Saying Goodbye To My Father – Memorial Day, 2014

by Marty Coleman | May 26, 2014 | Family History | 0 comments

I’ve been absent from the blog for close to a week due to the death and burial of my father, James. F. ‘Skeets’ Coleman.  I spent a lot of time preparing the slide show of his life and writing the eulogy, which I gave at his funeral.  We then went to California for 4 days to attend the services, be with family and say our goodbyes.

Survivor

My father was a Marine in WWII. He flew dive bombers in 43-44 in the Pacific Theatre.  He was shot down once. Luckily was able to land in the ocean and was picked up by the Australians.  As with many, he didn’t tell a lot of stories about the war, but enough to know that it was a harsh life and that he lost valued comrades.  He was proud of his service by not obsessed with it, nor his medals. It didn’t define his life or his contributions to society.  It was just part of his history and he treated it as such.  He got to live the rest of his life, until he finally passed at age 95.

James F. ‘Skeets’ Coleman

On Memorial Day it’s important to remember that when we lose a man or woman in war, it’s not just a soldier we lose, it’s an entire civilian life as well.  Perhaps we can best serve and honor our military, dead and living, by doing our best to help those who survive to live the civilian life their comrades don’t get to live.

My Dad through the years (PDF)

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Here is the Eulogy I wrote and gave at his funeral

My kiss goodbye, January 2014

Eulogy

Our father knew a lot of people in many fields.  And they knew him.  Celebrities, astronauts, businessmen and women, aviation professionals as well as his neighbors and his friends.  They have all been sending beautiful notes expressing their admiration for Skeets.  They have spoken of his courage, bravery, charm, looks, intelligence, love of a good time, kindness, and personal thoughtfulness he exhibited throughout his life.

All these things are true, and myself, Nancy and Jackie know these things better than most.  And as with any offspring, we had a complicated relationship with our dad.  Some things you may have seen at a distance, we experienced close up. He had a bit of an Irish temper, for example. He could lecture his children like no one you’ve ever seen.  We even had them numbered.  I remember Nancy and I looking at each other more than a few times and saying under our breath, ‘oh oh, here comes lecture #496!”  Jackie was young enough at that time that she usually was lucky to be sitting on the sidelines thinking, ‘Man, I am glad that’s not me he’s talking to!’  She got her fair share later though.

But what I want to talk about is not who he was, but who he wasn’t.  This might seem odd at first, because isn’t who he was who we also are?  Aren’t I going to tell you he was charming so that’s why I am so charming?  We all know that so no reason to say it.

No, what I mean is this:  Our dad was not mean.  Nancy, Jackie and I are not mean either.  We don’t think in terms of hurting people, or of revenge, or of hatred. We think in terms of kindness and forgiveness and helpfulness.  And we have him to thank.  I for one am very grateful for that gift of what he wasn’t.

Our dad was not prejudice.  His children and grandchildren are not either.  That is not as simple as it sounds.  He was raised an Irish Catholic in the midwest.  He lived in a world of separation, Irish from Italian, Jew from Christian, Catholic from protestant, black from white, gay from straight, men from women.  And yet he never exhibited any of it to us.  He removed it from his life, he abandoned it, he put it where it belonged and never brought it into our home or our hearts.  

He was not dogmatic.  He was raised Catholic, had a bit of a falling out with the church.  He could rail against the church but the second anyone else took a swipe at it, he was all about defending it.   He eventually returned to the church and was at peace there.  But he didn’t really care about church dogma, (well, except the abandonment of the Latin Mass which he always said was the worst thing to ever happen to the church). What he cared about was acknowledging that every person is on his or her own search and it is a true sign of being religious to respect that and treat them with dignity, wherever they are in their journey.  

I remember when I had my Jesus movement conversion in 1976.  I came home full of enthusiasm for my new found faith and he didn’t blink an eye.  He listened, he accepted and he responded with a very simple, ‘ Just remember, other people have their truths too’. and left it at that.

Our dad was not fearful.  I don’t mean he never had fear, he was a fighter pilot in WWII, he was shot down, he flew the craziest airplane ever. Of course he had fear.  But he was not filled with it. He did not spend his days worried about death or pain or suffering. He looked forward to trying new things, going new places, meeting new people. 

When he was 49, he moved his family across the country to Connecticut to take a job in New York, in an industry, Publishing, he had never worked in, in a city he had never worked in.  When he was in his 70s he spent 5 weeks traveling all around the world with an Saudi Sheik trying to sell him a BIG JET airplane.  

When he was in his 50s he learned to snow ski.  He even tried to keep up with me and my best friend, crazy 15 year olds screaming down the mountain with no fear.  he had a bit more fear,  or maybe more brains, than we did but he made it down not far behind us.

I coach runners and when I am talking to the older runners I tell that story to give them an example of this truth. You aren’t just being an example in the here and now for your family. You are creating a memory for them to look back on when they are your age now.  It was that life lesson shown by his example that made me know, without even knowing it, that if my dad could learn to ski at 50+ then I could run a marathon at 50+.  Our dad gave us that gift of not being fearful.

And finally, he was not perfect.  But he had the best gift an imperfect person can have, and that was the ability and willingness to become better.  Just one example will suffice here.  His father died when he was just 11.  He had no great example of how to be a good father.  He was imperfect at it. But all three of his kids will tell you in a heartbeat that he got better at it, he worked at it, he eventually excelled at it.

And he was an unbelievable grandfather.  As Pops to my kids and as Popo to Jackie’s he was everything you would want a grandfather to be. Thoughtful, kind, peaceful, attentive and fun. I am a new grandfather as of last year, and have another coming this year.  You can bet I will have him in mind when I do my grandfather thing into the future.  And that’s what it’s really all about in the end, right?  That is the legacy that really matters.  The Pogo was cool and worth remembering, his WWII exploits were legendary and important to us all.

But who he showed us we could be by who he was not is what really lasts for generations to come.

Marty Coleman – 5/21/14

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