Fred H. Patton Jr. SMSgt USAF(Ret)
Fred H. Patton Jr. a native son of Edinburg Virginia, Class of 1947 passed away Sunday at his home in Woodstock. SMSgt Patton enlisted in the USAF shortly before the outbreak of the Korean War and was deployed from Japan after the initial invasion. His unit was forced to withdraw, and redeployed to Japan after the Chinese intervention. In subsequent years he served in Strategic Air Command in both strategic bombers and strategic missiles. SMSgt Patton was stationed on all three coasts moving with his family to six different stateside duty stations and an overseas assignment in Japan during the 1960’s and 1970’s. Called to serve his country during the Viet Nam War he was stationed in Saigon during the waning stages of the war. SMSgt Patton returned and was reassigned to USAFEUR in Germany for three years. Returning with his family he retired from the USAF in 1978 to Woodstock and went to work for Johns Manville. He retired from Manville Corp in 1996. SMSgt Patton was active in the Woodstock United Methodist church and the Meals on Wheels program until beset by health problems.
SMSgt. Patton was preceded in death by his wife of 51 years Polly Anna Sharpes Patton and his youngest son, Eric Douglas Patton. He is survived by his children and grand children, eldest daughter Teresa Lane Patton Stockburger (Central Class of 1972) of Brewster, New York; Keith Hisey Patton (Central Class of 73) of Houston, Texas and his children, Cody and Alexandra Patton; and his youngest daughter Melaney Starr Patton Uehlin ( Central Class of 1978) and her children, John, Brian, and Molly Uehlin of Gig Harbor, Washington; and his sisters, Patricia Kirk of Edinburg and Betty Estep of Mount Jackson, and brother Charles Patton of Woodstock. There will be a memorial service at the Woodstock United Methodist Church on Sunday, February 15, 2009 at 3:00pm.
It is hard to say everything you would like to in a simple obituary. None of those who were closest to him said much at the memorial service simply because we could not manage more than a few words without breaking down.
I for one had thought for months about what I would say when my father finally passed away, but when the time came I could not utter a word without choking up.
So I sat mute.
My grief was private.
I hope people didn't think I didn't mourn my Father's passing. I did and will for a long time. I just don't wear my grief on my sleeve or wave it like a flag. I cried, but I did it out of other people’s sight.
Even my Father's sisters, who did speak at their younger brother's funeral were quiet. I suspect for the same reason I was.
In 1971 I took a class in public speaking. On one occasion, we were assigned to write a eulogy for someone we admired. I eulogized my Father. You say, "well that's nice."
Let me put it into perspective.
It was 1971.
We were living within 20 miles of San Francisco the hotbed of the counter culture.
It wasn't quite cool for teenagers to respect or admire their parents at the time, much less a teenage boy looking up to a Father who was career military. I know, I had more than a few friends who harbored animas toward their military fathers.
Well, I wasn't into all that and even then I thought my Father was pretty special.
As I said in my eulogy, there wasn't anything my father could not do. He was a master mechanic, master plumber, master electrician, and was no slouch in the wood working department. His father, my grandfather had been a stone mason and carpenter, as had his grandfather.
He had a heart of gold clad in armor of depleted uranium in a ceramic matrix, impervious except to projectiles coated liberally with sentimentality and sympathy.
The man was miserly about spending money at the doctor even when it was covered by Medicare, but he gave to a list of charities that covered two notebook pages.
No one in his family was ever for want. As he put it, "If you ever need anything, and it is in my power, I will give it to you."
He fronted loans for my second wife's education, when her two sets of self absorbed parents and step parents could not be bothered.
He set aside money for each of his grand children's college.
He was generous to a fault and got burned numerous times. Money loaned to my late brother's common-law-wife for her college have still gone unpaid, even though her husband number 4 is by her account loaded. Some people saw through the gruff exterior and harsh talk to see the soft marshmallow core inside and took advantage of it. This was aided a bit by his guilt over the short tragic life of my brother, the choices made and things that could have been done differently and a sense of obligation to his late son's children.
My Father made a difference in a lot of people’s lives. He was amazed when at several military reunions, men whose names he had long forgotten, came up to him and said that he was the reason they attended. They came to thank him for the impact he had made in their lives.
Many of the longtime friendships he and my mother forged during his military days have long since crumbled into rust, as friends died.
The first vivid memories of my Father date back to 1960. He went on Temporary Duty to Goose Bay. Labrador. I missed him and can recall asking when my Dad was coming home. I remember making model airplanes with him. I remember sitting on his lap and watching the late movies on weekend. He would let me take a drink of his Carling Black Label, or Falstaff beer. The beer I could handle, I liked the taste. I even liked the sardines on ritz crackers. It was the pickled pigs feet I never really developed a taste for.
I only went deer hunting with him once. I was too young to really know what was going on. In subsequent years, I taught myself how to hunt; rabbit, waterfowl and deer. It was only then that I sensed that my father was never much of a hunter; he probably did it out of a sense of hereditary obligation; anyone from the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia has to hunt deer. Dinner conversatons still involved deer hunting when it had been years since most of those at the table could have physically managed to climb stairs unassisted much less hump up and down the Virginia hills in search of prey.
No matter, the one thing I shared with my Father was cars. Granted it wasn't my idea at first. I was shanghaied by an early morning press gang on weekends and forceably taught the difference between a 9/16 box end wrench from a 7/16 open end; a plyer from a channel lock; a philips head, cross point and common screwdriver, an allen wrench from a socket, a ratchet from a breaker bar.
I started out as a gopher, retrieving this and that and handing it to him under the car. In the 6th grade I graduated to more demanding tasks like removing seats fro a passenger bus, scraping the paint from the same using razor scrapers, then wet or dry sanding all under the demanding eye of my Father.
I learned how to secure a home in the path of a raging hurricane on the gulf coast, and followed it up with advanced courses on surviving typhoons in the Pacific.
If not for my Father and his career and our frequent relocations, I doubt I would have gravitated to a career as a geologist. Our family camping trips to new distant duty stations across the country exposed me to the awe inspiring vistas of the Rockies, the Sierra Nevadas, the Basin and Range of Nevada, the Appalachians of the East Coast; the Grand Canyon, the Black Hills, Yosemite and many others, planted the seeds of questions that I later answered though my university studies.
The military demanded long stressful hours at times and I can only guess that he took some of that out on us. Probably more me, since boys are usually held to a standard reserved for them and not their sisters.
A decade ago I wrote him a letter in response to one he sent me. The occasion was a gift I made to him of a framed display of his military decorations.
He wrote to me saying how much he had admired that I stayed with my education and got my master's degree....I responded with some heart felt observations written in 1995.
"Dear Dad:
It was nice hearing your sentiments . I think all of us kids know how you feel about us. It bothers me sometimes to hear Teresa and Melaney (my sisters) beat up on you. Teresa and I got in a row over that when she came to visit. Nobody is perfect least of all me or you, but I don't think anybody can lay everything entirely at someone else's feet. I think to some degree, Dads anyway, our actions towards our children are a mirror of our disappointments in ourselves and our own failings. I know I do and say things to my son Cody, in an attempt to keep from making the same mistakes I made.
You undoubtedly did what you did to prevent me fro committing the same erros you might have thought you made, or at the very least were trying to make me excell.
I remember on Okinawa, in 1968 you introduced me to some of your men and one asked me if I was going to follow in you footsteps or something to that effect. You said, " Hell know, I hope he is designing electronics, not fixing them."
I knew then that you had higher expectations for me than I did for myself at the time.
I just want you to know that my son looks up to me for the very same reason I look up to you. He thinks I can do anything. If I can, it is because of what you taught me. We may not have had a lot of "Quality Time" in the Ninetie's definition of the word, but I treasure the time I spent working on cars, fixing plumbing and the other sundry tasks we performed together.
Everytime someone marvels at my ability to do some mechanical task and asks where I learned that, I hear myself saying the same thing: "My Dad taught me."
I sometimes wonder when it all took place... I guess watching over your shoulder while I held the flashlight.
Anyway, I was surprised to hear that my endeavors in getting my education won your admiration. Seriously, I sometimes wondered if I could ever live up to your expectations. At the end of the day, though, we all decide where and what we are going to do. For my part I feel like I muddled along and did alright.
I think you did a great job with all of us.
I love you very much. Your son, Keith.
I wish I could have read that letter at his funeral. The only problem is I probably could not have gotten through the first sentence without breaking up.
Did we have our differences? Certainly, but we also became very close as I grew into manhood. I'm 53 now and had long since told my Father everything I felt I wanted to. There are no regrets about words or sentiments not said. I always kept the song "In the Living Years" by Mike and the Mechanics in the back of my mind. It had a special poignancy for me.
Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door
I know that I'm a prisoner
To all my father held so dear
I know that I'm a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I'm afraid that's all we've got
You say you just don't see it
He says its perfect sense
You just can't get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defence
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
Its too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
Its the bitterness that lasts
So don't yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different day
And if you don't give up, and don't give in
You may just be o.k.
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
Its too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
I wasnt' there that morning
When my father passed away
I didn't get to tell him
All the things I had to say
I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I'm sure I heard his echo
In my baby's new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
Its too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
You undoubtedly did what you did to prevent me fro committing the same erros you might have thought you made, or at the very least were trying to make me excell.
I remember on Okinawa, in 1968 you introduced me to some of your men and one asked me if I was going to follow in you footsteps or something to that effect. You said, " Hell know, I hope he is designing electronics, not fixing them."
I knew then that you had higher expectations for me than I did for myself at the time.
I just want you to know that my son looks up to me for the very same reason I look up to you. He thinks I can do anything. If I can, it is because of what you taught me. We may not have had a lot of "Quality Time" in the Ninetie's definition of the word, but I treasure the time I spent working on cars, fixing plumbing and the other sundry tasks we performed together.
Everytime someone marvels at my ability to do some mechanical task and asks where I learned that, I hear myself saying the same thing: "My Dad taught me."
I sometimes wonder when it all took place... I guess watching over your shoulder while I held the flashlight.
Anyway, I was surprised to hear that my endeavors in getting my education won your admiration. Seriously, I sometimes wondered if I could ever live up to your expectations. At the end of the day, though, we all decide where and what we are going to do. For my part I feel like I muddled along and did alright.
I think you did a great job with all of us.
I love you very much. Your son, Keith.
I wish I could have read that letter at his funeral. The only problem is I probably could not have gotten through the first sentence without breaking up.
Did we have our differences? Certainly, but we also became very close as I grew into manhood. I'm 53 now and had long since told my Father everything I felt I wanted to. There are no regrets about words or sentiments not said. I always kept the song "In the Living Years" by Mike and the Mechanics in the back of my mind. It had a special poignancy for me.
Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door
I know that I'm a prisoner
To all my father held so dear
I know that I'm a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I'm afraid that's all we've got
You say you just don't see it
He says its perfect sense
You just can't get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defence
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
Its too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
Its the bitterness that lasts
So don't yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different day
And if you don't give up, and don't give in
You may just be o.k.
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
Its too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
I wasnt' there that morning
When my father passed away
I didn't get to tell him
All the things I had to say
I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I'm sure I heard his echo
In my baby's new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
Its too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
I saw my Father this past Christmas and kissed him goodbye. I never knew if it was going to be the last time. This time it was. He may have known it, judging by how much it meant that I came home with my wife and kids from Houston.
When I was growing up, particularly in my teen years,
He was known as the neighborhood hard ass, and this in a military base housing development where everyone was an NCO; their profession by definition was to be a hard ass.
But as they say, "Yea though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I fear no Evil, cause, I'm the Baddest SOB in the Valley." That was my Father. Senior Master Sergeant Patton.
Was life easy with him? Try being a teenage boy with a father that thinks the solution to everything is a boot up the ass. Hey, that sounds like a good premise for a TV show set in the 1970's. Sounds familiar huh? Yeah, Red Forman was my Father and I was Eric. Life imitated art to the degree that I did have my bedroom in the basement although we hung out in one of my friend's basements. There were four couples and a few singles in our group. Yes, my Dad did roust us on occasion.
