Delivered at St. Bernadette’s Catholic Church in Stockton, CA on 20 December 2019.
Hello everyone. Thanks for being with our family today to celebrate my father, Lester Silvester Johnston, Jr.
Many of you have said to us, “I had no idea that Lester was ill”. We’re all in the same boat. Admittedly, I had some idea, but I thought that I would be saying goodbye to my father next year. I was just starting to see the pain he was in, and I thought that I could get him to talk to me about it. I thought that I had the holidays to pick his brain. I never got to have those conversations. The only insights I can share are the small hints he dropped or the things that I could see directly.
My father was a private man. He rarely volunteered details about his life unless they were cherished stories from his past, like:
- The time he got a free vacation in Banff, Canada to help haul a truckload of fresh elk meat back to Stockton for his boss
- The time he was stationed in Germany and traded American chocolates with little old German ladies for steaks
- The time he was the Colonel’s driver, which meant he hung out in the air conditioned tents watching football while the rest of the boys were stuck sleeping in the dirt
He didn’t even tell his wife about the full extent of his illness or pain. You could ask him directly, but he would never answer you with the level of detail you wanted. Perhaps he didn’t want to be forced into treatment. Perhaps he didn’t want to be constantly reminded by family and friends about his impending doom. We can only wonder now.
My father was a strong and proud man. As a kid, I always marveled at my father’s seemingly infinite powers. He worked hard. He built things right in front of our eyes. He climbed ladders, trees, and houses. He could fix everything. He never stained his image by complaining about his circumstances, admitting to pain, or begging for help.
This never changed. When I visited my father two months ago for his birthday, I saw that he couldn’t walk to the end of the driveway and back due to his COPD. His back was killing him, and he just made it seem like it was sore muscles, not cancer. Even still, he was lifting and throwing huge oak rounds into the back of his truck. I managed to convince him to let me do it. He begrudgingly agreed once I pointed out it was his birthday, and that old men should let the young men do the hard work. After that, he let me do all of the work for him. The fact that my dad accepted my help so readily during the last few months was my first hint that something was going on.
My father took his pain like a man, one of the old breed that seems to be fading from the modern world. During his final days, the lightest touch was enough to shoot pain throughout his body. He only let out the occasional involuntary moan, and my guess is that he would have kept quiet if it was within his power to do so. I cried because of how much I hurt my father while helping him, yet he asked me to hang in there and hold it together. Another time, I told him I wished I could take on his pain to make it easier for him. He just smiled and said, “Oh, I don’t think you’d want any part of this.”
I’m sure that he’s right. I’d whine to my mom when he made me pick up sticks on the trails in our woods. Clearly, we were made of different stuff.
The day before he died, Kevin, Bridget, Janet, and Steve arrived at the house. Hospice hadn’t come yet. My dad woke up from a nap. Mary, Anthony, and I helped him walk to the bathroom for the final time. He could barely stand up. His walking was so shaky that we were all terrified for him. But he made it. He was pure willpower embodied.
Then, sitting there resting after using the bathroom, he asked us to make him look good. We put his clothes back on and washed his face. He rinsed with mouthwash. He put his dentures in. He asked Anthony to brush his hair.
He asked me how he looked, and I laughed and said that he wasn’t going to win any beauty contests anytime soon. He grunted and frowned and said, “Give me a mirror”. He wanted to make sure that his sons weren’t doing a half-assed job just because he was hurting.
These kinds of moments put someone’s character into focus. We are at the extreme end of our being. And yet, even with all of that pain and uncertainty, my father did what he loved until his final day on this Earth. What will you still fight to do when there is no time left, or when there is only pain? In those moments, the inessential drops away, and we get to see who you really are.
The first characteristic that stands out is that my dad loved to be outside. As far as I know, this has always been true. My dad used to be so tan that a much younger version of Kevin thought he was a black man. He loved to grill. He loved to have a garden. And he loved to just sit around and relax outside – especially by his pool. Each of his sons spent thousands of hours with dad at the pool. Having a pool is what he missed the most about his house in Georgia. He couldn’t fit one on the property in West Point. That didn’t stop him from having a little blue kiddie pool ready when we came up with Damien in the summer.
At the end of his life, he spent most of his time outside: pruning rose bushes, planting a vegetable garden, tending to his beloved pot plants, installing landscape lighting, painting yard decorations for my mom, battling moles, repairing the gate, and fortifying the garden against the nightly deer attacks.
Then, every day in West Point, around 10am, the sun would shine just right on the deck and the morning chill was gone. He’d take his coffee, go out to his chair, and smoke a cigarette, basking in the sun. The sun seemed to charge his batteries better than sleep did, and he had little enough of that at the end. He continued to perform his morning sun ritual, with my help, until his last day. Snow was falling then, and he was no longer able to get out of bed.
Another characteristic reflected until the end was that my dad was a chef at heart. We all have countless memories of Lester’s food. Stuffed mushrooms, backyard barbecues, holiday spreads, prime ribs, even a roast pig – I’m sure ya’ll remember Charlotte.
Even with the pain and chaos of the final days, the Thanksgiving week’s festivities were on the forefront of his mind. Every night he would ask me, “What’s for dinner?”, although we both knew he wouldn’t be eating it. After my mom came back from grocery shopping, while dad and I were sitting together in the sun, he demanded a full report on what she purchased. He dictated a list of everything she missed and asked me to go get it for him. Thanksgiving was one of his favorite days, and he wanted us to have the full holiday spread. I wanted to make sure he still involved in the process. I got everything on his list, planned the menu with him, and asked for his advice whenever I could.
My dad passed away the day before Thanksgiving. Taking care of my dad was a full time job, and Rozi and I figure that he knew we couldn’t actually cook the meal if we were busy doting over him. To make things even harder, our power went out at 5:30 in the morning and stayed out for 11 hours. That didn’t stop us from channeling Lester’s spirit. Rozi and I adapted to the situation without complaint, threw the turkey and ham on the grill, and pulled off the meal that my dad and I envisioned. We would have been proud to show our turkey to him.
It wasn’t just Thanksgiving that was dear to my father – it seemed like every holiday was especially important to him. After having a chance to think deeply about my father’s life, I think I know why.
My father was a man with a big heart full of love to share, even when he didn’t feel any of that love for himself. Maybe he loved the holidays because they were a great excuse for him to take time off of work, to host a party, to prepare a delicious spread of food for people he loved, to laugh, to give gifts, and to play games. He was the life of the party, and parties with Lester were guaranteed to be fun. People always came by, especially if there were fireworks – everyone would join in to echo Lester’s favorite phrase, “fire in the hole!”
It’s not just the laughter and joy and company of the holidays that I remember. My parents were also especially welcoming to our friends. Both of them were loved by our friends, and they frequently earned the titles “mom”, “dad”, and “second family”. Dad taught Kevin’s friend Jeffery how to swim. He taught some of my friends how to swim too. He cooked for our friends, played games with them, joked with them, involved them in his projects, and taught them how to build and repair things. I’m not sure that my father ever realized how much of a role model he was to our friends, especially those without their own fathers in their lives.
Kevin’s friend Joey wrote us a letter saying, “I just wanted to let you know how sorry I was to hear about the passing of Les. You guys are the closest thing I have to a 2nd family, and I’ll always cherish the great memories I have of growing up in Covington and spending time at your house. Les was a great man and a great cook and he’ll be missed terribly.”
Our friend Mario said, “It took me a few days to figure out how to respond. I’m sorry for your loss, your dad was an awesome man who I learned a lot from. Your family exposed me to a life filled with so much love and friendship, and I appreciate that more than I could ever explain.”
My father loved his family more than he could ever explain, and he frequently tried to tell us us so. Things weren’t always good, but even in the bad times, he did his best to make sure things were still good for his sons.
My father was deeply proud of his three sons. We all learned how to work hard, how to forge our own paths through life, and how to have a good time. Two of his sons own their own businesses, and the third son earned himself a full-ride scholarship to USC, an internship at Disney World (a place my father loved dearly), and a job at Microsoft.
Anthony, Kevin, I hope that you both can feel his love for you. You were both frequently on his mind at the end, and he held on until you were there with him. And if you don’t feel his love, I hope that one day you can hold a child of your own in your arms. When you feel exactly how much love you have for that child, then you’ll know without a doubt just how much dad loved you.
Anthony, dad knew how hard you worked at school and he saw the rewards that you earned for your efforts. He was proud of your work ethic and accomplishments, and he was adamant that he wouldn’t be the one to interfere. Every time your name came up he would say, “No, you can’t call Anthony, he’s got tests and projects and I can’t mess that up”. But when we told him that you changed your flight, there was only love in his voice. He said “for me?” as if it was the best gift in the world. I’m glad that you changed your flight, because you wouldn’t have made it to him due to the snow storm. And we needed your help.
Kevin, you were the last son in Georgia. Dad could always count on your help when he needed it. You and Bridget kept the holidays alive for him and kept the games going after Anthony and I were gone. You were always the best at getting dad to laugh. Dad endured the pain for you, Kevin. He waited for you to be there before he gave himself permission to relax. Rozi and I both saw that. I know that it was hard seeing him when you arrived. You never saw him eat food, you didn’t get to speak with him, and his health failed unbelievably fast. But you gave him what he really wanted: his entire family was home with him for the first time in years.
Mom, I want you to know that over the past 6 months, it became clear to me that all dad worried about was you. All of the projects dad and I worked on were to get things ready for you. At the time, he made it seem like he was taking care of things because he would be traveling for work. Now I can see that his time was running out.
On our last walk together to sit in the sun, only a few minutes after Mary told him he was dying, his first question to me was, “Do you think your mom will be ok?” Mom, I know that you endured the fights, the silence, the not knowing. I didn’t have to deal with that. All I saw from my end was his love and concern for you.
I’d like to offer my thanks and praise to the many people involved during this difficult time.
First, thank you to my wife Rozi for kicking me out of the house to visit my dad on his birthday. I spent four days with him and we both loved every moment of it.
It wasn’t even two full months later that I said goodbye to my father forever.
Rozi got the ball rolling with hospice care by reaching out to Jim and Mary. On top of taking care of Damien, she worked tirelessly to help me care for my father and to ensure that I had whatever support I needed. Thank you, Rozi.
Mary was an angel. She came to us straight from work and had the awful job of telling my father that he was dying. My father did not want to go to a hospital, he did not want an IV, and he did not want to be tied up to machines. He wanted to be home with his family, so Mary talked him into hospice care. She came back later that same night and stayed with us, after only napping for two hours (I don’t know if I even believe that she napped that long). Mary and Anthony tended to my father that night, and they gave Rozi and me our first break in days. She repeatedly called hospice for two days until they agreed to help us. She only left once the hospice nurse arrived with the medicine and got dad set up in bed. It’s not like Mary got a break after that – she went home and took on grandma duties, and she continued to pick up the phone whenever we called for advice, no matter the time of day.
Aunt Mary, thank you. You made my father’s passing so much more comfortable than it would have been. In the end, he got to die exactly how he wanted: at home, without pain, surrounded by his family. I’ll forever remember that moment of pure joy that we both shared when, after two days of talking to hospice, you came out to tell me that they were on the way. I will never be able to thank you enough for your support.
Thank you Anthony, Kevin, and Bridget for changing your plans. You were able to get to dad on time, and because of that we could give him what he cared about most of all: the presence of his family. I am also grateful for your help caring for dad.
Thank you nurse Madeline, who who came to us twice in the snow. She treated my father lovingly, and she gave strength to the family. The night he died, another hospice nurse told us from the bottom of our driveway that we’d have to keep my father’s body in the house until the morning. Madeline was angry when she heard that. She made it to us in the dark, while it was snowing, after she got stuck in the snow and called her son to tow her out. I honor her for her bravery and her dedication to helping a family that she had only just met that morning.
Likewise, thank you to the morticians who made it to us in the dark, in the same conditions. They hiked through the snow with a gurney in their suits and dress shoes to take my father away.
Thank you Janet, Steve, Randayn, and Clemen for coming to visit my father. I know it was hard to see him like that. I am grateful for every bit of love that we could show him at the end.
Thank you to everyone who lit off fireworks on Thanksgiving to celebrate Lester. We loved seeing the videos, and it was just the kind of celebration he would have wanted.
Thank you to those individuals who made this service possible:
- Rozi, scheduling the service and coordinating the details with St. Bernadettes
- Edie in the St. Bernadette’s office for wrangling Father John Peter on his day off to get the service booked
- Aunt Janet for helping to arrange and prepare the lunch that we are about to eat, as well as for hosting people after the luncheon.
- Katelyn for watching Damien during the service, allowing Rozi and I to be fully present here today
Thanks to all of our family and friends for the ongoing support, visits, food, flowers, and well wishes.
And thank you again for being here with us today.
It is a Good Thing that Lester existed. What we learned from him, the experiences we all had with him, far outweigh anything negative he put us through. His Being is worth celebrating. And now, we all must feel a great big Lester-sized hole in our hearts. What is gone from our lives now that he is gone? Those of us who survive him will slowly learn the answer.
Sayonara, Lester. Fire in the hole.
