John Hillan

Deepest sympathy and condolences on behalf of the Toms’ family (David, my father, my brother Geoff and myself). We are related through the Gibson side of the family (my mother, Ivy, who passed away in 2001, was Jack’s cousin. Her mother was Agnes, sister of Jack’s mother Barbara). We would see Jack now and again over the years, and always loved his visits. He was so kind to travel all the way to Ontario for my mother’s funeral. Shortly after he sent a copy of a large map he had drawn of Bothwell Haugh, the coal mining area where many family members toiled. Framed and on display, it is a great treasure and means so much. Though we hadn’t seen him in years, he was always spoken of fondly. He will be missed.

Our sincere condolences on the passing of John, introduced to him on a regular basis he was a great man. His great family Carry’s on with loving memories to guide their steps.

I’d like to share the toast we gave Dad at yesterday’s memorial, and a little background information for anyone who is interested. A big “Thank you!” to all who joined us.

Malcolm

A Toast to Jack

I’d like to share with everyone a Scottish tradition that Dad loved to celebrate . . . the Deoch-an-Dorus.

“ Deoch-an-dorus” translates literally ‘Drink of the door’ and it’s the Scots’ practice of providing one last drink, “a wee dram”, for a guest before they would leave for the long journey home. Now, “one for the road” probably isn’t as good an idea now as it was back in Scotland when this tradition originated . . . they did a lot of walking back then. But regardless, this will be for our Dad. He IS at the door, on the journey home, and we want to send him off properly.

You all have a copy of the toast. This is a well-known Scottish toast, and one of Dad’s favorites. If he were with us here, he almost certainly would lead us in it, partly for his Scottish pride, but on THIS occasion the irony of the words would appeal to his wry sense of humor. So before you join in, here is a translation. What it says is:

Here’s to us.
Who is good as us?
There aren’t many,
And they’ve all passed away

So if you all have a drink to lift, please join in a toast:

Here’s tae us,
Wha’s like us?
Damn few,
An’ they’re a’ deid!

To Dad! To Jack!

P.S. Below is a link to a song about the Deoch-an-Dorus, popularized by Sir Harry Lauder. Dad would sing along with this (and many other popular Scottish tunes of that era) almost until his dying day. They brought him great joy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6X_3N6pcXBw

Following is the full text of a eulogy our sister Marie, unable to travel from Missouri for Dad’s memorial, had intended for his service. There wasn’t nearly the time to deliver the full remarks so I presented, in her absence, a significantly abridged version at the service. Marie has an acute memory, loved our Dad, and provides here many telling details about his life and his nature. Thank you Marie, for this:

My father walked with me. My earliest memory was being in a portable bassinet with a blue, green plaid, riding on the floorboards of Dad’s huge Dodge, and Dad lifting me out to go with him. I asked him about that memory, and he said they did have a carrier like that, and it was indeed the Black Watch tartan. His grandfather was a gifted, Scottish bag piper, who had also been a stretcher-bearer in World War I. That was part of the root of him loving good music and hating the flippancy of generals who were blithe about the lives of others in their supposed care. He grew to be inclined to think if the makers of war would be personally affected in the violence, they would probably be circumspect and loathe to start a war.

His folks started out in the Midwest, where he lived as a child, “long enough to come to love Babe Ruth bars and jelly donuts”, he once told me. And that is where his own young family started out. We lived across from a woods, where he loved zooming down the hill with me on a sled, in the snow. He took us to a forested lake, where Annette and I waded out in the shallows. And he watched us on the lawn, in the Summer heat, squirting the hose and getting chocolate all over our faces and clothes.

When we moved to California, he would drive us down to Henry Cowell State Park and walk with us down to the Redwoods, and walk along to a beautiful, natural pool with a waterfall, on the San Lorenzo River. And Dad used to drive our family to the beach in Santa Cruz, where we would set out the red tartan (Clan Campbell ) blanket, and Mom would get out the hot coffee from the flask—which was my introduction to hot coffee, coming out of the cold waves of the Pacific. We’d walk along the beach, eat ice cream together, and go ride the roller coaster.

There was another beach, further north, up the coast, that our Dad would often take us to—Bean Hollow. We would visit the tide pools and Mom would make hot dogs on the iron hibachi. My Dad learned the usefulness of a little hibachi when he was in the Navy. One time, at Bean Hollow, I remember my Dad became very serious in his demeanor. He grew up mostly in Scotland, and was a Navy Seal, so he had a tremendous respect for the power and danger of the ocean. There were some inner city children who were out for a trip to the ocean, and one of the boys was unaware of the danger of the undertow. He was starting to scream for help, and my Dad started to strip down, in dread, to go out and save him. My Mom was sober, and said, “Oh Jack . . .!”. And he was starting out in the water when someone else managed to get the boy in with a flotation device. And all was well. But I remember my Dad being willing to try to negotiate the undertow to be able to save that child.

My Dad hated abortion. I remember him quoting Proverbs about the Lord hating feet that ran to shed innocent blood, and also lying lips. My Dad loved babies. I remember his utter joy when his brother’s son, John Paul, was born. On the way home from holding him for the first time, he stopped at Captain’s Galley Pizza Parlor to celebrate such a happy occasion. And there’s a wonderful picture of Dad holding my son, Jeremiah, on his shoulder, in a rocking chair, when he was a newborn. He loved holding Jeremiah.

Dad told me of how good it was to be brought up with the Psalms being read in the schools in Scotland. And he loved to read “A Cotter’s Saturday Night”, a poem by the gifted scoundrel Robert Burns, about a Scottish peasant reading the Scriptures, leading his family in worship by a hearth in their cottage. And he translated , for me, some of the words of Burn’s tragic song, “Meg o’ the Mill”, about devoted love being forsaken for a fortune and scotch. My Dad had a way of introducing me to thoughtful, worthwhile music. It was a great thing to grow up with a father who loved music from the Baroque era, and was also into singing along to the worthwhile Beatles’ songs like “We Can Work it Out”. He brought us to a Presbyterian Church that had a big pipe organ, and a choir in which he would jam the melody to “Every Valley” (skillfully, of course), while Mrs. Chase would hide her face behind the score, laughing as she was very adept at reading music. Though it is reported that Handel did once indeed hang a wayward soprano out of a window, forcing her to promise not to interfere with the lines of his melody, I do think Handel would have not been upset by the way Dad sung the Messiah. It was wonderful to hear from Malcolm, who was there when Dad was on his deathbed, that Annette had put on the Messiah, and that Dad settled down and tried his best to sing along with “Every Valley” and “ Comfort Ye My People”. How great to have had a father who was trying to worship the Lord in his final hour.

When my Grandpa was dying, Dad flew back to Scotland to be with him. And when he died, he left Grandma to grieve in her familiar surroundings with her relatives and friends, for a year. But then he brought her to safe haven to live with Mom and him.

Dad had a remarkable mother. She was a God-fearing Scot, and would read her Bible at bedtime, and pray for her family. Once, on the Lord’s Day (Sunday) Grandma objected to me playing Christian rock music. In a thoughtful, gentle way, in a sincere tone, she pronounced, “There’s not enough sacred thingummy in that..” Grandma was a joyful, jolly soul who loved to sing while she worked around the home, loving everybody. She made the most wonderful potato-rice soup that we were all brought up on. Her recipe for rice soup is where I became familiar with the Scottish word “honfee”, short for handful. When I made fresh biscotti for Dad, I did try to employ what I call “The Three Honfee Rule”—which is to put into everything that I bake three honfees of organic, ground flax seed—which imparts a pleasant, nutty flavor and is a gift to one’s bowels. So that is part of what I was up to from afar, to keep Dad reasonably supplied with something that he liked, that could be part of his routine, that was also good for him. But I digress.

My father’s mother was not only a great cook, but she was tough. There was a deranged, huge schoolmaster named, “Big Johnnie”, who would beat the children horribly at school. Though my Grandma was probably only about 5”1’, she went down to the school to face off with Big Johnnie and she told him to lay off of her Jackie. Grandma was a true Celt—generous, keen of spirit and kind; but you better not mess with those she loved. And on a scale of lesser offenses, I don’t really remember her yelling, but she could stop someone from wrongdoing by giving them a raised eyebrow which said, “You know and I know you are doing wrong, and you better stop it now.” I wonder how many follies were forsaken after a quick shot of the “Grandma Eyebrow”, as I call it. My Dad did say that he was glad that Grandma never saw how high he used to climb in the trees, “out on the Roman”, or that she might have died of a heart attack. (By the way, “the Roman” referred to the outside woods that was by a bridge -built in the Roman times. The Romans came and built many remarkable bridges with arches in them, but were unable to quite face off with people who feared the Lord so much, and ate that much oatmeal, and they left.) Well, good for Grandma, telling off Big Johnnie for his cruelty.

For a wife, Dad chose a pure, English woman who was a faithful pen-pal while he was in the Navy. Elsie was quite easy on the eyes, too. Mom was the faithful type, and a really good cook. Dad used to greet her with kind words when he came in the door, and flirt with her, making eyes at her in front of us all. He would ask her how her day was, and really listen to her as she went about making the dinner. He often gave her a fond embrace. He would take her out dancing, or go to San Francisco, to an Italian restaurant that really knew how to make a meal. And Dad was a generous tipper. Mom would never leave a table embarrassed by a cheapskate husband.

Both Dad and Mom would tell me that marriage was work. And with a Scottish accent, Dad would say “The course of true love ne’r runs smooth.” It was kind of the Celtic version of what Deedie Calmes said of Post-Fall life in general, “Aim high and expect low.” I remember when Bruce and I were in our courtship phase while he was in Texas and I was in California, and I was miffed at Bruce, my Dad, in his imaginative, playful way, said, “The moon shines o’r the Texas sage, although my heart is filled with rage.” My Dad and Mom lived out a marriage before me that taught me that imperfect, sinful people can have a happy marriage if they base it on the fear of God and commitment to each other. And they laughed a lot together and were friends. He was profoundly heartbroken when she tied with so little warning.

Most importantly, my Dad taught me that only perfect righteousness will do for God, and that only Jesus’ righteousness is perfect and that it is a gift to those who believe in Him. True love of all kinds is rooted in the love of Christ.

One of the things I treasure about Dad and Mom is that they were hospitable, and that they truly loved our friends. Hospitality and friendship held hands in our home. Maureen was dear to parents. My Dad spoke of the soulfulness of Maureen’s eyes, and taught me that Maureen had an Irish face. I saw what he meant when I looked at the face of a neurologist named Dr. O’ Keefe. It definitely reminded me of Maureen. And as a family, we were all respectful and fond of the gentle and ultra-brilliant Jo Wu. As a family joke, if someone mentioned Joe, one of us would pretend we’d forgotten who he was, and in a casual tone, ask, “Joe who?”. And persons caught off their guard would say, “Joe Wu.”, to laughter and “Gotcha!”

My Dad had a big laugh that would travel on all the levels of the tri-level home. I remember when Dad was completely cracking us up at the dinner table. Malcolm was rolling around on the kitchen floor, he was laughing so hard. I think I could hardly catch my breath and was pounding on the table with delight. And Annette had tears of laughter rolling down her face. My Mom had a quiet, English laugh. I think this was the time he was talking about what we would be like when he visited us when we grew up. I think he said I’d be living in a tree house, and narrated Annette making really good tacos for dinner . . . . He didn’t rebuke us for being unruly. He loved us and welcomed joy as quite normal. Probably Scotts-Irish normal.

Also at the dinner table, laden with my mother’s delicious homemade fare, my Dad read us portions of the Bible, when were not too foolish to appreciate it. He also announced that STDs are forever, and instructed us to act in purity, accordingly.

Dad encouraged each of us to get an education, but was happier to greet Lore and Barbara into the world, than see Annette have a B.A. from San Jose State. Dad always encouraged Annette in her gift of graphic arts. She certainly took after him in that. He was very happy to welcome Alex and Christopher into the world. He had to suddenly drop shopping for “Scallops a la Jaque” when he had to dash up with Nancy to San Francisco when Alex decided to come into the world a little early. And he was a rich man indeed to be blessed with the lovely great-grandchildren.

After Mom died, Dad grew to be sweethearts with Pat Brown. He used to say what a great lady she is. I already knew that from her being our family friend for over fifty years. She prayed hard for his recovery from cancer, decades ago. I remember him talking about the gentle lilt of her Irish way of speaking of things, rather than the blunt Scottish pronouncements that could be heard around our house. Our whole family has been greatly blessed through the prayers, love and friendship of Pat.

We will all miss Dad, especially Annette, who loved him so faithfully as a phenomenal daughter for over a good decade. Thank God, also, for the kind, gentle and diligent assistance of Sarah. Dad was very fond of Sarah. Dad is with Jesus now, and my Mom, and all the grandchildren who died before they were born, as they await the Resurrection in the presence of Christ. So Dad has not parted with his joy, and Annette tells me that he had a gentle smile on his face, after he entered into his rest.