Jun 11
LisaIn Memory of Clark Wesley Coleman, family dad, daddy, family, father, garage, home, parkinsons, shed, skill, solace, tools
My Daddy was a skilled man, for sure a good athlete, but he was also a skilled artist. In 1962 he drew a picture of my sister and I. He used pencil and the likeness was so uncanny. He practiced it very little. Perhaps more as a teen, I do not know, and never again after that portrait drawing. In the short time he took for the rendering, the final result was as good as I’ve ever seen.
Daddy built walls for bedrooms in the homes that we lived, for you see, my bedroom was always in the basement. My sisters would get the two rooms in the upstairs, my parents the master bedroom.
I loved my rooms. They were more spacious then the master bedroom of each house and always a bathroom of my own in the basement. In many ways I felt special. Some might think otherwise, but for me I much preferred it.
Daddy could throw up a wall and door in no time, and make it look part of the original house plan. His tools simple—hand driven drill, two types of saws, hammer and screw drivers. With these he created my inner sanctorum, my space, my world—posters, desk, freestanding closet, the oval braided rug and record player.
My mother always commented, “If only your sister’s kept such a straightened room.”
Daddy’s tools had a special space wherever we lived. His cardinal rule was if ever they were used, they were replaced as they were found.
In later years, my parent retired to an old two-story home in Sedley, Virginia. A town small and quaint, it harkened to the early 1800s. They turned the old house into a beautiful, comfortable home appointed in the most detail by Momma. To explain its nature, from a fireplace in the kitchen the three bedrooms upstairs were all heated by through ventilators from its first floor heat.
Daddy loved to tinker and putter with his projects. He loved to mow the vast acreage. On a section of land, some 40 yards from the house on a lower tier of land, a garage stood. It held the mower, planks of old wood and various items for such a homestead.
Ten yards from the garage, sitting on the lowest level of land, sat a building of about 20 feet long by 8 feet wide. It had separate sections—shovels, rakes and more wood were held here. In the room next to it, you stepped up into a 10×8, one window room. This was my Daddy’s room. He had always wanted such a room over the years and now it was so.
The bench upon which he worked went the width of the shed, jars meticulously separated and neatly placed. Screws, brads, nails, wiring devices, his hand tools neatly arrayed on the wall above the bench. A radio sat atop the bench for his listening pleasure.
At different times, on arrival to visit, I’d ask where’s Daddy? Momma would tell me he was down tinkering. I would walk down and find him there with Char, a black female lab that followed him around the property. In looking back on these times—of him in that room, with a plaid shirt, his hat for the day (he loved his ball caps), he looked most content.
Parkinson’s was clinching its grips more and more. As he worked on his projects, I believe he found great solace just sorting and re-sorting his jars, listening to music with his dog by his side.
It was cozy, rustic to be sure, but his inner sanctuary, still. It was also here that he kept his golf clubs on the wall behind and next to the door. Easy access when he’d pull out the nine iron and hit some shots.
On every visit we’d hit some shots across the property and back to the shed—the shed being the target for who could lay their shot up closest.
I do not know how long that shed stood before it became his, or if it still stands. I can still picture his open sweat shirt, plaid shirt, ball cap, baggy pants, standing at the bench, empty jar beside a pile of screws, his fingers moving and sorting them. Then Daddy would turn to say, “Hi” with his smile of warmth and soft kind eyes. “Hey son. Come in!”
Yeah, that’s my Daddy. Simple needs, a life lived simply, good.
Mar 07
LisaGlory Days, In Memory of Clark Wesley Coleman athlete, football, Glory Days, high school football, Robert E. Peary High School
My high school years were about to begin…year, early 70s we’ll say. Angst, as with most sophomores whether admitted or not, is the norm.
August begins football, nationwide, for high school. My future Alma Mater Robert E. Peary was no different. As it was two junior high schools that fed new sophomores into one high school, Parkland had been mine.
So now potential teammates came together where as the previous year they were foes in sports.
I was somewhat different then most of the boys that summer, gathered to vie for a spot on a powerhouse in sports in the Washington D.C. metro area—an area covering D.C., Northern Virginia and Southern Maryland.
Peary in all manor sports, and even minor ones, were considered favorites each year. This year for football was no different.
The junior varsity, for which I hoped for a spot, was 24-0 over the last 3 years. Sophomores played JV, that was it. Not until the junior year did you play varsity, and then if you made it.
Rare was the junior starter.
So back to the uniqueness of me compared to other hopefuls. While I had always played pick-up games—played all games growing up—my daddy had spent nights after work throwing the ball around, baseball, basketball, football—I had not played organized sports except for one year little league in 6th grade.
In junior high I was somehow not really interested.
In this year I found a desire to emulate my daddy whom in the late 1940s growing up in Seattle, Washington, had followed his brother Ed. Both were well known for their athletic abilities on the gridiron.
When I told daddy I was going to try out, all he said was, “Give it your best, son!” No coaching, no ‘atta-boys’. Just, give-it-your-best.
Well, after several days of 2-a-days, the Maryland August heat and my perception of my progress, in sizing myself up to the competition, was seemingly not looking good for the son of a good, all-around athlete.
As I had to walk home after morning practice and back again in the mid-day heat for the second practice, a one-way trip was about two miles. This, considering I had to follow streets that wound through two distinct neighborhoods.
On this particular lunch before returning, I rashly decided I did not have the ‘right stuff’. I went downstairs to my room in the basement and put on my records. I lay down on my bed seemingly satisfied with my decision.
As I looked at the clock, the time told me that the candidates for the new football season were sweating, out of breath, doing endless grass drills and sprints, being screamed at. Me, relaxed, cool, lying on my most comfortable bed listening to tunes, my basset hound Brit next to me.
I heard the front door upstairs shut, the noises in the kitchen then steps coming down stairs. I figured it momma; I would tell her first, she feared for my safety. She would be most accepting of my decision.
As the accordion style door to my room slid back, I had sat up to greet momma. But it was daddy home early. With his easy manner and soft, kind eyes he asked, “No football this afternoon?”
I stammered, not yet prepared how I would tell daddy. I thought I had until evening to compose words for him as to my decision. “No!” I stammered, “I mean…I guess I’ve quit, daddy.”
“Quit. Well it’s your decision, son. Is that your best?” “Yeah,” I said. “I’m not good enough, daddy. Most of them have played tackle football since elementary.”
“Well, as long as you have thought it out and it’s what you really want.” He turned toward the door and stopped, turned to me and said, “Clark, will you do me one favor?” “Sure,” I said, glad the last few moments went smoothly. “Son, go back at least one more time, I will drive you, and if tomorrow morning you feel the same, well then it’s your decision.”
My daddy knew my abilities and talents better than I.
I got to practice pretty late, coach Baker giving me hell, but I came back to each succeeding practice. When the final roster was posted, I found my name. I had measured up to my daddy’s yardstick.
(This yardstick that I alone created years before, scanning endlessly at his high school scrapbook, his pictures, running with the ball, scoring touchdowns, his name in every article for his efforts.)
I made the high school J.V. football team at the storied Robert E. Peary High. I had visions as a split-end catching passes, scoring touchdowns, but Coach Baker say my talents differently—defense. Defense?
Gap guard, there were two of them either side of the center. At the snap of the ball, I fill the gap between the offensive guard and the center, fire off the ball, and hopefully get through to tackle the running back or sack the quarterback.
Dean Cokas, a high school friend, was the other gap guard. Together we started every game and wreaked havoc, along with the other phenomenal defensive players of our J.V. team. We continued the tradition, 8-0 undefeated.
The first season over, I looked with optimism towards my junior year and making the varsity squad. My father, my daddy, Clark W. Coleman was responsible for a crucial, pivotal point in my life.
To you daddy, I miss you so very much. God surely has one of his finest back home.
Clark Ron Coleman, son of Clark W. Coleman
Next: Junior Year
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