew a skeleton crew to leave more room for the POWs. There were Capt. Wilcox, Lt. Leibrock, Sgts. Speaker and Usherwood, and myself as the entire crew (normally B-17s had 10 crew-ed.). We flew at very low altitude, touring the German cities on the way down and seeing the damage we had done at close range. In fact, we buzzed the pants off of Germany.

It's almost beyond belief, the destruction we saw. Almost all the cities are just heaps of burned-out wreckage and rubble. We saw Aachen, Koblentz, Wiesbaden, Frankfurt, Nuremburg, and on the way back Stuttgart, to mention a few of the larger cities. They are just KAPUT as the Germans say it, dead cities. Aachen is the only one in any condition at all. Where their former inhabitants live I don't know - or care.

We flew so low we stampeded half the cows in Germany. The kids are incorrigible - we saw them throwing stones at us as we roared over. It's laughable but serious. It shows how they hate us. I reciprocate in full measure.

We spent an hour souvenir hunting on this Austrian airfield. They've got all kinds of Jerry planes parked there. Messerschmitts, Focke-Wulfs, Junkers, Heinkels. I poked around them all, but all souvenirs had already been stripped from them.

It's a funny thing, but my high school French came in very handy on this trip. None of the former prisoners could speak English, so I had to act as interpreter for the crew and I don't like to brag but we got along fine, altho I must have given them plenty of cause to smile the way I mangled the French language. I never thought the little French I learned 8 years ago would come in so handy.

I had a few packs of chewing gum which I distributed among them, and they went crazy over it. They strutted around with big smiles on their faces, their jaws going a mile a minute.

Most of them had never been close to an airplane before, much less ride in one, and their awe-struck behavior when they were led out to the B-17 was something to see. One of them asked me in very slow French where they were going. When I replied, "Nous vous prenons a France" [We take you to France], they became almost hysterical with joy. In a moment, with that one sentence, they changed from beaten, starved slaves into happy human beings; they became men again. As if a dam had been let loose, they plied me with all kinds of questions: where in France were they going? How long would it take? Was there food in France? How was France now? Was Paris destroyed, was this town and that town bombed? I guess their happiness inspired me because I remembered more French than I ever thought I knew - this after 8 years! They were staggered when I told them in 3 hours they would be in Orleans, over 600 miles away. "C'est fantastique!" they muttered.

I was in the bombardier's position for the take-off, and there were ten POWs in the nose with me - the nose usually holds two or three - so I couldn't move around much. I just sat up in the plexiglass front of the nose and did map reading pilotage, which was all that was possible as I couldn't reach my instruments. They kept pointing out the windows and chattering like excited children at a picnic. I kept passing them slips of paper telling them points of interest.

Soon we approached the Rhine River above Strasbourg, which at that point was the border between Germany and France. When we were over it, we all sang the Marseillaise, the national anthem of France.

In another hour we were over our destination and landed at the Chateaudun airdrome, west of Orleans. When they were all out, each one came by and shook hands with us and thanked us very much for the "happiest day of their lives."

We took off right away and landed back at Polebrook, our base, about 11:15 pm. After changing clothes and washing up and having supper, we were deloused again and got to bed (around 1 a.m.), dead tired but with deep satisfaction. We had been out 20 hours, 13.5 of them in the air, and so I slept until noon the next day and spent the rest of the day relaxing and not doing a darn thing except going to the movies.

I still haven't told you about the Flak home and the wonderful time I had there, but that will have to wait for the next letter, as this one is long enough.

All my love. I'm fine.

Your Son,

Ira

Resolution by the Rhode Island State Senate

To read the text of the resolution expressing sympathy on the passing of Ira Wellins, go to
http://www.rilin.state.ri.us/billtext09/senatetext09/s0787.htm

Ricca's eulogy

My Grandpa was the ultimate kid at heart. Many of my memories of him involve silly faces, funny jokes and anything and everything sweet.

On a trip to Hershey, Pennsylvania. we all went on the factory tour to see how chocolate is made. At the end of the tour there was a bin of Hershey Kisses samples. We all took more than one, and I may have even taken a handful, but Grandpa dipped both arms in the bin and pulled out as many as he could carry. I remember feeling proud because my Grandpa took what he wanted the way a kid might, but, even better, he shared them with us because he was a loving grandfather.

How lucky I was to have a grandparent who could so sincerely share in childhood joys.

Ira's Letter from the Big Sail

Here's my transcription of a handwritten letter Dad sent me during his voyage on Al Bensusan's boat through the open Atlantic. Clearly, it was written prior to the sailors' encounter with a major storm at sea. The letter vividly reflects his love for adventure, for seafaring, and for the natural world.

(Caps reflect his own usage .)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Wed. May 14, 1986

THE SAILING TRIP - LV. FLA. SUN MAY 11 AT DAWN.

CAST OF CHARACTERS- CAPT. AL BENSUSAN, BILL REVKIN , SAM ROUSLIN, AND IRA WELLINS

Dear Nancy,

I'm writing during my great sailing trip (from Southport, No. Carolina right now). It has been exciting. We left from a place about 60 mi. north of Palm Beach, intending to spend one day on the inland waterway, sailing north to Cape Canaveral and exiting to the open ocean at that point. To our great disappointment, we found that a seaway lock vital to that exit was closed for repairs, so we had to stay inland most of the next day to reach the Ponce DeLeon exit near New Smyrna, Fla.

However, it was not a total loss, as the INDIAN RIVER (which is the INLAND waterway in that area) is very interesting with GREAT BLUE HERONS, EGRETS, DOLPHINS, MOBILE HOME CITIES FOR THE ELDERLY WITH CANALS FOR STREETS SO ALL CAN HAVE A BOAT MOORED IN THEIR DRIVEWAY? BOATWAY?? ALSO MANATEES IN SOME AREAS - AND WE SAW THEM ALL.

At about 5 pm we sailed thru the Ponce DeLeon exit into the open Atlantic, feeling like we'd been freed, the gates flung open and our 30-foot nonesuch the Zinzindorf bucked, rolled, yawed, pitched, and fought her (all boats are female - wonder why?) way through the broad rollers and headed east to intercept the Gulf Stream about 60 miles off the coast, then turn northard (actually NNE) to take advantage of the approximate 2-knot current flowing north.

My first night at sea - only a thin sliver of the waxing crescent moon to shed the faintest light to detract from the blackness, with the mast waving a long bony finger at the brilliant masses of stars, the dim red glow of the compass and instruments providing the only other light. As we each stand our 3-hour watch, we don our raingear (raining or not, as you can't leave the helm if it should blow (spray) or rain) and put on our lifeline and snap it to a line running the length of the boat, as going overboard at night is almost certain death as the blackness is too intense to find anybody. The alternative - a life jacket with flashlight, whistle, and flares - is too bulky.

There is an eerie beauty to the sight of a raingeared man at the wheel peering through the blackness for the lights of other boats, holding a red flashlight to read instruments and watching the compass, with the splendor of the stars as background as you come up the companionway to relieve. Of course, you have to hold on as the boat rolls and pitches on the broad swells and heels to the wind hitting the vast mains'l. Taking a turn at the helm on the open ocean is mainly monitoring the instruments and being on lookout for other vessels, as our automatic pilot holds to any pre-set course.

The next morning I awoke at 5:30 (went to bed at 2 am), threw some clothes on and went up on deck as it started to get light. We were rolling along at 6.5 knots all alone with nothing in sight from horizon to horizon. However during the morning we saw a few freighters far off, then nothing. Then 2 small birds - storm petrels - showed up and were with us all day - they are funny, swooping down on the water and running over the surface with wings outspread, but we couldn't see what they caught.

About 11 am a school of 4-6 porpoises showed up, arcing gracefully through the water and started playing around the bow for about 10 minutes. Al was asleep below so missed the show. He didn't quite believe us when we told him about it. However we were given a repeat performance in the p.m. which Al saw. We also saw numerous flying fish and one was found dead on the deck the next morning - evidently could not get itself back in the water.

Have to go now for a shower and change of clothes - then we're going to a restaurant. More later. In the meantime, lots of love and kisses from your Dad.

Samantha's eulogy

I have been fortunate enough to have my Grandfather as a constant presence in my life. He is the type of person who leaves an imprint in the lives of everyone he knows.

In recent years, every time I saw him we had a little routine that we had fallen into. I would kiss him and say “Hi Grandpa” and his response would always be a look of shock that I had kissed him, a look that he made jokingly as if to say, “Who, me?” and an enthusiastic “Thank you!” Then he would take a moment where he would give me a look which I now look back on and realize was filled with so much love, and he would say, “How did I get such a beautiful granddaughter?” Or he would put a hand on my face and say, “So cute,” in a way that made me feel like he couldn’t contain himself.

On his last day, I was visiting him in with the knowledge that it might be one of the last times I got to see him. I’m sure the expression on my face gave me away, as he always had a good sense of people and what they were thinking. I leaned over his bed and gave him the kiss that I made sure never to miss when seeing him, and he gave me that same look of sweet adoration and thanked me with the same amount of enthusiasm as always. Then he looked me dead in the eye and said, “So beautiful…” I responded, “So are you!” to which he replied, “I know.” I knew even before I had lost him that these interactions were special. They were so genuine and so loving that I couldn’t help but feel like every private moment spent with him was exceptional. He always made sure that those he loved knew how he felt; and although a lot of his time was spent quietly sitting amongst the boisterous women of our family, when he would finally speak, he would say something perfect. Either something with perfect comedic timing, or something so passionate and informed that people had to take notice. He had the unique ability, which I hope to mirror in my own life, to keep everyone entertained and also to get a point across.

I will miss watching him enjoy his candy in his sweet childlike way, and I will miss having someone else who appreciates meatloaf and mashed potatoes as much as I do. He and I decided long ago that we could both live on this diet forever.

At Thanksgiving, I will be lost without him taste-testing my cranberry sauce. He used to take tiny little bites from his spoon and then get a very serious look on his face, as though the amount of sugar added to the pot was the most important decision of his life. Every year he would tell me that this year’s sauce was the best yet.

His ketchup in his chicken soup and his love of hot dogs and beans were only part of his lifelong quirkiness when it came to food. Even his last meal was incidentally a cream cheese and jelly sandwich with a Fig Newton and an Oreo, which I am told he thought was the best snack my grandmother could have prepared.

I will remember him as brilliant, because I always felt he knew everything. Growing up, I recall him being known as the human encyclopedia. I will cherish the ideologies he instilled in my mother and then in me to always consider every living creature and never to waste. But mostly I will remember his capacity to love and appreciate everyone around him. I have known very few people who have had the ability to make me feel as special and uniquely loved as he did, and I will miss him more than I can ever express. I’m sure that I’ll have a hard time finding someone to lick the cooking spatula that will appreciate it and deserve it as much as him.

The Old Smoothies

They met at a dance... and six decades later still enjoyed dancing together.

Click on the link below to watch (film taken by Ari):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1Ij2TVoqAs&feature=channel_page

Which reminds me of a parody song Dad used to sing:

Oh, how we danced on the night we were wed;
If you think we danced - you've got rocks in your head!

Frankie's eulogy

Thank you for joining us today to celebrate the life of Ira Wellins. Having been married to him for 61 years obviously I knew him well, his imperfections included. I loved his wonderful sense of humor, his never-ending quest for knowledge, his quick response to someone who needed help – Let’s face it, I just plain loved him!

As I thought about what I wanted to say about him today a myriad of ideas went through my head, and I finally decided that there were two things I admired most about him - first, his integrity and second, his valuing all living creatures - (except mosquitoes.) If there was a fly in the house he would get a newspaper and shoo it outside. If there was a spider he would get a container, trap the spider inside and then set it free outdoors. Sometimes spiders were left alone in the hope that they would trap the hated mosquitoes. His influence was so great on his daughters that Diane once nursed a sick bumblebee back to health.

One of my favorite stories about Ira happened many years ago when he owned a drugstore. The IRS was targeting pharmacies that year and his was one of the ones chosen. Other pharmacists sympathized with him, figuring he must be worried because it was common practice to let a bit of the daily sales go unreported. The IRS men searched and searched and couldn’t find any irregularities, so they continued to dig. They finally found an irregularity - he had overpaid and the government owed him money.

I have many wonderful memories of our lives together – raising two beloved daughters, traveling cross country in our Volkswagen camper a dozen times, enjoying three exceptional grandchildren – too many memories to talk about today, but many of them make me smile and I know they will sustain me in the weeks and months ahead. I cherish the knowledge that for 61 plus years I never once doubted that he loved me.

In August Ira was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. He never complained, he always had a ready smile, and tried very hard not to be a burden to me. Because of his cheerful nature we had six very special months together. On the afternoon before his death I was sitting on the bed next to him, with Diane, Samantha and Sarah standing nearby, and he sang me a love song which he had sung many times – "Those Endearing Young Charms." I am so grateful for that last day together.

Him and his candy (and other food)

Ira, as you may know, was a candy fanatic. In his candy basket, there was everything from Baby Ruth bars to Gumdrops. He was especially fond of those small mints with the red spiral design on them; we found an old one in a pocket of his brown coat. I heard that he made regular trips to the Job Lot Plaza on Resevoir Avenue by the Route 10 junction, to buy candy that had fallen off the back of a boat or a truck and had been lying around for days before someone picked it up and sold it to the Job Lots place, which, in turn sold it for something like 50 cents! He obviously didn't mind. On top of that, he liked those Hostess cupcakes, which are small little chocolate cupcakes filled with creme filling and topped with a creme frosting squiggle. Even though they were dated September 1963, he'd eat them and wouldn't get stomach flu or something. Must have been the preservatives. But, as much as he loved candy, his favorite dessert was always chocolate pudding with a little milk or cream. Besides candy, he liked Thanksgiving food. He once agreed with Samantha that they could live on Mashed Potatoes and Gravy all their life. But, whatever he was served, he was always sure to finish it happily.

The Soda Fountain

This is the only photo I have of Dad at the old soda fountain in Bayshore Pharmacy - from July 1965. Check out the prices for the fountain drinks; the milkshake makers (left rear); the tobacco pipe display on the wall. The fountain went the way of all flesh in the December 1973 fire that gutted the store (smoke and water damage).

My Remembrance about Ira

I was Ira’s grandson, and namesake, Ari, and I wrote this.

My Grandfather was probably the most exceptional person I have ever met, even though I have known him less then ten years. He is one of those people who permanently leaves a large print in anyone he meets, whether that person is rich, poor, mean, giving, young or old. I admired him for that, as it was what made him, well, him. Every person is unique, and he was a living example of that. He was different from others, and that was his quality.
He was different, because waste was the one thing he was a little crazy about. Whether the food was fresh or not, he ate it cheerfully and wouldn’t complain. He took a shower drop by drop, and the lights were always out when he wasn’t in the room. If the world lived that sort of lifestyle, climate change wouldn’t be on Obama’s agenda.
He was different, because, he was still a kid at heart. You would find him sitting in his favorite chair with a big box of gumdrops, sucking them slowly, putting great thought into it. He was always ready with a smile or two, and he always had something funny, witty and clever. He could make anyone laugh, another good quality of his.
He was different, because he had courage. He battled with a soldering iron (despite the fact of his being NOT AT ALL handy) to build a simple radio for my mother's science fair project, and was in the lead plane many times on World War II B-17 bombing missions over Germany. He won an Air Medal with three oak leaf clusters and a Distinguished Flying Cross for that, for all his courage.
He was different, because he was himself, his own unique person who had a treasure trove of talents inside him, who knew that and let it go to the world — for everyone to see. That’s why he was different, and I admired him.


Thanks for reading this.

Eulogies from friends

This poem, by S. Hall Young, a friend of John Muir, was read by Caldy Shire at Ira's memorial service.

Let me die working,
Still tackling plans unfinished, tasks undone,
Clean to its end, swift may my race be run.
No laggard steps, no faltering, no shirking;
Let me die, working!

Let me die thinking.
Let me fare forth still with an open mind,
Fresh secrets to unfold, new truths to find,
My soul undimmed, alert, no question blinking;
Let me die, thinking!

Let me die laughing.
No sighing o'er past sins; they are forgiven.
Spilled on this earth are all the joys of Heaven;
The wine of life, the cup of mirth quaffing.
Let me die, laughing!

Let me die giving.
The substance of life for life’s enriching;
Time, things, and self on heaven converging,
No selfish thought, loving, redeeming, living;
Let me die, giving!

* * * * * * * * * * * *

From Barbara Estrin, Friday Group
We will love him always, as he remains in our hearts and minds. It's hard to imagine the Friday Group without him: his quiet, perceptive, comments, his defense of every living creature. Though we may all remember when Ira retired from the pharmacy, we know that he never stopped working for the community, for the Rogers Williams Zoo, and for so many causes that were near to his heart. Can we think of Ira without thinking about the family, in their immense loving of each other? Married for 62 years, Ira and Frankie signify for all of us what an enduring love might mean. We somehow have come to depend not only on his duties as secretary (and there he can be replaced) but on what is irreplaceable: wit and intelligence in a combination that is rare, gentleness and strength--both in the right proportions and both as they should be, and with his hand cupped to his ear, in a gesture that meant whatever we said mattered to him even if we had to repeat what we said. He wanted to hear because he wanted to listen and to react, fully and completely, from the very core of his being. I believe that he was fully alive for every moment he spent on this earth, alive and willing and able. It will be so hard to read email announcements without knowing that Ira was the sender, but that's only the least of the ways that he will be missed.

From Elaine

I first knew Ira when he married Frankie and I fell for him immediately, so he must have had great patience to pay attention to a three-year-old, rather spoiled niece at such a time. Enough patience to go through a mock ceremony before the real thing, thus he called me his "first wife".

And although we were not close for many years, a certain affection remained and it was a pleasure to live close to him and Frankie when I lived in Cambridge in the late 60s/early 70s and could get to know them both as an adult.

Ira's essential sweetness and interest in the world and most particularly in others in it is what I best remember. His ability to face death without altering these interests and to remain loving and uncomplaining will always be an inspiration to me.

Crossing the Bar

Ira had a lifelong love affair with the sea and sailing.

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

Ira's role in WWII

In his memoir, Ira (seen here row 2, 2nd from L.) writes that he went to the nearest enlistment office the day after Pearl Harbor and signed up as an air cadet - rejecting the "cushy job" he could have had in army pharmacy.

He had wanted to be a pilot, but made a single error near the end of training and was sent to navigation school instead.

Ira completed 29 combat missions over Europe during WWII, as part of the 351st Bombing Group (Heavy). His first seven missions, he served as navigator. Then he was interviewed and tested at HQ and sent for specialized training on new, top-secret equipment - radar, or H2X. His code name was Mickey6, leading him to believe he was in the very first group trained on this equipment.

On his remaining 22 missions, Ira served as a "Mickey operator"; his radar equipment enabled the US air force to strike no matter what the weather, without needing to visualize the target. Here's a description of this dangerous job:

"Mickeymen (who flew on specially-equipped planes called Pathfinders, or PFFs) quickly became a very scarce commodity in combat areas due to the staggering losses of lead crews. All Pathfinder-trained crews were assigned to fly as lead for Groups, Wings, Divisions and, of course, the Air Force. The lead aircraft was responsible for navigation to the IP (initial point from which planes turned downwind for the bombing run) and to the target. All aircraft would drop bombs when the lead ship dropped its bomb load. The Mickey operators were 'loners'; their job was classified and they were not assigned to any particular lead crew, but flew where or when they were needed."

As Mickey operator in a lead plane, Ira was responsible to steer his squadron, group, or even larger formations - right up to an entire division of the 8th Air Force - to the target. He earned 3 Air Medals and the Distinguished Flying Cross.

During the 64 years that followed, there were times when he seemed proud of his accomplishments and recounted "war stories"; the only memoir he ever wrote was a detailed recollection of his experiences during those years. Other times - which increased as his life drew to its close - he would weep over the civilian lives he knew he had taken - particularly on one mission he could never wipe out of his memory.

Here's a link to some highly detailed information about the missions he flew:
http://www.351st.org/loadlist/search.cfm?type=s&serial=0-2060423

On this site, you can see what their target was, who were his companions on each flight, which plane they flew on, etc. If you visit the rest of the 351st.org website, you can see other information about where Ira served.

My Dad - a short bio

Ira Wellins was a decorated war hero, a pioneering clinical pharmacist who improved standards of care for thousands of RI nursing home patients, a serious amateur scientist, a sailor and adventurer, a poet, a dancer, and a loving husband, father, and grandfather.

Born in poverty in the Bronx in 1919, Ira was the only surviving child of Milton and Anna (Chertoff) Wellins. The family moved to New Britain, Connecticut when Ira was 10. He graduated from New Britain High School in 1937 and Connecticut College of Pharmacy in 1941. He chose this profession because he could afford the commute to the college, then located on York Street in New Haven. After graduation, he went to work at G. Fox & Co. as a pharmacist.

The day after Pearl Harbor, Ira enlisted in the Army Air Forces but was not called up for duty until fall 1942. He initially trained to pilot B-17s, but in a moment of mental abstraction near the end of training, he landed on a taxi strip. This single error washed him out of pilot school and he was kept stateside for an additional six months while retraining as a navigator.

Ira’s skills with a slide rule enabled him to excel at this new assignment, and from 1944 till war’s end, he was stationed at Polebrook in England, with the 351st Heavy Bombardment Group of the 8th Air Force. Flying at times aboard the uncannily-named B-17 “Kentucky Babe,” Ira completed 29 strategic bombing missions over Germany and occupied Europe, 22 of them as the radar navigator for his squadron, flying in the lead plane (the most dangerous spot on a mission). On at least one mission, Ira was responsible for leading his entire division - one-third of the 8th Air Force.

After the war, he met and married the love of his life, Frankie, and settled in RI, where, in partnership with his Uncle Harry, he opened Bayshore Pharmacy in Warwick in 1952. It was a typical old-fashioned drugstore, with a soda fountain, greeting cards, toiletries and gifts. However, following a December 1973 fire, he resurrected his business as a clinically-oriented practice servicing more than a dozen nursing homes with over 1,000 patients. Long before computers, he instituted manual cross-checks of patient charts for potential drug interactions and concocted a proprietary IV solution in an oven in the basement of his home. Called Renacidin, the solution helped bedridden patients avoid forming bedsores. He also lectured at the Pharmacy Schools of URI and U. Mass. and served on professional panels.

During the 1970s and 80s, Ira and Frankie enjoyed camping adventures through the American West and the Yukon. It all started on a Thanksgiving Day that fell on Ira’s birthday. He got a phone call that he had won a car raffle at the Veterans High School football game. (He’d been buying raffle tickets from his customers for about 20 years…) The car, a purple Plymouth Duster, Ira traded in for a VW poptop camper which got named “Sweetie.” This camper carried them faithfully through a dozen cross-country trips through the American West, the Yukon and British Columbia.

After retiring in 1986, Ira, now 66, extended his adventurous streak, sailing a 32-foot boat through the open Atlantic from Florida to RI with friend Al Bensusan, and driving 12,000 miles to Alaska and back in a VW camper with wife Frankie.

Ira then embarked on 18 happy years as a volunteer docent at Roger Williams Park Zoo, sharing his encyclopedic knowledge of animals with thousands of visitors and penning a column, “Ask Ira,” in the RIZS newsletter.

His awards included three Air Medals (1944-1945), the Distinguished Flying Cross (1945), Pharmacist of the Year (RI Pharmaceutical Association, 1986), Preceptor of the Year (URI College of Pharmacy, 1977), New England Pharmacist of the Year (Massachusetts College of Pharmacy, 1978), and Docent of the Year (RI Zoological Society, 2002).

Ira’s knowledge was vast, ranging over fields from evolution to astrophysics, and was exceeded only by his wit. He was a man of strong convictions and unshakeable ethical standards; he hated waste and was an early conservationist.

He was committed to serving his patients, walking 8 miles during the 1978 blizzard to get vital prescriptions to nursing home residents. He treated his employees well and always paid them above scale, valuing their happiness above profit.

He revered scientific knowledge and believed in its power to free humanity from needless suffering. In keeping with these beliefs, he donated his remains to Brown U. Medical School.

He adored animals and children, and they adored him. He could invent a game using whatever was at hand – a straw, a spoon, a shoe.

He was a terrific dancer and authored many clever and touching poems for family occasions.

He loved the NY Times Sunday crossword and devoured naval adventure stories from Horatio Hornblower to Patrick O’Bryan’s series.

He adored his wife Frankie, was never too tired to play games with his daughters Diane and Nancy, and later took great delight in his grandchildren Ricca, Samantha, and Ari.

He was always kind, funny, and cheerful; even in his final illness, he never complained. His memory will be cherished by all who knew him.

Ira's article on the Kangaroo

Among the several fields of knowledge Ira mastered entirely on his own was zoology. Here's something he wrote about the kangaroo for the Roger Williams Park Zoo newsletter:


MACROPODS, THE BIG KANGAROOS
(or how to organize birth into an assembly line)
Our Eastern Grey Kangaroos are considered the biggest of the kangaroos hence the Genus and species name Macropus gigantea. They are also, therefore, among the largest of the living Marsupials. At birth they are at most barely over a half inch and weigh less than an ounce; they look like embryos with undeveloped eyes, hind limbs, and tail. Using its strong forelimbs, the newly-born infant will climb up the mother's fur and into her forward-opening pouch. There it clamps its mouth onto one of four teats, remaining attached for as long as 300 days of development. The pouch provides a warm, humid environment for the juvenile, which cannot yet regulate its own temperature and can lose moisture rapidly through its hairless skin.
Once the juvenile has detached from the teat, the mother will allow it out for short walkabouts, retrieving it when she moves. She will prevent it from returning to the pouch just before the birth of her next young, but it will continue to follow her about as a dependent young-at-foot, and can put its head in the maternal pouch to suck the teat. The quality of milk provided changes as the joey matures, and a mother suckling a juvenile in the pouch at the same time as a young-at-foot will produce different qualities of milk from the two teats - a feat achieved by having the mammary glands under separate hormonal control.
All macropods produce only one young at birth and, with some exceptions, can conceive and give birth at any time of the year. Gestation for the Eastern Grey is about 36 days. Giving birth to such small babies is relatively effortless; the female sits with tail forward between her legs and licks the fur between her cloaca and pouch, producing a path that will keep the climbing neonate moist until it enters the pouch. A few days after giving birth the female will enter estrus once more. If they are mated and conceive, the new embryo's development halts at an unimplanted blastocyst stage. This stage lasts until about a month before the current pouch young is sufficiently developed to quit the pouch. Then the blastocyst implants in the uterus and resumes development. A day or two before birth is due, the mother will exclude the previous young from the pouch, a rebuff that is difficult for it to accept as it has been taught to come when called and climb back into the pouch. The mother then cleans and prepares the pouch for the next juvenile. Thus the female can simultaneously support a suckling young-atfoot, a suckling pouch young, and a dormant or developing embryo.

-Ira Wellins, Life Docent

Here's the link to the article as it appears on the web:
http://www.briegull.com/SOSongs/macropods.htm

Photo Albums of Ira's Life

For your convenience - below are clickable links to albums of photos of Ira Wellins, from nearly all the stages of his 89 years on this earth:

My Dad, Ira Wellins, z"l


More Scenes from a Rich Life#

Providence Journal Memorial Book Entries

I'm reposting these messages here as ProJo will erase them from its site at the end of March. Newest posts on top, oldest on bottom.
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March 5, 2009
Dear Frankie,Please know our thoughts are with at this time.What an inspiration ! With heartfelt sympathy.Bonnie & Marc jaffe

Bonnie Jaffe (Barrington, RI)

March 5, 2009
Mrs. Wellins, I was so very sorry to hear of Ira's passing. I, too, am a docent at the zoo and Ira has been a friend and mentor to me for 13 years. I first became a docent in 1995 and Ira was an instructor in my docent classes. I had to leave the zoo due to health concerns and went back to docent class in 2000. Ira remembered me and welcomed me with open arms. He made me feel as though I were family returning to the fold. I will miss his wit and all his "Ira-isms". He was a great man and a wonderful friend.Rose IannoneZoo Docent

Rose Iannone (Providence, RI)

March 4, 2009
Dear Frankie & family,Although separated by distance and years, I will always be connected to my wonderful cousin Ira with my very early memories of him and our shared Wellins history of the same grandfather and ancestors. I was grateful to renew our cousin relationship in 1995 and spend some time with him and you.He will always be fondly rememberedOur thoughts are with you.cousin Fran Wellins Foley

Fran Wellins Foley (Rancho Santa Fe, CA) Contact me

March 3, 2009
I am so sorry to here of Ira's passing and recall when I was doing family history work in the New Britain Library. There was a full article written by Ira during WWII near his airplane. He sent pictures exclusively to the New Britain Herald showing the liberation of a concentration camp and the Jewish prisioners who survived and remains of those who did not. It was very moving. He had a good Neshama (soul) and I thought many times of his place in history. Frank Welinsky was his grandfather and my gr grandfather. Our family tree is as follows:Meyer Vilenchik b abt 1710 LithuaniaAbel Vilenchik b abt 1740 LithuaniaShlomo (Shimel) Vilenchik b 1767 d 1833 in Vilkija, LithuaniaMeyer Vilenchik b 1802 Vilkija d 1880 in Rumsiskis LithuaniaMenahem Mendel Vilenchik, Vilensky and later Welinsky b 1842 Rumsiskis, Lithuania d 18 oct 1893 New York City (buried in Brooklyn in Washington Cemetery) He came to america on the ss Michigan on 29 oct 1888 from Liverpool.Frank Welinsky b jul 1868 Rumsiskis Lithuania and died 12 oct 1936 New Britain, Ct Milton Robert Wellins b 10 jul 1893 in the lower east side of New York and died 14 jul 1976 Cranston, RI

Rabbi Edward Cohen (West Hartford, CT) Contact me

March 3, 2009
Dear Frankie and Family,I was sad to hear this news. My deepest sympathies are with you at this time. Know that you are loved.

Kelly Nevins (Providence, RI)

March 3, 2009
Dear Frankie, Our sympathy to you and yours. Ira was not only a wonderful friend to us, he was a neighbor who we could not have hand picked and done better. How fortunate we were to have known him. A true gentleman who I am sure will be missed by all who knew him. The London's

Cheryl and Jon London (Cranston, RI)

March 2, 2009
Dear Frankie and Family,Ira was someone very special. He was dear to us. We miss him.As Always, Sam & Jean Rouslin

Samuel Rouslin (Salem, OR) Contact me

March 2, 2009
Dear Frankie,Jeni and I send you our deepest sympathy to you and your family. They say time heals all wounds, but we will never forget.

Elle Merchant (Wakefield, RI)

March 2, 2009
Dear Frankie and Family:Please accept my deepest sympathy on the loss of your dear Ira. He was an amazing man, with an infectious smile. I so looked forward to events at The Players so that I could see my good friend. He will truly be missed by all of us.With Love, Dennis

Dennis L Bouchard (Cranston, RI)

March 2, 2009
Dearest Frankie, I share your lost and extend my deepest sympathy. Ira was a good friend and mentor. I looked forward to working the days he voluntered. We would always respond when asked "How long have you known one another?" Since the dinosaurs!Again my sincerest sympathy to you.Edward "Mr. Ed" Hooks

Edward Hooks (Providence, RI)


March 1, 2009
I became a docent at the zoo in 2002. I was blessed to have been on the same volunteer shift with Ira. He, along with Mr. Ed. were my mentors. I learned so very much from Ira. He loved the animals at the zoo and was always willing to share whatever he knew....with a smile. I was lucky to call him my friend.

Nancy Lewis (Westerly, RI) Contact me

March 1, 2009
Dear Frankie,Ira was such a sweetheart, always loving and giving to my daughters and me when we would see him at the Zoo. We will miss his warm smile and heartfelt greetings!Love,Sherry (fellow docent since 2001)

Sherry Waldman (Providence, RI) Contact me

March 1, 2009
Losing Ira is a loss to everyone!!He was the most amazing person I ever met right to the end. My Deepest Sympathy to His Family.

Jean Lynch (Johnston)

March 1, 2009
From the Markovitz/McAninches to the Wellins/Moul/Gaus/Charleses - he will be missed! We're thinking back to the Friday Group days and the scout trip to the zoo, indeed many zoo trips...our hearts go out to all of you. Steve & Karen

Karen McAninch and Steve Markovitz (Providence, RI) Contact me

March 1, 2009
Frankie Thinking of you. Dick Silverman

dick silverman (providence, RI)

Eulogies by Diane and Nancy (Ira's Daughters)

Diane Wellins Moul - Eulogy at Memorial Service March 8 2009

A few days after my father’s death, while signing in for a doctor’s appointment, the receptionist asked me my date of birth. When I said “January 25, 1950”, the woman, who couldn’t have been more than about 25, spontaneously replied, “Oh! That’s my son’s birthday!” Without even thinking about what I was saying, out popped, “You have a 59-year-old-son?” and in that instant, I realized I had just channeled my father. His impish wit, and his desire to bring laughter into the lives of others, particularly others hard at work making him more comfortable, flooded over me in a flash.

I don’t pretend to his quick wit, or his way with a joke, as anyone who knew us both can tell you. But I must have been thinking about him in that brief instant, and it comforts me to think that perhaps, as I thought of him, his spirit entered mine to give one more hard-working receptionist one more good laugh.

That was my father. He was beloved of so many in part because he was kind – kind in that way that says to others, particularly those often invisible to the rest of us, “I see you. I see that you are working hard, and that your load might be lightened if I can make you smile – or better still – get you to laugh.”

In these last several years, when trips to Miriam Hospital became more frequent, the nurses often crowded around him as he was preparing to go home, glad to see him feeling better, but also clearly reluctant to part with him, because he made coming to work such fun. Those occasions were less like a going home from the hospital, and more like a rowdy send-off for a ship’s maiden voyage. I think that everyone here who knew him knows just what I am talking about. His gentle mischief, and his love of making people laugh was just one of the many amazing qualities that made my Dad --- my Dad.

I will miss him.
* * * * * * * *

More of Diane's thoughts ...
In thinking over what I’ve lost, one thing stands out above everything else. It isn’t his spontaneous humor, which was, nonetheless a source of everlasting delight, or his gentleness which gave me a permanent and unshakeable sense of security, or his intelligence, which shone so much light on the world around me, and sparked an insatiable curiosity, his valued legacy to both of his daughters.

More than these and other priceless gifts, he imparted a sense of honesty, fairness, and compassion to others that – to this day – I struggle to live up to. Now that he is gone, I feel more than ever, the imperative to insure that this – his most valuable gift of all – will not have died with him.

He was a renaissance man who loved science, nature, and art in equal parts. And he combined those loves – along with his principled and original intelligence – into a code of behavior that never failed to put compassion ahead of his own immediate interests. A committed environmentalist decades before it became fashionable, he abhorred waste in all its forms, and understood, long before most others did, the natural cycles that make such waste unnecessary. A dedicated lover of all creatures, particularly of animals and insects, he imparted to all who knew him his fervent belief that all creatures are sentient – as capable of suffering and as keen to survive as humans are. He instilled in us the wisdom that killing or hurting a harmless insect or animal for any reason other than survival or self-defense was unforgivable. And he was often a lone voice first as a pharmacist, for more thoughtful treatment of the elderly in nursing homes, and later as a CASA Volunteer for more sensible outcomes for children at risk in the court system.

I’m sure that those of you who have ever lost a parent understand how impossible it is to convey the scope of the loss. I’m not at all sure that I’ve had enough time to understand it yet, and no doubt, in the days to come, its various manifestations will continue to hit me. But I can say now that I take comfort in all of these and other legacies he left to me.

Though I miss him, I feel the indomitability of his spirit and the goodness of his acts in everyone who came here today to remember him.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Nancy Wellins - Eulogy at memorial service

I’ve been re-reading my Dad’s letters from when I lived in Israel. In one, he wrote: “We love you and miss you so much, but that’s a small price to pay for the relationship we’ve enjoyed.” Now, Dad, I know how you felt.

What can I, one of the world’s two luckiest daughters, tell you about my Dad that you don’t already know?

- That he was meshuggeh on the subject of waste; he’d eat three-day-old salad, and took a shower one drop at a time. But if the whole world were like him – climate change wouldn’t be an issue.

- That he loved our mother "with unbounded love." He wrote those words to her, not long ago. He meant them. Even after 60 years.

-That, despite working long nights and weekends at his drugstore, he always made time to play a game with us. If you were sick, he’d sit on your bed and play Geography. When I reminded him of this during his final hospital stay, we played our last round.

- That, despite being not at all handy, he spent hours doing battle with a soldering iron, helping me build a radio for a school science fair.

- That he was a poet. Every birthday, anniversary, Valentine’s day. There was always something funny, and always something touching.

I’ll share today one I wrote for him, for his 89th birthday this past November. I wrote it knowing it was my last chance to tell him how greatly I loved him – beyond words.

I've been writing these poems 50 years now at least
So you'd think that, by now, I'd have fully expressed
All the myriad thoughts, all the heartfelt emotion
A daughter can harbor in filial devotion.

But even a jubilee's worth of bad rhyme
Has not yet achieved its ultimate aim:
To tell you the reasons my dad is unique
and belongs in a pantheon, high on some peak.

Is it his wit? You inquire. Not so,
Though I'd freely admit, he's the funniest I know;
Is it, he's cute? That's quite a good guess,
And plenty of folks have been worshiped for less.

Is it his knowledge, his inquiring mind?
You'd look long and hard, someone wiser to find;
But no, though his intellect's wonderfully keen,
That's still not the nub - not the core of his being.

Is it his kindness? Well, now you draw nearer,
For surely that's one reason he is held dearer
Than many another I've happened to meet;
No doubt about it - my Daddy is sweet.

But even his kindness, though vast, doesn't reach it;
My Dad's got a treasure, and no one can teach it.
His treasure is being content with his lot.
It's rarer than rare - but it's one Ira's got.

He knows where the best puddles are when it's raining;.
He'll let nurses stick him without once complaining.
He'll take what you dish out, and offer his thanks
With a bright cheeriness unlike other old cranks.

It's true that at restaurants, he doesn't like lines,
And in traffic's been known to be wrathful at times,
Impatient of fools and intolerant of waste,
But on the big stuff, he just smiles with good grace
And counts himself lucky - a lifelong trait which
Makes my Dad, of all men, much richer than rich.

* * * * * * *
More from Nancy...

My Dad was the single most "democratic-with-a-small-d" person I ever knew. He didn’t just treat everyone equally – he perceived everyone equally. Although I never saw him with the rich and famous, I am certain my Dad would not have behaved any differently with the president or the pope than with you or me – unless he disapproved of that person’s actions, in which case he might have offered a piece of his mind, and a fairly unvarnished piece at that.

Being with my Dad during his last hospital stays, I’d see him with the doctors and with the new immigrant who mopped his floor; he was the same. This learned man, who on his own had mastered astrophysics to zoology, was common, the way I imagine Abe Lincoln was common. He took a genuine friendly interest in all he met.

One evening, I found him in intimate chat with a cafeteria worker. After she left, he told me her story - a single mom working two shifts to support her children. Tethered to his oxygen, straining for breath, his thoughts were on her problems. He was so sincere and unforced in his interest, people knew he wasn’t condescending or angling for special favors.

Nothing fake. No matter what the setting, it would never occur to him to say anything other than what was on his mind. Sometimes he’d yell things in public places that left the less socially courageous members of his family cringing, hoping no one saw us. But if the Emperor ever marched past him wearing no clothes, my Dad would be the first to proclaim, very loudly, that he was naked.