George Horn

George Donald Horn, devoted husband, loving father, dedicated teacher and indulgent grandpa, died Monday at his home in Cincinnati after a long illness. He was 82.
George’s accomplishments were matched only by his humility. He spoke often of being proud of others – his wife, his kids, his friends – but he spoke of being proud of himself only when describing modest achievements, like figuring out how to use spellcheck or send a text message.
“You’d be proud of me,” he’d say, laughing, as he explained his mastery of the iPhone 4. It was his personal running joke, a way of saying, “Don’t take me too seriously.”
But George had reason to be proud, even if he didn’t talk much about it.
Born poor to a teen-aged single mom in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, George moved to a rented farmhouse in Sheffield Lake, Ohio, when he was 8. The house, which had no running water or central heat, soon filled up with siblings, one brother and three sisters. George slept in the attic.
One day, when he was around 10 years old, he came home from school and found his mother at the kitchen table, crying. When he asked what was wrong, she told him they had no money for food.
So George went to work. He worked on the farm, he worked odd jobs, he worked hard in school. He learned how to keep a car running when it had no business running. He helped put food on the table.
He was the first in his family to go to college, and he worked there, too, which was a good thing, because he took six years to finish. After changing majors a few times at Ohio University, George fell in love with math and decided to become a teacher.
He also fell for an English major named Frances Weir, a city girl he believed was out of his league. But George took his shot and she said yes. He bummed a quarter from her for a hamburger the night they met and spent the rest of his life making sure she wanted for nothing. He succeeded, spectacularly, through 59 years of marriage.
The young couple married and moved to Elyria, Ohio, where they found jobs and started a family.
As a teacher, George was dedicated to the notion that hard work should be rewarded, and that students in his consumer math class deserved the same attention as those preparing for calculus. He also embraced the idea that connecting with teenagers meant never losing touch with his inner teenager.
Once, while teaching in the same school as his wife, George found graffiti in the boys’ bathroom that said, “Mr. Horn sucks!” When his wife asked what he intended to do about it, he said he’d already taken care of it.
“I added an ‘S’ to the end of ‘Mr.’,” he told her.
Graffiti aside, most students liked George. He was funny and smart, and he understood that kids’ lives outside the classroom could be chaotic and hard. Not every teacher could work with those kids, but George could.
He taught math but was interested in much more. He was a fan of science fiction and horror movies, of Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr., of poetry and philosophy. He quoted as easily from “Forbidden Planet” and “Walk the Line” as from the poems of Dylan Thomas.
Occasionally, his wife had to remind him that maybe “Fox in Socks” was a more appropriate bedtime story for the kids than William Blake’s “The Tyger.”
George studied English history, religion and philosophers, not because he had to but because he wanted to. He checked out books and took voluminous notes about the likes of John Locke, Thomas Aquinas and Immanuel Kant. He was curious. He wanted to understand why people believed the things they believed and did the things they did.
He was equally dedicated to his children’s endeavors. George sat for hours in hot gyms watching his daughter compete in gymnastics and stood for hours in cold fields watching his son run track and cross country.
Before they graduated high school, George wrote a letter to each of his children telling them how proud he was of them and how certain he was they would make good choices, but also that it was OK to make mistakes. He would be there for them, he told them, no matter what. And he always was.
George taught his kids to work hard at the things they love and to have fun doing them. He led by example. He played basketball at Brookside High School and enjoyed sports all his life. He was a competitor, but always a good-natured one.
He golfed and played poker with friends, broke his arm racing mini-bikes, was merciless in family Risk games and enjoyed running the hook-and-ladder when playing all-time quarterback with the neighborhood kids.
George enjoyed good jokes, and bad ones, too. When his son, who wasn’t much of a handyman, bought his first house, George gave him a toolbox. Each tool was labeled with instructions.
“This end up,” he wrote on the hammer. “Pointy end down,” he wrote on the screwdriver.
George was a life-long fan of Cleveland sports teams and passed on his love of the Browns, Cavs and Indians to his children, who have mostly forgiven him for it. He believed it was important to be loyal to your team, even when it disappoints you, and that losing could teach patience and perseverance, as well as an ability to use curse words as both nouns and verbs.
After years of heartache, George was rewarded in 2016 when he sat on a couch with his son and grandson on Father’s Day, watching the Cavs win Game 7 of the NBA championship. It was a great night, and everyone stayed up late watching replays because no one could believe it really happened.
In retirement, George spent more time golfing and bowling with lifelong friends, volunteered at the public library and took up gardening and blackjack. He read books about his hobbies, of course, learning where to plant hydrangeas and when to double down.
George also doted on his grandchildren. He watched them play soccer, run track and break boards in taekwondo. He let them put funny hats on his head and told them jokes grandma wasn’t sure he should tell them. He cheered them and consoled them and occasionally talked to them about what really matters in life, about family and the value of hard work.
George’s last year was a challenge. Diagnosed with an untreatable movement disorder, he lost the ability to walk, then to stand, then to speak. He never lost his fight, though, or his sense of humor.
After a fall about a month ago, with concerned family members gathered around him, George looked at all their faces, smiled broadly and gave a thumbs up. Then, for one of the last times, he got back on his feet.
If he could’ve spoken, he might’ve laughed when telling the story days later. “You’d be proud of me,” he’d begin.
And he’d have been right.
Everyone was. More than he could possibly know.
Survivors include George’s wife, Frances; two sisters, Sharon Grantham, of Elyria, and Beverly Hoadley, of North Port, Florida; his children, Dan Horn, of Cincinnati, and Julie Weber, of San Diego; four grandchildren and one great-grandchild. Services will be private. Donations may be made in George’s name to The Salvation Army or to an animal rescue of the donor’s choice.