Jim Meiser Eulogy

Delivered November 3, 2018

Jared Meiser, son

Dad’s passing is something for which I have had plenty of time to prepare myself. I’m beginning to doubt that anybody could have made very beneficial use of that time. At least, in that it certainly doesn’t feel like the contemplative time we had following his diagnosis actually provided any softening of this blow. One would think that some portion of today’s pain of loss was already borne while dad’s health diminished, and that that pain must necessarily yield a lessening of that which we experience today. But it's impossible to say if the theory holds water, as I have no template for comparison, so I think we’ll have to let the mystery be.

A close friend, who lost his own father some 18 months ago sent a message last week. He writes “After my dad's passing someone told me that a man doesn't truly become a man until he loses his father.” He continues, “I'm not sure I believe that 100%, but the sentiment was directionally correct.” Well, it’s far too soon for me to comment on the veracity of such claims, but it seems to me that if true, it is a wholly vindictive joke of the cosmos. A punishment for humanity having the audacity to be anything more than meaningless and random collisions of atoms amongst the heavenly bodies. So it seems that while death is the price of admission for life, loss is the price of love. And since the departed have no means of payment, we must carry their portion of the debt.

Dad had many things he adored, and a handful of things he detested. I’m not sure which extreme of passion gave him the most satisfaction, because boy he sure did get excited about the things he loved, as well as those that he loved to hate. We will remember some of those here today, and in doing so, remember him.

Dad was often over-excited by any one of many things that brought him joy. Like a dog wagging its tail, he had a handful of telltale indicators to convey his level of excitement. This starts vocally with his unmistakable “yee-haw”. That's yee haw for the uninitiated, of which I imagine are not many here today. This was not an exclamation, but rather, an utterance. For him, this was as routine as a laugh or smile. “Found that missing pocketknife.Yee-haw” would be a perfectly normal thing to hear.

From there, we progress to what I will, for the sake of brevity, call his fist pump. Those that have witnessed it, know that such a name is not wholly accurate, as it overstates its ferocity. Allow me to demonstrate its form and context:

“The Cardinals have a 4-game series at home and the Masters starts tomorrow. Yee-haw”

I encourage each of you to to come up with a more fitting name for this physical manifestation of dad’s excitement. You can share your findings later over some food and drink. For now, I’m going with “my three on the tree transmission needs an overhaul.” This “why won’t this drawer budge, I think there must be a spoon wedged inside” motion would expectedly be coupled with the previously defined yee-haw. In fact, rather than complementary, the yee-haw may well have been a compulsory PART of his “this gate latch isn’t quite catching” celebration, but he never formally documented his decision-tree of excitement. Yet another mystery he takes with him.

Finally, we’ve got magic fingers. This was reserved, almost exclusively, to coincide with a description in anticipation of an eminently pending future meal. Dad would describe his planned meal, typically with an inclusion of what exploratory ingredient or method he hoped to tweak on this go. While this was the rarest form of his telegraphed excitement, it was far from a rare occurrence. Ribs, filet mignon, kabobs, blackened fish, chicken wings, omelets, stuffed mushrooms. They all sent his fingers flying. It was almost like he was subconsciously calling the hogs, but trying not to draw too much attention.

Dad loved baseball, and especially his cardinals. He lived for Ozzie Smith’s acrobatic defense, Vince Coleman’s speed, Yadi’s leadership, and Willie McGee’s unconventional batting stance. He was awed by Greg Maddux's surgical precision, and crushed by the death's of Roberto Clemente and Darryl Kile. He saw magic in Rick Ankiel's arm, and later in his unlikely comeback. I cannot count the times he retold his dismay in watching the 21-year-old's career nearly vaporize while dad was checking out customers at Chuckwagon’s drive-thru.  Dad hated the Mets and Dodgers. He detested John Rocker’s lack of decency, the indecency of the designated hitter, and the poor performance of Don Denkinger’s high school guidance counselor.

On January 1, 2000, he and I flew to Dallas to watch the razorbacks dismantle Texas in the 4th quarter of the Cotton Bowl Classics. God how he hated Texas. Not just the longhorns, aggies, and cowboys, but the whole damn state, save for the Alamo. He had a fascination with history. So, on that first day of the new millennium, as we gazed out of the window of our Dallas hotel room, celebrating the Hogs’ partial redemption for their 1969 meltdown in the Game of the Century (another historical sporting event he proudly counted himself amongst the role of attendees), he looked out the window and went silent looking upon the infamous school book depository. Yee-haw’s and his “I have a tiny mower, that I'm not quite fully committed to starting” fist pumps gave way to an afternoon filled with repeated variations of the following declarations:

“I am suffering from sensory overload.”
“Hogs beat Texas in the Cotton Bowl.”
“Its January 1, 2000 and I’ll be 50 this year.”
“There’s the school book depository. Right there is where it all happened.”
“This is too much to process.”

Between myself and Tommy Edwards, I suspect dad was only a few high fives shy of losing his hand that day.

Dad loved living in Arkansas. While he grew up and graduated in Springdale, his allegiance thereafter was always to Fayetteville. Just two weeks ago, the friday before his death, the two schools’ football teams were playing their annual rivalry game and I asked him (knowingly), who he’d be rooting for, taking pains to remind him that Springdale was his own alma mater. He did not hesitate to smile wryly and softly say “Fayetteville. It’s Always Fayetteville.”

While he ever increasingly became a homebody in the past 15 or more years, dad had loved to travel. St Louis, Las Vegas, Hot Springs, Mexico, The Bahamas, Peru, Bolivia, New York, and the Grand Canyon. He shared these trips with many of the important people in his life, many of which have gathered here now. He spoke fondly. Of the people. And the trips they shared.

While I could speak at length about the political or public figures he respected or loved to hate, this is no pulpit for me to discuss politics. I will say that while he hated the politics of the conservative right, he bore little hatred for republican voters themselves, instead considering many of them amongst his closest friends.

My father gave me many things. My love of the cardinals and hogs. My stunning good looks. Why is that funny? Fine, my stunning OK looks. He gave me a joy of gadgets, both those that are incredibly useful and those that are wastefully superfluous. Battery-eating electronics and everyday carry multitools. His crooked pinkies gave me a crooked thumb, but I overcame that. He generously gave me his sometimes impatient temperament. I hope to someday overcome that all the same. His lifelong friendship with Kenny and Patti Pummill helped give me my own lifelong friendship with Christian, whose daughter now plays with my sons whenever we're in town. That’s three generations of camaraderie. My father gave me many things that make me happy, or which will in years to come.

Now I have no profound closing remark that would tie a pretty bow on my words here today, except to ask all that knew him to, in the coming days, months, or years, share with me stories and memories of dad that I can similarly share with my own boys some day, as they will struggle to know who my father was.