Three Rakes

My father's father, Albert, died when I was in elementary school. Like with my 87-year-old dad, who passed away Jan. 13, it was a stroke and its wicked complications.
Albert was only 72, I think. On the day he died, I remember coming into the house and seeing my dad sitting in a chair, head hung low, sad but not in tears.
Then, in silence, we went out to the front yard and started raking. I've never fully understood why, but I'll never forget it. There wasn't much to rake, but we did it anyway, with little more than the sound of rake on grass. I remember the weight of sadness in the air.
We created a few piles of mostly dead grass and began stuffing it all into a lawn bag. I doubt we needed more than one bag.
At one point, I broke the silence by asking if I could go with him to New York to help take care of funeral arrangements. He said he appreciated the gesture, but it was probably best if he went alone.
I must have been in fourth or fifth grade. Thinking back, and having two sons of my own now, I wish he would have taken me, but I understand his reasons for not doing so.
On Friday, we buried my father at the veterans cemetery in Houston. I played "Taps" on my trumpet. VFW members fired guns and gave stirring messages. One of them handed my mom a bag full of spent shells. Another gave her a folded American flag.
But what got me the most was the VFW member who walked up and shook my hand, and in his hand was something cold and metallic. He was giving it to me but didn't want anyone to see it.
It was one of the spent shells.
I don't know whether he gave it to me because I played "Taps," which veterans funeral services folks told me no loved one had been able to do before, or because I was a first-born son.
Either way, it put a cannon ball in my throat and tear in my eye.
We left the cemetery and drove my mother home. There, I grabbed two decades-old rakes out of the garage and crammed them in the back of my car before loading up the family and heading home.
Later that afternoon, I choked back tears as I sat my sons down in the garage and told them what my father and I did on the day Albert Pearson died. Then we gathered up the old rakes, plus one I already had, and went into the back yard.
The raking, however, didn't turn out like it did with my father.
First off, the giant inflatable Moon Bounce arrived for my son's birthday party the next day. When having to chose between Moon Bounce and raking, you'd think there really wasn't much competition in a boy's mind.
Nevertheless, after taking the apparatus for some test bounces, they soon exited the thing, picked up the old rakes and joined me.
My boys are far younger than I was when my grandfather died, and there was a heck of a lot more leaves to rake.
There wasn't much silence, either.
Instead, it was the sound of innocence, laughing, happiness, goofing around and a little hard work. We raked up a leaf pile the size of an SUV and muscled it into the burn pit.
It filled my heart with pride and joy.
I would like to believe that this is how my father would have wanted it.

- Brian Thure Pearson

Eulogy For A 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.

- Brian Thure Pearson

Curt Thure Pearson-Dec. 27, 1919-Jan. 13, 2007

Longtime Texan and loving father Curt Thure Pearson died Saturday, Jan. 13, following complications after surgery. He was 87.
He died peacefully in a Hospice bed in Houston, just hours after family members got to see him one more time.
A memorial service will be held Thursday, Jan. 18, at 11 A.M. in the sanctuary of Second Baptist Church, 6400 Woodway, Houston, Texas, with a reception to follow. Interment will be Friday, Jan. 19, at 10:30 A.M. at Houston National Cemetery with military honors.
Curt was a great, colorful man, the kind they just don't make anymore, the very definition of the Greatest Generation. Born Dec. 27, 1919, in Sweden, he came to the United States in 1925 and grew up on Long Island, New York, where his dad built many houses. He got a mechanical engineering degree from Lafayette College, flew B-29s during World War II, fell in love with Texas and then moved here after the war. He was part of numerous industrial projects in Southeat Texas and beyond. He married my mother in June 1962. They never moved from the Houston home they moved into on their wedding night. He leaves behind his wife, Marion, three children, me, Kristen and Caren, and six grandchildren, Caleb, Alexa, Curt, Luke, Michael and Courtney.
Despite being a full-blooded Swede, he was more a Texan than John Wayne on his best John Wayne day.
One of 13 founding members of the Texas Army, he built muzzleloaders, was a silversmither and enjoyed competing in pistol competitions. He was also an avid golfer and hunter and loved the outdoors.
He was a father. He was a dad. He was a loving husband. He was a friend.
We will miss him dearly.
We feel so blessed to have had him in my life as long as we did. He dodged myriad medical bullets over the years, including bladder cancer, prostrate cancer, heart surgery, left carotid artery surgery in 1995 and three hip surgeries.
The odds were against him just before Thanksgiving as he had surgery to remove plaque from his right carotid artery. Typically, surgeons for carotid artery procedures deal with blockage between 80 percent and 90 percent, with the plaque typically 1 inch long. In dad's case, he had 98 percent blockage, and the plaque was 4 inches long and ran into the brain, where surgeons could not go.
The surgeon thought he'd gotten it all, but apparently a small, raised-up piece - called a flap - snapped off up in his brain and remained stuck to the artery wall. Here, a clot formed, cutting off blood supply to the brain's right side. Due to a hematoma at the incision sight, it was necessary for a breathing tube to be inserted. Subsequently, a compromised brain in addition to a tube-related respiratory infection as well as infections throughout the body, partially caused by his immobility, caused his organs to just shut down.
The past month and a half were hard on our family, because even up until the end, there was hope that this tough, brave man would somehow pull through, but when his kidneys started failing early last week, we knew we were going to lose him. During this time, fond memories of my father have been flooding our minds. We're remembering little things that we haven't thought of in years.
As a family, it's our duty to keep his memory alive, live up to his example and ensure that our children his story along to the next generation.

- Brian Pearson