This is the eulogy I gave at my father’s funeral in November, 1993 at St. Anthony Church, Eunice, Louisiana.

His smile always started out with his eyes big and wide; then his mouth would make this big round “O” and he would begin to chuckle. His eyes would then get real squinty and his mouth broke into a big, toothy grin. That’s when you knew you had just been the victim of his latest gag, or he had told you the latest old joke again for the first time.

He got that from his dad, my grandpa. They loved to pull tricks on their grandchildren. They loved to make people laugh, especially their grandchildren. The grandkids excited my dad—they were a whole new audience for his old stories. And we just had to laugh right along with them when we heard them all over again.

Dad loved to make people laugh and he loved to laugh, too.

And he knew how to cry. I don’t remember seeing Dad cry until Momma died. He cried a lot after that.

I saw him cry again when he lost Nancy. And I was afraid he would never be happy again. Dad was a man that did not like to be alone. But then he met Celia and he was happy again.

Tiny Coleman was blessed with the company of three wonderful women, each one showing and sharing a side of Dad many of us never saw before.

And he really was a happy man. What you saw in public was what Tiny was in private. He was wide open.

•••

Dad loved his home here, but there was still a big, empty space in his heart. Ever since I can remember I always heard him speak about “up home.”

Up home was 219 Galt Street in New Albany, Indiana. Indiana was a wonderful place for us kids. It snowed up there, Grandma and Grandpa lived up there; so did Aunt Sissy and June Boy. All the stories he used to tell us about up home, oh, they were exciting.

It was always kind of hard to realize how he felt about up home until I moved away a few years ago. I remember calling him not long after I left, and I told him I was homesick. He said, “me too.” And he had been gone for over 40 years.

•••

Seeing all the visitors coming to pay their last respects someone told me “he sure knew a lot of people.” And that’s true. But, you know, a lot of people knew him, too. They knew him from Pepsi Cola or selling auto parts at H. Brown of Moosa Pontiac. Some knew him from the City Barn. Finally Daddy found that dream job he was always looking for at the Jiffy Mart. It was a job that let him do the two things he loved to do most in the world: cook good food and talk to people.

Boy, could he talk. To anybody, too! Whether you were a farmhand or the Governor he’d always greet you with a “Yes Sir” or “Yes Mayam!”

•••

This is not the hardest thing in the world I’ve ever done. This is the easiest. The hardest thing I’ll ever do is coming up in a few minutes when I’ll have to quit talking about my Dad.

We’ll miss him. We’re crying here right now because we still haven’t figured out all the ways were going to miss him. Sometimes when we least expect it we’ll recall a little memory of Daddy. When that happens we should smile a little,

I heard a lot of memories about Dad in the last couple of days:

There was an empty chair at Mookie’s card game last night; and somewhere in East Mowata is the Luther B. Coleman Memorial Fishing Hole. If you’re ever there and you catch a big one, well, just remember and smile a little.

I envy those of you who remember meeting him for the first time. I’d love to know what your first impression was of this big man with a smile and a ready joke. I first met Tiny Coleman one fall morning in 1953. I don’t recall too much about the occasion because I was still in a daze from having just been born. But for the next forty years that happy man taught me a lot: how to grow up and live right, how to pray, and how to love.

There IS a lot of love in that big man. And it showed itself in a lot of different ways.

It showed itself in is sense of responsibility. He always said if you have a job to do then do it. You can complain and argue all you want, but get the job done.

It showed itself in discipline. He didn’t mind giving you a spanking if you deserved it, but he really didn’t have to. He had “the look!” Just one of those “looks” from him was enough to set you on the straight and narrow.

But most of all his love showed itself in the way he shared. I can not recall of any instance where that man ever said no to anybody that asked for his help. Whether it was selling concessions at a St. Ed’s football game or cooking for a political supper Tiny gave of himself unselfishly and completely.

And you can’t talk about Tiny without talking about cooking. Yeah, there’s going to be a lot of lonely pots and pans at the K.C. Hall and Woodmen’s kitchens and in his outdoor shed. It was a pretty easy task to get people to come to a supper where Tiny was cooking.

This adopted Cajun could rival any Boudreaux or Gaspard when it came to handling seasoning. And that homemade barbecue sauce of his, well, let’s just say that Jack Miller and Savoie can sleep a little easier tonight knowing that the recipe for his sauce went to the grave with Dad.

•••

Yes, Tiny’s dead, but he’s going to live on, too. There’s a little bit of Dad in each one of his kids: we all watch TV with our mouths open, we all snore and not necessarily while sleeping, we know all of his old stories and about the “floating submarine” and “wha’s c’an” “…and everything.”

And we all know how to love, that lesson he taught us very, very well.

Tiny, our Dad, our husband, our brother, our uncle, our grandpa, our friend, will live on and on forever in each of us.

So long, Dad, we’ll miss you. Tell Mom we said hi..

• Long live the jester
• Squared off

Categories: What was I thinking?