As some of you know, Tom's father - Thomas A. Moody - died last Sunday, and we flew back in St Louis this week. Yesterday the funeral was held at St Stephen's Episcopalian Church in Ferguson, the church Tom's father attended all his life. Later we drove to Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery for a military ceremony, including a three-volley salute, and a bugler sounding Taps.
Pasted in below is the eulogy Tom wrote for his father and read at the funeral yesterday:
"Good morning. Thank you all for your support and for coming to help us say goodbye to dad. Throughout his life, the people closest to him called him Tom, dad, granddad, great pa-pa, Uncle Tom. And when he was younger, dad's nickname was "Boots." I don't know why -- I think that name preceded his ballroom dancing prowess -- but I'd like to find out.
Whatever any of us called him, we all knew him to be a truly gentle man, kind-hearted, always ready to join you in a smile. He was unnaturally handsome into his 80s, and his eyes, depending on the light, could be the most incredible green or blue or gray. He had a sense of right and wrong, of devotion and loyalty. Mostly, dad was a quiet, unassuming man.
But his quiet exterior masked a fierce determination and strength. Last week, before dad passed away, I couldn't help but think of the poem Dylan Thomas wrote for his father:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning, they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
All his life, dad exhibited that strength and devotion in a quiet way.
Dad was devoted to mom through 61 years and two days of marriage; to my sister Pat, my brothers Mike and Dave, and me; and then the next generation of Holly, Brian, and Sean. And, of course, he had a special place in his heart for his great-grandchildren Lily and Madison.
He was devoted to St. Stephen's. When I asked him last year, how long he had been coming here, he said, " For as long as I can remember." He sang in the church choir as a young boy, served as Director of Acolytes, was a member of the Vestry and volunteered at the Food Pantry. He never made a show of going to church or brought attention to himself about any church activities he was involved in, but worshipping here and being a part of the St. Stephen's community was obviously an important part of dad's life.
He was devoted to Ferguson, where he lived his entire life. He was born in a big white house a few blocks away on Wesley and he last lived in a brick house a few blocks in the other direction on Elizabeth. No matter where his travels took him, Ferguson was always the home he returned to.
I can't say where his sense of devotion and commitment came from--maybe it was the way he was raised, maybe it's his generation. But from the start, for whatever reason, he felt the need to take on a responsibility. He had quite a few jobs growing up, and in the early days of World War II he was a messenger for the civil defense. Once he was drafted, he served in the Philippines and received several decorations for his service, including the Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. Like many WW II vets, he was willing to talk quite a lot about the war, but he didn't talk much about what he did himself. This past Christmas-time, I asked him what he did to receive the Bronze Star, and he said he didn't know. I pressed him and pressed him, and all he said was, "There was so much going on, it was hard to tell." It's possible that dad didn't know, or that there wasn't a specific action that earned him that decoration, or that he just didn't want to tell me. But I think it was typical of dad to, in effect, say, 'It was no big deal; I was just doing my job.'
He worked for 40 years for McDonnell Aircraft, which became McDonnell-Douglas, which became Boeing. I'm sure there were days when dad didn't feel well, or just didn't feel like going to work, but during those years, he didn't take a single sick day. It wasn't just that dad enjoyed remarkable health -- which he did. We were his family, and he felt responsible for providing food on the table and a roof over our heads.
Some of my fondest family memories are the simple, obvious ones. Barbecues on summer Sunday afternoons in our back yard; family baseball games on those same Sundays after the last pork steaks and hamburgers had been eaten. Dad and mom attended every softball, basketball, and baseball game any of us kids ever played for Sts. John and James -- and dad reliably worked as a coach for many of those teams.
In the evenings, after dinner and homework, our whole family would watch television -- mom and dad in their chairs -- the four of us sprawled on the sofa or on the floor, discussing the Cartwrights and the Wonderful World of Disney during commercials.
As the years passed and the family grew, I know dad continued to enjoy the family get-togethers, always with Aunt Pat, then with a son-in-law, then daughters-in-law, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Dad was always there -- never the center of attention -- but always a quiet presence.
My personal favorite memories include late summer nights in the back yard throwing a baseball; in the autumn shifting to throwing a football; the two of us building model airplanes at the same time -- mine, small-scale rubber-band powered planes that never made it more than a few inches in the air -- his, much larger, radio-controlled planes that always flew.
Dad attended every high school football game I ever played in; he even attended the much greater number of football games where I never made it off the bench.
I remember one early evening, probably nearly fifty years ago, that combined two of our mutual loves. We were playing catch. It was dusky in the back yard, but overhead the sky was still blue. Dad had just caught the ball I had thrown, and he paused and looked up at the sky. I looked up and saw a barely visible jet inching along, producing the twin plumes of a vapor trail. We both watched the contrail grow slowly across the sky. When the jet flew out of sight, dad said, "Come on. It's time to go in."
I know dad and mom sacrificed a lot during the years we were growing up -- I'm sure they would have enjoyed taking a vacation of their own -- and I'm so happy that they were able to travel together for nearly 20 years after dad retired in 1991. Together they took 12 cruises, visited 20 countries, and took many trips with the Ferguson Parks and Recreation Department. Dad brought a camera on all of those trips, and we have album after album of photos documenting their travels together.
I know dad immensely enjoyed the class of '43 and '44 reunions that were held throughout the years. I know he loved even more the get-togethers he and mom had with dad's oldest friends -- every New Year's Eve for many, many years.
Another one of his yearly highlights were the 41st Division Reunions, which brought mom and dad to Albuquerque; Springfield, MA; Reno, NV; Oregon; Washington, D.C.; Las Vegas; on a cruise from New Orleans to Tampa, and other places. Last year, my sister Pat, and my wife Paula and I joined mom and dad at the reunion in Denver. It was incredibly moving to see these men who, so many years ago, had helped save the world.
Last July, my brother Dave arranged for all of us to see dad's childhood home on Wesley. Dad always loved that house. It had just been bought by a couple who were determined to rescue it from years of decay and neglect. The walls were stripped bare and a few of the rooms had been shifted around, but dad managed to make the place come alive again, telling stories and describing scenes of things that happened there so many years ago. I'm sure that, right now, dad is sitting in a comfortable chair, feeling a little uncomfortable at all the attention, in a house that looks very much like that one.
Dad, a loving, gentle, devoted man has now grown even more quiet. It's difficult to imagine that this ache I feel in the center of my body will ever fade, and I'm sure it will never completely go away. But dad gave a part of himself -- quiet, strong, and loyal -- to each of us. That part will be with us for the rest of our lives, and I think it will grow louder every day. In fact, I can hear it right now."
[The photo below of Tom's parents, Tom and Helen, was taken on April 22, 2010, at the dinner celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary.]
