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.
Jun 09
Lisafamily church, family, home, hymn, hymnal, piano, sheet music, sing
For as long as I can remember, and it escapes me as to what year she acquired it, the piano was my mother’s prized possession. It endured move after move as the Navy dictated our place of residence—even up and down steep flights of stairs at different times.
As a small child, I could count on her playing hymns during the week, her then dexterous fingers landing flawlessly over the keys. The sound of music filled our home. Momma had a voice that most assuredly could have been good enough for opera. Maybe not diva quality, but for sure in the supporting roles had the proper training was afforded her with fortunate circumstances.
Momma’s beautiful voice sang solos in church services. It was a sense of great pride to see her standing solo amongst the choir giving praise to God with the voice he had blessed her.
The upright always had sheet music and the hymnal in its place on the piano stand—countless pages of sheet music in the bench seat. To hear her singing and playing gave our home a warm welcoming place for our family.
On a particular Saturday, prior to a Sunday service, she sat at the piano becoming familiar with a hymn, trying to perfect her delivery. I sat on the living room floor playing with my Lincoln logs. As I casually looked up across the room, I became aware of and thought, “How can she sing, play and move her feet on the pedals at the same time?”
I lost all interest in the cabin I was building and stretched out fully prone, supporting my head with elbow on the floor, hands on each side of my face. Here I watched her most intently for ten minutes, it must have been—I was entranced.
At some point Momma turned in her seat and saw me watching her. She smiled and patted the seat next to her signaling me to join her on the bench. I jumped to my feet and took my place next to her.
Momma asked, “Want to help me Clarky?”
“Sure!” Not knowing how I might do that.
Momma slowly closed the hymnal and pulled out some sheet music. It was a contemporary song of the early sixties, but I’m not quite sure. She opened to the first page of notes. “Now sing along,” she said. I edged closer to the keys and then she instructed me to turn the page when she nodded her head.
We started, and with anticipation, I waited for my cue. I sang the words, humming at those I couldn’t pronounce, but all the while really listening to her angelic voice. I acquainted myself well in the page turning, or at least I believed I did.
Upon completion of our mother-son duet, she put her arm around me, pulled me close and kissed my head. “Thank you, son.” I so remember shining brightly at that moment. Somehow I had helped my dear momma at something with which she was good. It was then that I wanted to learn to play.
This was never to materialize, however, except for a feeble attempt on my part a couple years later. Momma started me on lessons, but soon enough I lost interest. The calls of boyhood, times outside, called louder than the piano keys.
Momma was not one to force this issue. If I really wanted it she would have pursued it tirelessly. As an adult I regret that choice.
The instilling of music in me was solid. Because of Momma, late in life I listen to operas on the radio performed at the met in New York City. On one particular performance, lost in the moment, the voice was so much like Momma’s that tears flowed from my eyes.
Seemingly projecting her into the performance from my cell, the voice soothed, at least for a short time. With Momma so far away and the opportunities of my life missed, my eyes filled with her ebbing.
The gift of music that she filled me with in my youth is a comfort that sustains me behind bars—life such that it is. In the still of the cell, in the dark of night, I remember lovingly, her gift—and her gift to me.
May 26
LisaGlory Days athlete, football, Glory Days, high school football, Robert E. Peary High School
A new football season, and with it came hope that I might make the varsity squad. Although I had acquainted myself well the previous season on the junior varsity squad, it had not, in anyway, paved a way for me on such a talented, traditionally rich, powerful team.
I felt once again, as in my sophomore year, inadequate. Even if I could make the squad, it was rare for many juniors to even start. The defense that I aspired to had man-beasts coming back as seniors—the likes of John Cornett, Bear Robinson, the Butcher brothers, just to name a few.
All seemed like grown men to me, but to my credit I had filled out since my sophomore year. I had put on more weight; I believe about 190 pounds now—up 15 pounds from the previous year—and 6 feet tall.
As summer 2-a-day practices began, I was, to my surprise, put to a new position from last year: Defensive End. Coach Williams (a cool, smooth coach who always carried a 9-iron golf club around) was to be my coach.
During the middle of one particular practice, he pulled me aside and informed me as to his desires of how I could help the team. My speed and reckless-abandon hitting style had to be more controlled if I was to be his right defensive end. He conveyed to me his belief in me to do the job IF, throughout the coming weeks, I would meet these expectations.
With this I had hope to make the squad.
During the coming weeks, I gave over 100% in drills and scrimmage. The control of my high-octane motor became more controlled. In a 6-2 defensive, 6 down lineman and 2 linebackers, I was the last man to contain sweeps.
I could not afford to be sealed off. My job was to contain and turn everything ‘in’ if I could not make the tackle; or as a last resort, string it out to the sideline.
It slowly came. My new assignment came easy, but my intense nature in some scrimmages left me looking foolish more times than I care to remember. Many times I was grabbed by the facemask, both by coach and John Cornet (our captain), and chewed out.
John was one of our two linebackers. He was less than 6 feet tall, but pushed over 220 pounds. Bear, the other linebacker, was well over 6 feet and 235 pounds. Both devastating hitters and I aspired to their abilities. I wanted their approval—that would mean more than the coaches somehow.
As the season approached and summer wound down, the last cut was posted next to Coaches office. I held back as the hopefuls of the previous year clamored to see their name.
I remember our quarterback John Chase from the J.V. squad didn’t even look at the posting. He was the number one back up to Steve Matheson and would be playing safety on defense (he played both ways). I should also say, starting off defense, John was a most gifted athlete about 6’3”, 220 lbs., played all the major sports and started. He played quarterback in football, catcher in baseball and, I believe, the forward position in basketball.
I moved forward as the group found, or did not find as the case may be, their name. Dean Cokas, pulling away, told me I made it and that he had too. I smacked his shoulder and remember not believing him somehow. I had to see my name for myself.
As I scanned the positions, I saw ‘Defense’. There it was! My name! I remember wanting to cry, but didn’t. I also saw I was to be a starter at defensive end.
Unbeknownst to me, Coach Williams had been observing the hopefuls, golf club in hand, in the doorway. As I backed away, giving a audible sigh, I looked over at Coach, he smiled and gave me a ‘well-done’ wink. The he disappeared back into his office.
Water filled my eyes so I went into the bathroom stall to compose myself.
After the dust had settled, only a few juniors, as in past years, were starters. John Chase, Dean Cokas (who the previous year played beside me) at gap guard. At least he would see a lot of time. Jan Zlotnick, a fast, strong tailback and I believe Snyder at center. There might be another, but 37 years ago haze it a little.
We were a formidable looking team, vastly talented, big, even for today’s standards, in 4A/5A schools.
As the season progressed, we were the dominant team except for maybe Richard Montgomery High School, which always fielded good teams in Montgomery County. The Washington Post ranked the Washington, D.C. area schools of Northern Virginia, Southern Maryland teams throughout the season.
We were one, two or three every week.
If you remember the movie “Remember the Titans”, an integrated High School in Virginia, T.C. Williams was that High School and we vied with them that year for #1—the year so famously portrayed on film.
As the last game of season came, it had been mad clear that the championship would be the winner the Peary vs. Montgomery contest.[i] I should say here, Maryland did not have State Championship playoffs then, at least in Football. We were vying for Montgomery County Champions, our Super Bowl.
The week in preparation that would determine the champions, I was acutely aware of the meaning of what was at stake—Championship runs don’t come often. You can be a contender often as Peary was, but for me this was my chance.
Richard Montgomery High had a big, formidable team, much like ours, but they had a back named Summerall—big, powerful, bruising running back—at what I would guess 220 lbs. or more with tree trunk legs. We had to shut him down to be successful.
We knew we could contain the passing game with our D-backs, Chase, Forienger and the others. Even our body pounding linebackers were so very good in covering pass plays.
Through the week we prepared. I watched Summerall on film. God, he looked like an offensive guard! Once he got the speed up, which I must say was in the blink of an eye, he reminds me now of a running back that played for Cal. University last year and will be drafted this year.
My whole focus was Summerall. They liked to run the sweep, which would bring me into great importance: contain him inside or string it out to the sideline till pursuit could close in.
He had a propensity to break off his protection and ‘cowboy’ it and make his own path of destruction. Summerall could also be destructive inside. Although I had no doubt Bear and John were more than a match he had seen before. I remember thinking they would be outside testing the ends on the upcoming Saturday.
As Saturday came round, it was a gorgeous fall afternoon. The bronze cast day that only autumn brings, 60-70 degrees. Game time: 2:00PM.
The guess-timate was 8,000 fans—seats maxed out. The crowd spilled over the hill on the home side of the field. This was Montgomery’s turf, the outskirts of the county seat—Rockville, Maryland. People spread 2-3 deep around the fencing. Being used to loud, large crowds, this was unlike I had been apart of before.
The bus ride to Richard Montgomery High School was only about 15-20 minutes, most of it on Viers Mill Rd. across Rockville Pike Rd. where the battle was to be contended.
During the Civil War a great army had come this way, perhaps on the very ground yet to be battled out that afternoon. The confederacy under General Stuart had flanked the union army and come between Washington, D.C. and the main fighting force, which had been shadowing Robert E. Lee in the Shenandoah Mountains. Stuart, though, had collected booty and such, and then proceeded north to link up via north of Gettysburg to fight an epic battle days later.
On this autumn day, it was two high schools.
We arrived with the usual silence on the bus, which was tradition. As soon as the bus left Peary, quiet was observed and time to contemplate one’s job and conviction of carrying it out.
As I disembarked the bus, I could see the pregame activities, the respective teams, fans, banners, bands. It was something to behold, even in my memory I’ve never been apart of something since.
We disappeared into the locker-room to put our gear on and have a last minute meeting.
I was not nervous, but strangely calm. Previous games I was good and nervous wanting to get that first good hit in. To get my game attitude adjusted. I did not doubt myself for the first time in high school football.
During pregame warm-ups, I saw what was around me for the first time. Previous pregame warm-ups, I never looked into the stands, only the football field. It was awe-inspiring. I felt chills. I thought, this is it, one game, one struggle, nothing would I leave on the field as far as effort.
The game, as a spectator, was boring I’m guessing. It was a supreme struggle between the 30-yard lines for the most part. I was hammered like never before. I yielded, but never broke. Summerall knocked me senseless at least twice.
He drove his knee into the side of my helmet as I strung him out to the sideline and out of bounds. The other time I slammed into him thinking I got lower then he, but he bested me and drove over the top. I heard the crash of his helmet square in the facemask.
I do not know how but as he ran over me I got an ankle and stopped a sure long gainer. As I foggily got up off the turf, I was smacked excitedly by Bear Robinson and heard him congratulating my effort. Summerall had caused the bottom of my facemask, Dick Butkus style—my favorite NFL player of all time) to contort in the shape of a ‘U’.
Bear and Cornet had shut them down inside. The D-backs had done their job. Our offense had struggled against their defense. The day had come down to a blocked field goal. We blocked their point after their touch down.
Score: 7-6, Robert E. Peary High. We were champions. I was a champion, one of my shining moments in the sun. The long cast autumn day at conclusion was glorious. I remember there was a photo taken that was in the paper and the yearbook. I’m sorry to say I do not remember his name, but he was an offensive guard wearing our navy blue jersey with red and white stripes around the bicep, white helmet with the husky emblazed on the side. He held the helmet high with one hand and gesturing with the other, #1.
I was a part of something special, something 2 years before, I never thought I would have been able to achieve. My daddy believed in me. Coach Williams believed in me. Now John Cornet and Bear Robinson now believed in me.
As life moved on, we fell to #2-3 as a team in the D.C. area, but in my heart and mind we were #1.
It was an experience, my first experience really played out in full, in human’s need to have belief in one another to accomplish a common goal.
To those of that year, it’s a gift I cherish to this day. I see your faces clearly at each position and all the supportive players who were cast. Each of you gave me a gift that now is even more special than ever. My life, such as it is, is mostly reflection of days past. Because of you and the dedication that year, it is a warm shining moment of pride in days of constant battle.
Thank you 1971-72 Huskies!
[i] Peary’s defense allowed less than 27 points that year, 1971-72.
RSS
Recent Comments