This is the eulogy I delivered for a great friend last week.
Jerry and I
have been friends for over fifty years. Our paths have diverged and crossed
many times. During times when we had more in common, we traveled the same paths
for long periods. We helped each other get through stressful periods in our
lives. Then he would go off and do his thing and I would do mine.
Our interests
changed, but I always knew I had a friend in Jerry, a friend I could call on
who would come running and bring all his tools and equipment. A friend who was
not afraid to get his hands dirty helping out.
I first met
him when I worked at City Pharmacy in downtown Commerce. He had left the job I
held at the drugstore to become a men’s clothing salesman for Jim Clark’s down
the street.
He sat down
at the counter one day about closing time as I was wrestling with the wooden
pallets behind the soda fountain. He made some suggestions as to how to do it
more efficiently. I looked over at this handsome fellow all decked out in a tie
and sport coat. That’s the first time I remember seeing Jerry Lambert. I admit
I was a little irritated at his unsolicited advice, but he soon proved himself
to be sincere and friendly and shared a few more helpful hints about the job he
had held before me.
Our kids
grew up together. Kim and Shelly have maintained a friendship from about age 6
to now. I won’t mention how many decades that covers. Jerry and Derek built the
fence around our yard almost thirty years ago. By the way, Derek, that is the
only fence on the place that I have never had to repair.
When I first
heard that Jerry Don was ill, several things came to my mind immediately. One
is the way that Jerry liked to get “up close and personal”. We were about the
same height, but he usually managed to get himself up under my chin, even going
so far as to bump his shoulder against my chest or put a hand on my arm when he
was talking to me. I noticed that it was his habit to talk to everyone that
way. He liked looking you right in the eyes. That’s just one of the ways Jerry
Don showed how much he liked people and why he had such a loving family and so
many friends.
When I went
to see him at home the first time after hearing that he was not going to
survive, he seemed like his usual exuberant self, not much subdued from pain or
medication, ignoring the elephant in the room—the forecast of his impending
death. I listened to him describe the path his illness had taken, the decisions
he had made, the courageous path he had chosen in how to live the last days of
his life.
We were sitting
side by side on barstools and when he turned to look at me directly, I asked
him if I could tell him a few stories—if I could relate the memories that had
flooded my mind and stayed there. But
first, I told him about another friend that I had visited a few years back who
was in a similar situation. I admitted that as I drove away after seeing that
friend for the last time, I knew he had done more for me than I could ever do
for him.
I had not had any eloquent or soothing words for that friend and I regretted
that I did not have any for Jerry. All I had were memories. He asked me to tell
the stories. I think they say a lot about Jerry Don Lambert.
The first
has to do with the dune buggy he used to own. After being chained to a desk
twelve hours a day for twelve weeks of tax season, I always thirsted for the
outdoors. Jerry, in his usual generous spirit, always loaned me the Volkswagen
he had converted to a dune buggy.
One year, I
found a particularly good stretch of off-road to my liking and, exercising what
I viewed as superior driving skill, plunged that VW into an embankment, bending
at least one wheel. I feared the entire frontend would have to be replaced,
definitely repaired.
I got it to
the shop, called Jerry, offered profuse apologies and promised to repair the
damage. His cheerful response: “Don’t
worry about it, partner. That thing is for having fun. It’s made to take rough
treatment.”
Then there
was the ping pong tournament. We were in New Mexico on a skiing trip with our
families and a few more many years ago and found ourselves in an after-ski
place that had a ping pong table. There were four or five of us guys, so I
suggested a tournament. Before we started playing, Jerry picked up a paddle
that quickly looked like a natural appendage to his arm. He tapped the paddle
on the table and said, “I have to warn you, boys. I cut my teeth on a ping pong
table”.
I smiled,
thinking of the hundreds of lunch periods I had spent in the rec. room of a
defense contractor I worked for, playing ping pong, pool and shuffleboard. But we
all quickly found that Jerry was not exaggerating. He had cut his teeth on a ping pong table and had lost little or
none of his hand-eye coordination.
Jerry played
his first hole of golf with me. Neither of us remembers the exact details, but
I had a set of cheap clubs, had just finished nine holes and was ready to head
home just as dark approached. I saw Jerry in the parking lot and told him he
should start playing with me sometime. With his usual enthusiasm, he said, “How
about now?”
Well, it was
almost dark and he didn’t have any clubs. Not to mention the flip flops he was
wearing.
He looked
down at his feet and at the rising moon. “Can I borrow your sticks? We’ll have
time for at least a couple of holes. With that moon, we might play nine.”
I hit the
first ball off the tee to show him how it was done. I cringed a little as he
teed up the ball and took a couple of practice swings that seemed dangerously
close to his toes. Then he hit one, turned to me and said, “Is that how you do
it?”
I winced when
I saw his ball in the middle of the fairway about thirty yards past the one I
had hit in the rough. “Yep, that’s how you do it.”
He developed
this habit of forecasting his shots that I found annoying at first. What made the habit annoying was that, about
half the time, he was right. I quit playing a few years after that. Gave up in
frustration. But Jerry kept going.
His golfing
buddies tell me that Jerry kept forecasting where the ball was going to go and
actually making it go there. Occasionally, he would hit one in the rough and
leave himself a really tough lie behind a tree or two. Instead of playing it
safe, taking a stroke and punching one out into the fairway and taking a bogey
or, in my case, a double bogey, he would take the more difficult path.
“Okay, boys.
I’m gonna hook this a little to get past that first tree, make it duck between
the two limbs on the second, then fade it right. I figure about three bounces
will put me on the edge of the green. With a thirty foot putt, I can get it in
for a birdie.”
His buddies stopped laughing at those predictions a long time
ago—because Jerry almost always made the ball perform just as he predicted. He
was usually the smallest guy in the group, but hit the ball the longest
distance.
My favorite
story as we talked was the footrace. Jerry and I compared notes on this story,
so if there is anyone here who ran in the footrace or remembers it differently,
forever hold your peace. Jerry and I agreed that this is the way it was.
This
story also begins at Sand Hills—also at sunset. A close round of golf had left
some young men’s competitive challenges unsettled. Horseplay and boasting soon
led to more challenges, more boasts about who was better, stronger and faster. It
was too dark to settle their scores playing more golf, so the young men settled
on a foot race.
As we
recalled, Jerry and I were only spectators up to that point. When we went
outside to watch the race, Jerry started to roll up the legs to his jeans. I
asked him what he was doing. He said “I’m gonna run in this race.” He sat down
on the # 1 tee box and started removing his shoes.
Even I was
surprised. “Barefoot? Have you thought about goat heads?” Jerry ignored me as
he took off his socks. The race was from the tee box to the green and back as
we recalled—a distance of about 700 yards. “Have you looked at these guys?
They’re all taller and have longer legs than you. Plus they’re a lot younger.”
He started
to limber up. “Yeah, well, I probably won’t win. But I used to be pretty fast
barefoot.” I remembered the ping pong remark, but hand-eye coordination is one
thing, stamina and running barefoot for long distances is another.
Well, the
excitement was surprising and contagious as the runners left the tee box. All
of us spectators were caught up in this unplanned event. It was too dark to see
the runners touch the flag on the #1 green, but I soon heard the sound of their
shoes clomping on the grass on their return from the green to the tee box.
But I could
not hear bare feet, so I worried that Jerry might have cut a foot or given up and
was walking back. No shame in that, I thought. It was too dark to make them out
at first. But, eventually, the dim lights of the parking lot and clubhouse
revealed a set of arms pumping, knees going high and strong. I will never
forget my surprise (make that shock), when I saw that the guy without shoes was
out in front.
Without ever
mentioning it, Jerry was a natural at visualization. It helped him in his golf
game to verbalize what he saw in his head. He saw himself winning that
footrace, too. He used the same technique in hunting and fishing. He saw in his
mind, where, when and how he was going to hunt or fish, what type of equipment
he was going to use and how he was going to use it. That often resulted in his
harvesting the most fish or quail, the buck with the biggest rack.
The final
story has to do with a flat bed trailer. I lived in town in those days, and had
no place to park a flat bed trailer, so I didn’t own one. But almost everyone
has an occasional need for one. I, along with people from at least four
counties, borrowed Jerry’s. I have seen that trailer all over Delta, Hunt,
Fannin, and Hopkins counties, often overloaded, always pulled by someone other
than Jerry. Sometimes, it came back much the worse for wear. But I never heard
Jerry complain about it.
Those other
stories exemplify Jerry Lambert’s gregariousness and adventurous spirit, his affectionate
nature, his love of people. The trailer exemplifies the man’s kindness and
generosity. There are many more examples of all those things. There are dozens
of hunting and fishing stories, for example. All of us here today could tell Jerry
stories for hours.
One other
thing, I don’t recall ever seeing Jerry get angry. I have seen him a little
upset, but never just plain mad. He seemed to like people too much to harbor
any time of grudge. I am sure there were times and events that I am not aware
of, but they must have been rare.
When we
finished with the stories that day, Jerry leveled with me about the heartache
and struggle facing him, reiterating his long held conviction that material
things don’t really matter much when it comes down to it. It’s love that
counts, particularly love of family. He
was not ready to say goodbye to Joan, to Derek and Rhonda, to Kim and Joe and
their families. And he wanted to see his grandchildren grow up. There were
other things he was not ready to give up, but he was determined to make his
peace with it.
I know that
he had already started checking things off his bucket list. I know that his
loving family made it possible for him to check off a few more before departing
this life.
It’s obvious
to everyone who knew him that Jerry also had a lot of good friends. He and Joan
entertained regularly, opening their home to a pretty steady stream of guests.
Jerry wasn’t ready to give that up, either.
One of the
measurements of a man’s life is the people whose lives he touched in a positive
way. By that measure, Jerry Lambert stands tall.
The stories
over, our chuckles subsiding, I took his hand to say goodbye. The handshake quickly
turned into a hug, our laughter to tears. And as I headed home, I realized
that, though my intentions were good, Jerry had done much more for me than I
had done for him. I expect that this room is full of folks who can say exactly
the same thing about Jerry Lambert. Now that’s a legacy any person would be
proud to leave behind.
Immediately
after the visit and for all the days since, I use his visualization technique
and imagine Jerry talking to me each time I found myself complaining about some
task I have to do or some minor misfortune or inconvenience that comes my way.
I vowed to
put each of those tasks and misfortunes to what I call the “Jerry Don
test”. Given his situation, would Jerry
Don be doing this? Would he worry about this misfortune or laugh at it,
recognize it for how little it really matters? He always has a good answer. It’s
a test I hope to continue for the rest of my days.
Another part
of the legacy of a good, kind, and generous husband, father, grandfather and
friend.
Jerry Don Lambert left us with our memories
and a warm feeling in our hearts November 8, 2012.
