April 20, 2024
Celebration of Life
Thank you friends and family for coming to celebrate a life well lived and well loved.
Click HERE for a recording
Jamie's Reflections
Good morning to everyone and I first want to extend my sincerest gratitude for each of you being here today.
As you know, my father was a person who truly valued, friends, family and of course community so by you being part of that group you are one of the lucky ones in my opinion.
Since my dad's passing in early November, my brain continues to search through my mental rolodex or to use a more modern term, "database" of stories from the past 46 years of interactions i was so lucky to have with this amazing man.
Trying to widdle down my favorite things about him into such a short speech and encapsulate the essence of who he was and what he stood for is a challenge within itself but i figured i would plant a few seeds now and listen to the stories grow as we all gather informally after this for lunch and share what my dad meant to you.
The theme of my memories today i like to tie into the title of Papa's Garden.
You see, David Martin first was an avid Gardner in the literal and metaphorical sense as long as I can remember.
Starting with his little green house box in our Wichita Falls backyard I remember him beaming about the beautiful asparagus he yielded as we sat down for family dinners and got to taste the vegetables of his labors. That in turn of course motivated my sister and I to ALWAYS eat our veggies as kids with no questions asked. Right mom?
Eventually when my dad retired and moved to the community of sun city, he got to further delve into his passion as a prideful member of the Sun City horticulture club. He delighted in transporting his well behaved grandkids, that are sitting here today, into his golf cart and taking them out to the community garden where he explained in verbose detail the lifecycle and science behind what it truly takes to grow the perfect tomato.
I love sharing this with you because not only was David a zealous Gardner of plants, he was really a Gardner when it came to how he approached life. This came with the innate characteristics of being a hard worker, continuous educator and learner and the talent to cultivate what he had in order for it to flourish.
Most of you know David Martin was not a man who ever sat still. Whether that was his full time job as Political Science professor, running his own irrigation business, recruiting his kids and their friends to help with phone banks for local elections, or even walking around on behalf of Rotary in the summer Texas heat to place American flags into neighborhood yards for National Flag holidays, my dad somehow magically seemed to be everywhere and enrich his life with service to the things he cared about.
My dad's love to teach and be taught surfaced in so many aspects of his life. Having taken one of his American Government classes years ago I can truly attest to his to ability to engage his students with strong enthusiasm of the subject matter he was focused on including somehow injecting stories about my sister and I's childhood shenanigans as part of the lesson. He also valued a learning mindset and traveled as a young adult while later on recruiting his family for adventures with him including road trips in our Good times van complete with a plastic porta potty to ensure efficiency in getting to our destinations. He even sent his teen daughters on their own to places like Russia or Haiti to help broaden our minds and lessen our "lets just call it somewhat spoiled behavior" during that adolescent time. He always saw exposure to other cultures, religions, and lifestyles as the best way to not only make our own path but view differences as what makes us all beautiful.
Papa Martin had a skill for cultivating relationships including all the things he did for Jenna and I, his grandkids, his beautiful wife and his friends. The secret to his success was showing up for people. His positive outlook on life was the sunshine other's needed to bud. His ability to repair after an argument was the nurturing other's needed to unwilt when things were challenging. And his hands on help was the fertilizer other's needed to simply be the best version of themselves with a little help from a friend. There was barely time where my dad wasn't present at our endless piano recitals, 6th grade talent shows , graduations or answering phone calls from afar when we were crying of a heartbreak of some sort. And trust me those piano recitals of mine..let's just say not exactly music to your ears. He was just that person you could count on.
So with all that I realize each of you might have your own version of the David Martin you knew and those traits about him that stood out in your mind and what drew you into making him part of your life.
In honor of my dad, I encourage each of you to share with each other and celebrate him by reflecting on how he made you grow or flourish in some way.
Thank you again for being here.
Jenna's Reflections
Wow–wonderful group of humans. Thank you for being here to celebrate a life well lived and well loved. My dad would have enjoyed this–seeing all these loving faces. He loved an audience—and I am my father’s daughter. Although I’ll try not to be as verbose as he was, no promises— I am my father’s daughter.
It’s a hard thing trying to stitch the right words together to honor someone who looms so large in your life. What stories do I share? What words convey his essence? And like my sister I keep coming back to his garden.
Some of you might know my father from the Sun City Horticulture Club–a place he loved visiting even more than his impromptu grocery store runs, or others might remember his garden at 2420 Bryan Glen, in Wichita Falls– it was large and fruitful, one that lined the long curve of our expansive suburban backyard. It was about 10 feet deep from the fence to the brick edging that demarcated the beginning of a very green lawn…a pool was added later because my dad wanted a home that welcomed our friends. That yard grew more than just grass, my father had planted about 5 red oak trees in 1980 a year after a tornado had destroyed our home–a home he and my mother built and rebuilt.
Those trees were steadfast, the five in the back, and the three in the front —and they still stand upright, healthy and strong, with thick bark–and large full canopies that shade that same home. I remember one year, two of the trees got sick, their leaves were a bright chartreuse green–which I thought was really lovely, but I remember dad saying they had chlorosis–and I didn’t know what that meant, so I followed him around asking questions while he knelt to the ground and hammered iron stakes to feed their roots–-medicine for those oaks, he explained. Those trees not only survived, but I caught a glimpse of their tall branches on a quick detour to my childhood home with my second daughter Flora–while on our biannual migration from Austin to Colorado—a similar migration pattern my dad took us on in the “Good Times Van” years ago to the refuge of the Rocky mountains.
While the trees remain, the garden has changed. But it was always in transition. I remember him planting a mini orchard of fruit trees that stretched from our shed to the Martin bird house–a few peaches, a couple of plums–I think–and perhaps an apple. My mom swears it was only peaches– regardless–Every summer, the fruit dropped faster than we could collect, and my sister and I would groan in the sticky hot summers placing the fruit into one of my mom’s baskets. When I recently asked my mom about the trees-she asked me not to bring them up hers, so here I am bringing them up– I was trying to remember the kind of fruit trees we had, as I distinctly remember her canning one summer, peaches or plums, standing over a hot stove that radiated heat like the August sun. I realized it was the same summer the trees were cut down— most likely in late August–my mom hated those fruit trees–”fruit trees belong in an orchard, not in a backyard” –she said–”and they attracted unwanted critters”–so the compromise was cutting the trees but canning first, lots and lots of canning, so much canning my mom does not even remember the canning–and this was done to perhaps to preserve sweet childhood memories of my dad’s time farming in Iowa and northwest Missouri, or maybe a literal way to process compromise– My mom said-”we almost got divorced over those fruit trees”----or come to think about it–maybe it was his way to preserve fruit and a marriage! but I don’t buy it mom, no one was divorcing anyone and compromise and patience, was a foundational ingredient in my parents long, loving marriage. An ingredient passed down to me-one that I have learned to imbue in my own marriage.
In another gardening compromise, a blackberry bramble and series of unruly grape vines gave way to red roses in triangular section of the alley, a small garden behind our fence–while I missed the blackberries, I did not miss the itch of the picking–even though there’s nothing like the sweetness of fresh blackberries sprinkled on Alberston’s vanilla ice cream. Other vegetable sections, like tomatoes and lettuce–and an oddly placed asparagus patch–eventually gave way, at my mother’s request, to the brilliance of the orange marigolds and the perfume of my mother’s favorite flower–red geraniums.
This was–this is– gardening. I mean we all know that gardening is about digging, and sweat, and patience—and waiting–and then enjoying the fruits of that labor–but it’s also about attention and change–compromise and caring, cultivation and nourishment of the things we love. My dad did this-with those red oaks, with the fruit trees, with the lettuces, tomatoes and asparagus, but he also did it with the roses, and marigolds and geraniums––and with his wife, and his daughter, his grandchildren—and his friends, his students, his community and his deep deep commitment to his fellow man.
My dad believed in humans-in humanity. I so loved that about him. He did this by gardening –by nurturing, by the showing up to put out American flags during every patriotic holiday, in his strong political views: advocating for the marginalized, for those less fortunate. He did it in the showing up to all my soccer games, and my kids’ soccer games, and their school plays and my school plays–in very long dance recitals–in having my back when I got in trouble for explaining to my coach of a teacher the difference between communism and socialism. He did in his long winded, and sometimes annoying stories, aka historical lessons–because he wanted us girls--sisters–to understand that life is beautiful and that our privileges were a blessing—and a responsibility. That community has to be cultivated, and tended to…
There’s a part of me wants to preserve all those moments, to share them–all those events-the trips to the mountains, the fishing by the pond, the errand running, the vacationing and adventuring–the moving me in and out of college dorms-and homes–the excitement of buying a mini electric gator for his first grandchild to drive–when she was an infant–the showing up–the events and lessons I cannot clearly recollect but are embedded in the earthen essence of my ephemeral being–and alight inside me despite his physical absence–and are now also seeded in my own children, Hazel, Leo, Flora and Adele, and my niece, Lyla, and nephew, Cooper….
When I think about a life well lived, and a life well loved–I think about my parents’ kitchen table. It was round-democratic, everyone had an equal seat. Jamie faced me–I was lucky-mine faced the window to our backyard, with a view of our pool and my dad’s garden—a garden that I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my mom’s contributions–the beauty of flowers…. That table welcomed so many people-international students, political geeks, volunteers, colleagues and friends, my friends and study groups, we gathered around that table, we licked envelopes at the table, enjoyed ripe tomatoes and asparagus, but most often we were fed in community.
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When I think about how dementia hijacked his body, and mind–I kept remembering all that he cultivated–all that he nourished. When times were hard–and they were hard– I watched my mom show up every single day with so much love–and patience–and saw a garden soulfully tended. I thought about all those years of them holding hands, their support for each other, the adventures, the laughter–the love–even the matching outfits—
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And all love that family and friends—y’all—have shown our family over the years–the rebuilding of my childhood home, the political campaigns, the long talks over tea, the shuttling of the kids, the trips to the mountains, the moving to Georgetown and again to the Grand Living, the hospital visits, the sorting of the medication, the prayers—-and now…
The sitting with us, being present in this grief—the missing and the knowing he is at peace—and your presence is our nourishment, you are our iron stakes.
I feel so incredibly grateful-so deeply deeply grateful for that legacy of his community, and family, and love–-because a garden takes work-and it’s not always pretty—-but the fruits of labor feed generations to come.
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thank you
David Hartman's Reflections
We are here to remember, with the deepest gratitude, the life of our beloved James David Martin, to celebrate his life and to bear witness to the life everlasting.
The writer David Brooks has made a distinction between what he called “resume virtues” and “eulogy virtues.” He said that resume virtues “are those skills you bring to the marketplace.” Those are the kinds of things that get people hired and keeps them employed, that enables them to earn a living. Heaven knows, our David had those in abundance. He was smart, he was learned, he was engaging, he had a formidable work ethic, he had a thousand projects going on at once, and he was able to pull most of them off. But the other kind of virtues—those that endure forever— are those that Brooks called “eulogy virtues:” “the kind that are talked about at your funeral—whether you were kind, brave, honest and faithful. Were you capable of deep love?”
And I am here to bear witness and say, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, he was.”
He first saw the light of day in Shenandoah, Iowa, on March 23, 1944, the son of Marjorie and Richard Martin. We have an image of the pastoral life, especially in heartland America. There would have been few places in the world, safer, more secure, to be born into than rural Iowa in 1944, considering that the world into which he was born was enmeshed in WWII, the largest bloodletting, the most horrific tragedy, in human history. The D-Day landing happened two months after his birth. Every adult he would have known in his upbringing would have understood, and perhaps conveyed to him, the great lesson that life can be fragile, that decency and kindness are not guaranteed. William Butler Yeats, in his poem, “September 1, 1939,” written at the advent of the war, said
“I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done,
Do evil in return…
We must love one another or die.”
David loved until he died; that love lives on, generation to generation, on earth and in heaven.
Whatever the factors were that made David into the good, honorable and loving man that we all knew and cherished, one thing was clear. He would never willfully do evil. He could be moved to righteous anger by injustice, or human cruelty, or the suffering of innocents—and he was often was—but he also bore witness in his words and his works, the great truth of a Jewish proverb, “Before every human being there walks an angel proclaiming, ‘Behold the image of God.’”
In 1948, the family moved to Tarkio, Missouri, a small college town that would be very consequential in his life. There, he came to feel at home on college campuses, and got to to engage in a lot of activities most kids his age couldn’t. But he also felt at home on the farms owned by aunts and uncles. On those farms, he learned to drive tractors, bale hay, and harvest crops. He and his Dad had a large vegetable garden at his grandparents’ home; they grew and harvested tomatoes and onions and sold them to local stores. He was an industrious lad; he mowed lawns and became a milkman—or milkboy—delivering milk and other dairy products to homes and businesses. He also mowed lawns, worked as a lifeguard and gave swimming lessons. And because he still had energy to burn, he also ran cross-country in the frigid cold of northwest Missouri and sang a cappella in the college choir and at church. He was incredibly industrious, and though he had a host of jobs, interests, and talents, academia and agriculture became his vocations. David was the very essence of a scholar-farmer. I once heard a story that may or not be apocryphal, about a young Midwesterner in the 19th Century who graduated from Yale with a major in the humanities, and was asked by his dean what he planned to do with his estimable degree. He replied that he was going to go back home to the family farm, hitch up the mule, and go back to plowing the lower 40. “Why?” asked the flabbergasted dean. “Why would you get a degree in classics from Yale just to go back to a plow?” The young graduate replied, “So I could have something to think about.” In an earlier century, that could have been David Martin. He graduated from Tarkio High School in 1962, and in 1964 got to study at the Sorbonne in Paris—one of the world’s pre-eminent universities— before returning to graduate summa cum laude from his hometown Tarkio College.
And when he did return, he met the great love of his life, a beautiful young woman from Pennsylvania named Georgia Ann—G’Ann to all of her family and loved ones. It wasn’t the most auspicious first encounter: they met while they were dissecting a pig in biology class. David was the lab assistant. You can understand why meeting someone over the innards of a pig in a lab isn’t really conducive to romance. But one night, there happened to be some kind of a social event, he really needed a date and she was gracious, as always. And then, soon after, he fell in love with her and she was starting to have some stirrings for him as well. And then (as if to prove his devotion), he moved to the Philippines for a year, where he studied under the auspices of Rotary. But they stayed in touch, sending each other letters on that very, very thin onionskin paper with which international correspondence between a young couple in love was conducted in those days. They married in 1968, in her home town, and then loaded up David’s old junker with the faulty carburetor, which broke down before they ever made it back to the Midwest. Life with David was never less than an adventure. He got his masters and doctor’s degrees at Southern Illinois University and then—to the eternal gratitude of so many of us—they wound up at Midwestern State University, where he did so much good work. He taught political science, criminal justice and public administration, and then became the administrator of the Bachelor of Applied Arts and Sciences Program, because he knew that life experiences were often better teachers than classroom lessons. After the terrible Wichita Falls tornado of 1979, he started rebuilding homes. He also—because who needs to sleep?—began a water irrigation business, had a radio show, taught at Sheppard Air Force Base and Henrietta High School and was involved in a score of other endeavors. He would work 18 hour days Monday through Sunday. What ever he could do to make the world better, he would do.
On a personal note, when my son came back from Iraq in early 2004—still feeling his way after having been called to active duty as a 19 year old college freshman— David (who had strong, prescient reservations about the war itself) looked out for him in class, and honored him in ways and reassured him by means for which I will always be grateful. G’Ann did the same thing for my elementary school age daughter, who had left the only home she had ever known, back in green verdant Kentucky, to move to Wichita Falls, where she has since thrived. David also brought me into Rotary, where, well over two decades later, I still spend almost every Thursday after the buffet lunch and program reciting “the four-way test."
David had strong convictions on political matters, but those convictions were always, always rooted in deep respect for human beings, for their diversity, for their challenges, for the witness of their lives. When Jesus was asked about the two greatest commandments, he answered, “You shall the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Those are commandments from the the Torah, the Law, in the Tanakh, the Hebrew scriptures (what Christians know as the Old Testament), in the books of Deuteronomy and Leviticus. David instinctively stood up for whoever was being marginalized or disdained—one of the reasons, in the fraught early 21st Century, he led the Arab studies program. His deepest friendships were interfaith friendships, and his beloved family is an interfaith family. He deeply believed in the inherent dignity of every human being. He deeply longed for a world based on shalom, salaam, the peace that passes understanding.”
St. Augustine said “Happiness is continuing to desire what we already have.” Whenever he talked about G’Ann, his eyes lit up. G.K. Chesterton said that “a man’s friends like him and leave him as he is; his wife loves him and is always trying to change him.” You did a great job with that fixer-upper, G’Ann. Jenna and Jaime, you are his deeply beloved daughters. Your Dad took such pride and joy in you two, and then you gave him the great, beautiful gift of grandchildren. In the fellowship hall, before the service, I met with the family, including all of the grandchildren, and quoted the immortal words of Sam Levenson: “The reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is because they share a common enemy.” Our first grandchild—his was Adele— gives us our final name. Adele named David “Papa.” It was amended with every addition: he eventually became “Papa 6.” On one of his birthdays, his daughters gave him a kitchen apron inscribed with those words: Papa 6. It is, at the moment, a missing treasure; the family is resolved to find it. The point is, David was so good at growing things—vegetables and children and grandchildren and scholars of other people’s children.
He stayed busy and productive here in Georgetown; he especially loved being part of the horticulture club. And then he suffered a bad back injury when he tried to stop a runaway backhoe. There were multiple surgeries, and they never resolved the issue. He also had some TIA’s, which affected the resonant brilliance of his mind. He and G’Ann moved to Grand Living—a truly lovely residential facility for us seasoned folks—and here, too, his grace was felt. When his final hours were upon him, G’Ann and Jenna were by his side, and Jaime was in the air on her way. The depth of grief is measured by the height of love; the more we love, the more we will most assuredly grieve. But the two greatest commandments are to love the Lord our God with all our hearts, souls and minds, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. Grief is part of the deal. David received love, gave love, multiplied love. “Before every person there walks an angel announcing, ‘Behold, the image of God.’” All of us are made in the image of God. In terms of manifesting that image, some of us do better than others; David did far, far better than most. “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.”
Our hearts and prayers are with his beloved G’Ann. G’Ann, for 56 years, you so faithfully honored your wedding vow to “love, honor and cherish” one another, “as long as you both shall live.” Thank you for so faithfully fulfilling your vow. May God grant you the peace that passes understanding. Jenna and Jaime, your father adored you. Thank you for the joy you brought to him, and the pride you gave him in becoming the wonderful adults you are. To his sons in law, Kyle and Tal, thank you for cherishing the daughters he loved—loves still—so deeply. And to the grandchildren, Adele, Flora, Hazel, Leo, David, Lyla and Cooper, thank you for the joy you brought him. It’s fun being a grandparent. Remember that all the rest of your days, your biggest fan, your “Papa” will be cheering you on from a heavenly cloud of witnesses. For Charlie and Karen, Barbara and Bob, thank you for your love and support for his beloved G’Ann.
And now we give him back to God, who made him, who loves him, who will love him forevermore. Thanks be to God for the gift of his life. And in the name of Jesus Christ, thanks be to God for the blessed hope of the life everlasting, where pain and sorrow are no more, and the tear is wiped from every eye.
Amen.