This eulogy was delivered by Bill’s sister, Kerry Pascetta.
I am Bill’s sister. Because I am Bill’s sister, I am apologizing in advance to the historians in the room. This eulogy will not be delivered in chronological order, some dates will be omitted, and there may be profound inaccuracies. And I am grateful that I will not be graded today.
Bill is the person our family could rely on to deliver a eulogy. Like everything, Bill did it well. Naturally, I am terrified to be up here. But I am reminded of Bill’s encouraging nature. I imagine him shrugging and saying, “You can do this.”
The first time I felt this way was after high school. I wanted to attend college at UMaine-Farmington (because that is where Bill went). I went to Bill with the application in hand. I remember telling him that I didn’t know if I was smart enough for college. He said, matter-of-factly, “I will help you with your application; it’s not really that hard. And you are going to realize how smart you are when you get to school.” So I went. And I did.
His friend Linda McNutt had a similar story when she was having trouble believing in herself to start her PhD. “You can do it,” he said. “Start by doing the easy parts first and then celebrate.” So she did.
Bill was the first feminist I ever knew. Before I knew what that word meant. He helped women – his family, friends, students, colleagues.
Erin Morton remembers Bill putting his foot down about the gender inequity in UNB’s History department. Bill wanted to hire more women to balance things out. He pushed it through. It was the right thing to do, even if it was uncomfortable or inconvenient for some.
The late Elizabeth Mankee, after having a heated disagreement with another colleague, went for a walk with Bill to cool off. To her surprise, Bill told her, “Hold Steady. Don’t budge.” She later thanked him by saying, “I remember being struck that you uttered not the first word about how I might be nicer, or more feminine, more obliging. …I remain grateful that you did not revert to gendered suggestions.”
Bill helped women up. And every woman was Bill’s sister.
Bill was always willing to share his power and his stage with his students, too.
Shortly after he made full professor, he co-authored a paper with his student, Mark McLaughlin. It would have been Mark’s first publication. Mark tells me that Bill did a good portion of the writing – arguably more than Mark. But Bill said, “Hey, do you want to take first author on this?” Mark said, ”I couldn’t do that Bill”. Bill replied, “Hey, I just got full professor, do you think I need it? Na, you take it.”
Bill took great pride in being sought-after as a teacher, an advisor, a writer, an editor, a lecturer and a friend. He helped a generation of women and men succeed in obtaining their Bachelor’s, Master’s and PhD degrees.
As Mark McLaughlin said, “Bill taught you how to become his equal while he was treating you AS his equal.”
Bill was an all-star athlete in a family and neighbourhood of athletes. While it may be true that he had natural talent, including a legendary knuckleball, our brothers Mark and Mike reminded me just how much Bill practiced. Bill had an ability to concentrate and study things for hours, for days.
Our backyard had a giant, uneven stone wall. It was a great way to practice your fielding. You’d throw a baseball against the stones and the ball rebounded in unpredictable directions. Bill did that more and longer than anyone, and he got good at it. And then he invited his friends to play a game. Having understood all the possible angles of ball trajectory, Bill won almost every time. Bill won almost every time, because he put IN the time.
He played football, a little hockey, golf, and he was good at all of them. But his love was baseball – as a player throughout little league, high-school, college, and as a Red Sox fan. His interest as a historian might have started with the days and nights he spent reading and rereading the Baseball Encyclopedia. Bill’s capacity to devour baseball stats and facts and then remember them years later was otherworldly.
Young Bill was aware of his athletic prowess. Most kids Bill’s age, or any age with that kind of ability, would be satisfied in dominating everyone at every sport.
But Bill was too kind for that.
Brother Mike recalls the neighbourhood friends who did not have as much experience playing as Bill or the others, so, Bill devised a wiffle ball game where everyone who was an experienced player needed to bat left-handed to make it even for everyone.
Levelling things and creating fairness was Bill’s way.
Friend Kevin Gibson says, “Wasting a lot of time with Bill is its own kind of time because he makes you feel like you belong.”
Bill was smart. He was the kind of smart that would be intimidating if he was not so inclusive and warm.
When Bill brought you into the conversation it was okay that you were in a room with someone smarter because you were invited into his house, at his table, you were on the team, and you were always in on the joke. And there were a lot of jokes.
When I asked Helen, “What do you want people to remember most about Bill?” She did not hesitate, “That Bill was just so funny!” Everyone I spoke with this week made mention of Bill’s humour.
Jim Kenney put it simply, “You know, your brother was a great wit. He had a way of disarming people.”
What I like most about his sense of humour was that he was always the first to get your stupid joke, too. Bill liked to giggle. And he could make you laugh without saying anything. It was sometimes just the widening of his eyes and the purse of his lips to get you going. And he knew how to bring a joke back at the right time – how to keep a funny moment alive.
Bill’s humour was mostly self-deprecating and if the joke was at the expense of someone else, it was always someone who deserved it. Those that deserved it were usually people and institutions that abused their power. His art, though quirky and fun, could be a weapon when he wanted it to be.
His art is part of his legacy now. It is funny, and functional with a whopping dose of social justice. Bill is Punk Ass. And Punk Ass is a serious guy. Through his art, Bill invites us once again to participate – to join him in taking action.
As Jim Kenney puts it, “Bill’s sense of social justice was in his bones. He liked nothing more than to pick a fight with the big boys. He was fearless.”
In 2009, Bill took on the Irving forestry empire by calling them out on the degradation of forest health, the loss of jobs, the silencing of scientists who tried to speak out, and especially the exclusion of Indigenous people. Bill was invited on a radio show, and to several conferences, to tell the truth about Irving.
Irving didn’t like it.
And they sent employees to sit in the front row of those conferences. The Irving family sent poorly veiled threats by way of letters and phone calls to UNB’s Dean of Forestry.
Unimpressed by that and not at all intimidated, Bill said, “Do they really think that is going to stop me?” Bill knew how to use his status as a full professor as coverage and said, “Why do I have this position if I don’t use it?”
Bill had an affinity for unions. He was a prolific negotiator who knew how to communicate a cause to those who did not want to listen. His insistence in helping workers get their fair share could be summed up in one of his artful picket line signs: “Yo Higgy, Why so Piggy?”
Perhaps Bill’s greatest achievement as an advocate was a win in 2017 that reverberated all the way back to his roots in Rhode Island. Bill and Elizabeth Mancke were asked to serve as expert witnesses by Chief Trish Bernard in the Madawaska Maliceet First Nation case, which centred on land rights. Chief Bernard had been working the case for 20 years with varying degrees of success, and Bill and Elizabeth helped her win with their long hard work and testimony. As a result, in April, 2021 the community of nearly 350 people in North West New Brunswick were awarded 145 million dollars. It was the largest Federal land claim settlement in Maritime history.
Erin Morton describes Bill as a “humble academic” who spoke softly about his contributions. He created space for alternate conversations among his colleagues – something that wasn’t always happening in those circles.
When Bill first told us about Helen, I remember he said three things:
“She’s smart.
She’s REALLY smart.
I think she might be smarter than I am.”
The other thing I remember him saying about Helen was, “She’s a really positive person.”
A few years later, Bill revised those descriptions of Helen and said, “Okay, she’s WAY smarter than I am.” And he described her positivity in a new way, too— “Relentless optimism.”
If Bill was our mentor, Helen was his champion. Bill had moments of self-doubt through the years, but Helen was always there to pull him up. Helen, you LIT him up.
And Bill’s greatest legacy is you, Mia.
Every conversation we had included, “Well, you know – Mia is fiercely independent. She has so many achievements and she does it all herself. She amazes me.” He called the day you successfully defended your Master’s thesis. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so proud of anyone.
During the last several weeks when things seemed impossible and Bill probably thought about giving up, you both carried him.
Your strength was and is remarkable.
When I set out to put these comments together, I suspected that the stories from Bill’s childhood and the stories from present day, and everything in between would echo back and forth. And they do.
The reason for that is … Bill was always Bill.
The ten year old Bill studying the direction of a baseball against a rock wall.
The Bill who invited the kid whose parents worked to our house everyday after school.
The Bill who let our daughters paint his fingernails.
The Bill who invited us over for a barbecue, and an afternoon football game.
The Bill who created silly betting games in the grocery check out.
The Bill who made it his mission to create painful spicy food that we could barely swallow.
The Bill who continued as editor of the Acadiensis long after he had to, because a new generation of historians needed him to.
The Bill who endured years of health setbacks, but kept standing back up to keep his commitments to family and students.
And the Bill who defended us on the playground, the picket line, the court room – who made hard things look easy, who encouraged us to believe that we could do it, too.
Bill was everyone’s brother.
And we are smarter and funnier and better for having known him.
Acadiensis 