God grant me 
the Serenity
to accept the things
I cannot change,
Courage to 
change the things I can,
and Wisdom to
know the difference.


Ask Me What I Was

I’ll reply with what I’ve done.
Those things others would not do, I did;
Those rivers others would not swim, I swam;
Those hills others would not climb, I conquered;
Those bridges others would not cross, I crossed;
I have celebrated. I have mourned.
I have smiled and I have frowned.
I have seen death and felt its warm breath.
It did not faze me, for I was different.
I was a warrior.
You ask me what I was?
It was my destiny. Until my last breath.
To be a United States Marine.
And my spirit shall live forever.

Semper Fidelis
For I was, I am, and I shall forever be a
United States Marine

May 2018

When I started to write about Dad, I tried to sift through the memories that would not only share snippets of him with everyone, but would also help me illustrate who he was to me.  I apologize up front for the odd turns my writing will invariably take, but as many of us know, Memory Lane is often meandering.

If you knew Dad even briefly, you probably know that he had coffee every day and that breakfast was his favorite meal.  Like, by a landslide.  If Mom offered to make him eggs, he would immediately start turning it into an omelet and inquiring about bacon, toast, potatoes and anything else in the fridge that could vaguely be perceived as a morning food.  If you invited Dad out to breakfast, his face would light up like a kid who’s been invited to Disneyland; but instead of envisioning Mickey Mouse, he’d be imagining a breakfast combo that wasn’t on any establishment’s menu.  Dad simply wasn’t capable of ordering breakfast strictly from a menu.  You see, you and I just order breakfast, but Dad created morning culinary masterpieces. 

As tedious as his special requests would be for the waitresses, his ordering was really just his warm up to breakfast.  The real magic would happen when the food arrived at the table.  It was then, seemingly from nowhere that he’d pull out his bag of breakfast condiments.  This was a Ziploc bag full of things he might, maybe, possibly, need to complete his meal.  It had a plethora of creamers, honey, peanut butter, jam, plastic utensils, napkins, and a whole slew of other unidentifiable items.  Always a Marine, he was apparently prepared for anything and his breakfast was the target he was set to secure.  Masterpieces take time, and we’d often tease him because we’d be done eating before Dad would even finish getting everything the way he wanted so he could start to dig in. 

I mention this because I think that Ziploc bag really captures the essence of Dad.  He often did the unexpected, and was full of all kinds of things: some of them good, some of them bad, and some of them weird.  In other words, like everyone, he was complex. 

As a father, he could bring us such joy; like how he’d lift Jan and I way up over his head when we were little.  He would swing us so fast and so high that it felt like we were flying before he’d swing us down, skydiving to the ground.  But, he was a military vet who clearly today would have been immediately diagnosed with PTSD, so for most of my life I also knew him as a man who could be the very definition of fury.  He had a weird side that was endearing, like having the ability to wiggle his ears like a cartoon character without moving any muscles on his face, or like how he’d sing along to music but make up his own words to the songs. 

My Dad and I had a complicated relationship, as most people do with their parents.  He could be hard to get close to, but then just when it seemed like we were drifting too far apart, we’d find our common ground in things like tinkering with tools, watching sci-fi shows, or spending way too much money so we could blow stuff up on the 4th of July.  

Thinking back on Dad, there were things that defined him for which he should be recognized here.  

The first is that he spent 20 years in active service to this country, doing multiple tours in Vietnam.  Many, like me for instance, would not have the fortitude to go to war once, let alone return for more.  But Dad was of the few and the proud, and it is through the sacrifices of people like my father that the rest of us are able to enjoy our lives and pursue our own happiness.  I would like to say Semper Fi and thank you to him, and to all those who are here with us today who have served in any capacity.

The second, which facilitated my sister and I being here with you today, is that Dad somehow convinced the amazing woman who is my Mom to marry him.  There are geniuses and magicians walking about this world who have not been able to do something as wise, or as wondrous.  My Dad knew this, and would remind me that you only need to do one thing really right in order for everything else to fall into place.  This is sage advice for us all.  His one thing was marrying well.  

And the third, which was a personal triumph; my Dad passed away as a non-smoker.  According to him, he had smoked from the age of 12, picking it up as an adult affectation he’d earned because he’d started working to support his family.  He smoked my entire childhood and it was that, more than anything else, which often created a barrier between us.  He was never without a cigarette, and even as his health really started to deteriorate, he couldn’t see his way to cessation.  

He was near collapse when Mom finally convinced him to go to the hospital in the wee hours of January 1st, but he wouldn’t get into the car before having a cigarette.  It is because of so many moments like this that I would have bet against him ever finally quitting.  But he proved me wrong because he did, and I have never been so happy to be wrong.  While in Hinds Hospice, he told me where his packs were hidden, and later even turned in a pack to Mom that I had missed once he was back home.  His quitting was sudden and complete, and it brought with it a man that I hadn’t previously seen through the haze of smoke.  He was a guy who was easy to hug and not so quick to temper.  I’m glad I got to meet him before he had to leave.

I want to end my meandering reminiscence of Dad with one last memory.  When I was a child I was diagnosed with asthma.  I was young and would panic badly whenever I had an attack, especially if I was alone at school where Mom couldn’t calm me down.  Dad once sat with me to help me steady my breathing and to stop me from eventually hyperventilating.  He explained:

“Close your eyes and imagine the universe.  See all the stars?  Take a deep breath and take in all of those stars, every one of them. Then breathe them out slowly and imagine them finding their place back in the infinite.”

I still use this meditation to calm me in difficult times, and I offer it to you now.  My Dad is gone from this world but I know he’s ok, because when I close my eyes and imagine the universe, I see him safely there among the stars.  

May 2018

My dad would always embellish his stories, like when he was a kid, how he’d get up at the crack of dawn to milk the cows, carrying the milk in his hands to be churned into butter, then walking barefoot five miles to school, uphill (both ways), and in the snow.  It always seemed like he wanted to relay his past like it was larger than life.  And so, we always took what he said with a grain of salt.

But when I started going through his military records to put together his biography, I was surprised by what I found.  On a handful of occasions, dad would mention in passing (not in his hand-rubbing excitement of the big yarn) but in the no nonsense statement of fact, things that he did while in the military.  Many seemed farfetched, like watching a nuclear bomb detonate, but I now know them to be true.  Dad had a tendency to downplay the extraordinary things that happened to him, as if it was something as simple as just doing his job.  To him, it was his greatest honor to have served our country.

I have other fond memories of my father - him scrambling up into a tall tree to get me because I climbed too high and was afraid to get back down.  He was patient as he coaxed a panicked, crying kid from the limb back to the main portion of the tree, and then held on to me as we climbed back down.

Or when we went camping in the great outdoors, having to build our own pup tents and eat C-rats.  For those that don’t know, C-rats stand for C-Rations and were canned/packaged food given to the troops in the field.  The container had an olive green can of some variation of meat, one round of bundled toilet paper, hot cocoa powder, soda crackers, and the kids’ favorite - a pack of Chiclets gum.

Dad was a cutthroat chess player, never showing mercy to his family members.  I never beat my father at a game of chess, with the exception of one Christmas morning.  He promised me a new chess set if I could somehow manage to beat him, a task I knew would be impossible, but dad coaxed me to give it a try anyway.  I was stunned when I somehow managed to corner his king.  And then I knew he’d thrown the game.  He denied it, and said it was a “Christmas Miracle,” and gave me the new chess set, but I knew he’d graciously given me the chess set and my one moment of victory.  My father, ‘til his dying day, would vehemently deny that he let me win.

And finally, dad would often go to sporting events with me, from baseball to football to ice hockey.  We held season tickets to the Fresno Falcons ice hockey team, and he would often disappear during the breaks between the periods.  He would always return though, with his hands full of orange foam hockey pucks.  The Fresno Falcons would run a contest between the 2nd and 3rd period called Chuck the Puck, where people would throw the foam pucks at a bullseye in the center of the rink.  Whoever got closest would win some sort of prize.  Dad actually won a hockey jersey signed by the whole team… and then he gave it to me.  I still have that jersey, and whenever I want a moment with my dad, all I need to do is just go to my closet.



Death Is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.

All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Henry Scott Holland

OBITUARY

Harvey Robert Parsons

July 20, 1943 – April 24, 2018

Whitehurst Sullivan Burns & Blair Funeral Home

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