Eulogy For My Father-Jan. 17, 2007
Ten decades. Two centuries. The dawn of a new millennium.
From Model T’s to SUVs. Biplanes to space shuttles. Ragtime to rap. Penicillin to Viagra.
16 presidents. From Woodrow Wilson to Gee Dubya.
And then there was World War II. Korea. Vietnam. Iraq.
The creation of air conditioning, television, jets, atomic bombs, jazz, space ships, rock and roll, the Super Bowl, microwave ovens, MRIs, VCRs, DVDs, computers, the Interstate and the Internet.
This is just some of what Curt Thure Pearson witnessed and experienced during his long, colorful life. He was part of the Greatest Generation during perhaps America’s greatest century. He was a Swedish immigrant who found his way to Texas and became as much a Texan as anyone you’d care to name. He saw a country’s population swell from 104 million to 300 million, and a world population soar from less than 2 billion to more than 6 billion.
Born Dec. 27, 1919, in Helevik, Sweden, not long after the guns of World War I had cooled, he was an only child who spent six years with his mother in Sweden while his father, Albert, toiled to start a life in America, building houses on Long Island, New York. The price of a stamp was only 3 cents.
He immigrated here in 1925 and grew up in Huntington, Long Island, during the last half of those roaring 1920s. Charles Lindberg’s historic flight took place. Flappers. King Tut. Prohibition. Al Capone. The great stock market crash.
His family weathered The Great Depression of the 1930s. He read news about the Hindenburg. The Dust Bowl. The Empire State Building. “The Star Spangled Banner” becoming our national anthem. Adolph Hitler’s rise to power. And then World War II.
Like other young men during that time, he heard the call and joined the military. He didn’t have to be drafted. He didn’t ask his parents. He just up and joined the U.S. Army Air Corps.
Like others who wrought death and destruction during that defining historical moment, he talked little about his war experiences. And, like others from that time, he came home from war ready to work, build and better our country. Stationed for a time in Texas during the war, Curt fell in love with this state and decided that this is where he wanted to be.
He spent years working as an engineer for a Houston company and later went into business for himself, a tough, gutsy move. If you’re ever driving up U.S. 71 toward Austin, on the right you’ll see two huge smokestacks rising out of the horizon. My dad was part of the project on one of those, as he was on so many industrial projects in Southeast Texas, Canada and overseas.
He and my mother, Marion, built a home in what was then Houston’s remote, heavily wooded west side. They moved in on their wedding night.
And I was born nine months and two days later.
He fathered three children, all of whom have found success in our fields and, hopefully, lived the kinds of lives he wanted us to live.
This muzzleloader builder, silversmither and gifted artist taught me how to throw a baseball, shoot a gun, hit a golf ball, gut a deer, throw a punch, camp, drive a stickshift, cook a steak to perfection and tell really, really bad jokes. He attended almost every baseball, softball and soccer game as well as eight years worth of his children’s marching band performances. He taught me a profound appreciation of the outdoors. We had so many fantastic adventures, too numerous to mention.
So many stories. So many good times. So many life lessons.
It was a bit different being raised by parents who skipped a generation to have children. I could have been a hippie, or perhaps raised by one. My parents’ old-fashioned values, discipline and a demand for children to have manners and to respect their elders sometimes was a bit different from what was taking place in some of the neighbors’ homes.
I might have felt their approach to be odd and anachronistic at times, but I find myself, now that my wife, Amy, and I have two children of our own, passing what was instilled in me on to our boys, Luke, and pawpaw’s namesake, Curt Thure.
Curt Pearson was a tough guy, the kind of man they just don’t seem to make anymore. In his later years, he beat bladder cancer, prostate cancer, heart disease, three hip surgeries and blocked arteries, and it was the latter that ultimately got him.
I was only part of half of my father’s life timeline, and I feel blessed to have had him in my life so long and that he reached the age of 87. So many of my closest friends lost their fathers at a much earlier age, and that has kept me from taking my dad for granted. I look out at you who have come today, and I see a wonderful cross section of Dad’s life and all of those whom he touched, with his kindness, generosity, selflessness and gentle nature.
As my life’s journey continues, I’ll see his spirit all around. In the scent of gunpowder. The sight of limestone rocks of Central Texas. A grilling T-bone. Roadside bluebonnets. A hawk casually gliding on an air current on a cloudless day.
I owe it to him to pass all this on to my children, so that they’ll, in turn, pass it on to their children. And while I feel such profound sorrow over my father’s passing, I also have an overwhelming sense of pride, joy and being blessed to have been raised by such a great man.
From Model T’s to SUVs. Biplanes to space shuttles. Ragtime to rap. Penicillin to Viagra.
16 presidents. From Woodrow Wilson to Gee Dubya.
And then there was World War II. Korea. Vietnam. Iraq.
The creation of air conditioning, television, jets, atomic bombs, jazz, space ships, rock and roll, the Super Bowl, microwave ovens, MRIs, VCRs, DVDs, computers, the Interstate and the Internet.
This is just some of what Curt Thure Pearson witnessed and experienced during his long, colorful life. He was part of the Greatest Generation during perhaps America’s greatest century. He was a Swedish immigrant who found his way to Texas and became as much a Texan as anyone you’d care to name. He saw a country’s population swell from 104 million to 300 million, and a world population soar from less than 2 billion to more than 6 billion.
Born Dec. 27, 1919, in Helevik, Sweden, not long after the guns of World War I had cooled, he was an only child who spent six years with his mother in Sweden while his father, Albert, toiled to start a life in America, building houses on Long Island, New York. The price of a stamp was only 3 cents.
He immigrated here in 1925 and grew up in Huntington, Long Island, during the last half of those roaring 1920s. Charles Lindberg’s historic flight took place. Flappers. King Tut. Prohibition. Al Capone. The great stock market crash.
His family weathered The Great Depression of the 1930s. He read news about the Hindenburg. The Dust Bowl. The Empire State Building. “The Star Spangled Banner” becoming our national anthem. Adolph Hitler’s rise to power. And then World War II.
Like other young men during that time, he heard the call and joined the military. He didn’t have to be drafted. He didn’t ask his parents. He just up and joined the U.S. Army Air Corps.
Like others who wrought death and destruction during that defining historical moment, he talked little about his war experiences. And, like others from that time, he came home from war ready to work, build and better our country. Stationed for a time in Texas during the war, Curt fell in love with this state and decided that this is where he wanted to be.
He spent years working as an engineer for a Houston company and later went into business for himself, a tough, gutsy move. If you’re ever driving up U.S. 71 toward Austin, on the right you’ll see two huge smokestacks rising out of the horizon. My dad was part of the project on one of those, as he was on so many industrial projects in Southeast Texas, Canada and overseas.
He and my mother, Marion, built a home in what was then Houston’s remote, heavily wooded west side. They moved in on their wedding night.
And I was born nine months and two days later.
He fathered three children, all of whom have found success in our fields and, hopefully, lived the kinds of lives he wanted us to live.
This muzzleloader builder, silversmither and gifted artist taught me how to throw a baseball, shoot a gun, hit a golf ball, gut a deer, throw a punch, camp, drive a stickshift, cook a steak to perfection and tell really, really bad jokes. He attended almost every baseball, softball and soccer game as well as eight years worth of his children’s marching band performances. He taught me a profound appreciation of the outdoors. We had so many fantastic adventures, too numerous to mention.
So many stories. So many good times. So many life lessons.
It was a bit different being raised by parents who skipped a generation to have children. I could have been a hippie, or perhaps raised by one. My parents’ old-fashioned values, discipline and a demand for children to have manners and to respect their elders sometimes was a bit different from what was taking place in some of the neighbors’ homes.
I might have felt their approach to be odd and anachronistic at times, but I find myself, now that my wife, Amy, and I have two children of our own, passing what was instilled in me on to our boys, Luke, and pawpaw’s namesake, Curt Thure.
Curt Pearson was a tough guy, the kind of man they just don’t seem to make anymore. In his later years, he beat bladder cancer, prostate cancer, heart disease, three hip surgeries and blocked arteries, and it was the latter that ultimately got him.
I was only part of half of my father’s life timeline, and I feel blessed to have had him in my life so long and that he reached the age of 87. So many of my closest friends lost their fathers at a much earlier age, and that has kept me from taking my dad for granted. I look out at you who have come today, and I see a wonderful cross section of Dad’s life and all of those whom he touched, with his kindness, generosity, selflessness and gentle nature.
As my life’s journey continues, I’ll see his spirit all around. In the scent of gunpowder. The sight of limestone rocks of Central Texas. A grilling T-bone. Roadside bluebonnets. A hawk casually gliding on an air current on a cloudless day.
I owe it to him to pass all this on to my children, so that they’ll, in turn, pass it on to their children. And while I feel such profound sorrow over my father’s passing, I also have an overwhelming sense of pride, joy and being blessed to have been raised by such a great man.
- Brian Thure Pearson
posted by Brian Pearson at 11:29 AM
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