A eulogy for a difficult man. My Dad.

On the first anniversary of his death, I revisited the eulogy I wrote for my Dad’s funeral last year. For anyone who has trouble reconciling a complicated past with their love for their parents, I hope this brings you some comfort, laughs, and peace.

Thank you all for being here to remember Hal and celebrate his life. To the people gathered here who I haven’t met, I’m Skott. Hal Cole married my Mom in 1975. He raised me. He’s my Dad.

Even though I call him “Dad” legally speaking, Hal was my Stepfather. I started the adventure of having a stepdad in the 1970’s. And as most of you know from the immense archive of songs, books, movies, and self-help courses–this situation is not without it’s challenges. And we had plenty of those. One small upside of our situation–we could always change how we referred to each other based on how we were getting along. That’s why sometimes he was “Dad” and sometimes he was “my stepfather.” And this went both ways. I’m sure when I misbehaved at a birthday party I could find myself being referred to as “Char’s boy” or “That kid” or “I have no idea who he belongs to.”

We didn’t understand each other at all. This went on for many years. But as those years went by, something else started happening.

I started to become increasingly aware at just how good he was at pretty much everything. He could make anything. He could fix anything. He could draw anything. He could sing. He could act. He could kick your ass at Trivial Pursuit and Centipede. His job was so important that he couldn’t talk about it because HE WAS A ROCKET SCIENTIST FOR THE GOVERNMENT. In the garage, he didn’t just have tools. He had tools that could make other tools. I’d go to the hardware store with him, and by the time we left, the employees were asking HIM where they could find things.

I grew up thinking that only people on TV shows about rich people hired contractors, gardeners, and landscapers. I woke up every Saturday morning at 7am to the sound of a table saw (my room was right above the garage). He could pack the truck for a two-week vacation in the mountains for a family of six and still have room in the truck for the family of six. He was also the Leonardo di Vinci of foul language. Samuel L Jackson and Joe Pesci might beat him on frequency, but when it comes to sheer inventiveness? He was a master. But this is his church, so you’ll just have to ask someone from the family to fill you in.

OK. Just one. Shortly before he died, he woke up for a few moments and said “Well I’ll be a son of a bitch!”

He often was. You all knew him, right?

I moved into adulthood. We grew apart. But I found myself measuring virtually everything I did with the shadow he cast. That’s how I came to understand that I respected him. I was amazed by him. And again and again, I discovered that he had tried to teach me and maybe I hadn’t listened, but I had watched. And I despite my best efforts, I had learned.

I learned the value of organization and thoughtful planning from his successes.

I learned self control and patience from his flaws. That lesson is ongoing.

I learned from his passionate opinions and his empathy for animals. He was the guy who would write the angry “letter to the editor” but he was also the guy who would reach for his checkbook every time and ASPCA commercial would come on.

I learned from the joy he took in his grandchildren–or any children for that matter–as he got older. The version of him that came to life around kids was one of the best.

I learned that love lives in sawdust and tiny details. The words of love and encouragement that he had so much trouble expressing came out in his woodwork. He would work for months carving and crafting custom gifts for friends and family that reflected the things they were passionate about.

I learned from his work ethic. Up to the very end. About an hour after he died, we had a rare summer thunderstorm here in Fresno. I remember thinking it was just Dad stomping around angrily in heaven because he didn’t get a chance to fix the damn sprinkler system before he left us.

That is SO Hal Cole. Dead, but with a to-do list.

First we didn’t understand each other.

Then, we respected each other.

Finally, we loved each other.

Turns out he was even good at that.

In the last chapter of his life, his edges had worn down a bit. He was more comfortable expressing affection. More generous with his support and encouragement. And I, at last, wasn’t so angry. We were finally in a place where we understood each other. In the last weeks, we had long talks. We laughed. He charmed my 2-year old daughter. He held my hand, looked right at me, and told me he was proud of me, proud of the man I was, proud of the father I was, and that he loved me.

I told him that anything good that I do will always have a piece of him in it, and that was how I intended to keep him alive in my life. And I told him that we had a hell of a journey together, but boy did we finish strong. He laughed and said, “We sure as hell did.”

Then he smiled and slept.

Hal Cole married my Mom in 1975. He raised me. He’s my Dad.

Last night I dreamed that I was a child

Out where the pines grow wild and tall

I was trying to make it home through the forest

Before the darkness falls

I broke through the trees and there in the night

My father’s house stood shining hard and bright

The branches and brambles tore my clothes and scratched my arms

But I ran till I fell shaking in his arms

I awoke and I imagined the hard things that pulled us apart

Will never again, sir, tear us from each other’s hearts

I got dressed and to that house I did ride

From out on the road I could see its windows shining in light

-bruce springsteen