A Eulogy For My Father Ernest E. Hughes

I've had the sad experience for the past few weeks of my father's dying and death. He finally died on March 20, 2014. (see obituary here) I had the honor of leading his memorial service, which included testimonials by several other people and the playing of taps and the presentation of the United States flag to my mother by the United States Marine Corps. I'd like to share with you and the world my address at his service.

My father was a rugged individualist who did things his way and, for the most part, did them himself.

Born in rural, depression-era Jamestown, North Carolina, he had a rocky relationship with his father, running away from home more than once.

When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941, my father wanted to fight, and enlisted at age seventeen, with his parents' consent, even though he had two brothers already enlisted and fighting.

After the war, with an 8th grade, and no doubt, being from the deep south, deficient education, he set about supporting a family, raising two children, and putting them both through college.

After educating his children, he earned his GED and was a member of the first graduating class at the University of North Florida.

His achievements are considerable, especially based on from where he came. He was a warrior for his country, a hard worker for his family, who managed to retire early and obtain his college degree and to use his know-how to buy, sell, and lease real estate.

My father was the bravest man I've ever known. He was absolutely fearless. No one pushed him around. Yet, at the same time, he was a most considerate person. He would help anyone in any way he could. Few know it, but he was a blood donor all his life, giving a pint of blood every opportunity that he could. He once told me, "Most people don't donate blood, but they expect it to be there when they need it." He wasn't that kind of a person. He was a giver, not a taker.

In his final years, he did not, as Dylan Thomas wrote, "Go gentle into that good night" but he "Raged, raged against the dying of the light."

A victim over the years of several types of cancer and heart problems, he never gave up on life, recovering over and over again, until his body finally gave out. And when it did, he died at 3:40 in the morning with my mother, his wife of 68 years, holding one hand, and the nurse, a complete stranger, holding his other hand. And that's as it should be. At his moment of death, he was comforted by his wife, who knew him best, and by a stranger, who didn't know him at all, but who may have benefited from his generosity at some point in her life.

Having a meaningful life means different things to different people. But, if living up to your own beliefs has anything to do with it, his life was meaningful in the most meaningful way.

Everyone who benefited from his life, friends, family, and strangers alike, will miss him, more than he'll ever know.

On Friends Passing Away

Last month, I turned 65. When you're this old, a lot of people you've known have died, and it only gets worse the longer you live. Every time I get an email from my high school's website stating that another person has passed on, I stop and reflect, especially about people I knew well who are no longer living. Unfortunately, there are quite a few of my high school classmates who are gone. As far as I know, none of my graduating class died in Vietnam, though some of my other classmates did. Cancer seems to be the number one cause of death.

The first person who ever died that I knew was a neighborhood boy named Lamar. He died of Leukemia while we were quite young. I was perhaps eight or nine years old at the time. The next person was a boy named Arthur Hyatt, a classmate of mine in the 9th grade. He was killed riding a motorcycle. His locker was next to mine and he had given me rides on his motorcycle. One time he lost control of it, throwing us both into the middle of the street. Fortunately, there were no cars passing by at the time. The next person was named Billy Priest, a classmate who died in a car wreck the year after we graduated from high school. That one hit pretty hard, because I'd known him since grade school, and it just didn't seem possible. He was one of the smartest people I'd ever known.  It made me realize that there are no special people in the world. We're all susceptible to death.

Many other classmates of mine have died, but the two deaths that seem to give me the greatest pause are a couple of buddies of mine that I went to college with.  I didn't meet Victor Hood or Frank Martin until my senior year in high school. We got to be friends, particularly when we decided to go to college together. We rented a house together during our freshmen year in college, but went our separate ways after that. Victor died perhaps twenty years ago. From what, I don't know. Frank died just within the past few days due to a complication from surgery. I ran into Frank perhaps a year or two after our freshman year in college. He was working in a tobacco shop and said he was very happy doing that. We never met again.

Why am I writing about this? Of what interest is it to you? Perhaps none. But dying is just as real as being born. I've often wondered what difference it has made that I've lived as long as I have. Has my life been any more valuable, have I gained any greater understanding than I had at a younger age. In other words, if I had died at fifteen or twenty or twenty-five, would I have lived just as full a life as I have now? Or would it have been less of a life?

I guess it gets down to quality of life. Is it possible to have a high quality of life and die young, and be just as fulfilled as someone who has lived longer, had more experiences, and died in old age? This is something I struggle with. This is a question I've asked myself many times. I really don't have an answer. But maybe you do. I'd like to hear what you have to say about it.