September 11, 2023

Ah, we met again, at last, for the first time. Hi, I’m Eli. 

I bandied about a bunch of different ways that I thought I would tell you about my dad, Lee Morris Roberts. At first, because I taught middle school, I was going to share a poem, Ozymandias, and examine its themes and imagery to use as a backdrop to tell about my dad and that it’s not the physical things that people remember after we have ceased to be, are bereft of life, and become an ex-person, it's all of the things they taught us directly or indirectly (in the teaching world we called it modeling) that we carry with us and pass on to others. But it didn’t really fit with my dad. 

 
The last couple of weeks have been a challenge, and it’s been difficult. I kept thinking how I was going to do this eulogy and what to say about my dad. I went through a couple of drafts that didn’t really go anywhere. I was a little worried that I wasn’t going to have anything to say. What was I going to say? How was I going to say it? Is there a ChatGPT prompt for this? (btw, there isn’t).

There’s so much to tell about my dad. But, for now, I’m going to focus on one thing to share about my dad…in 27 parts. I’m kidding. Maybe.

In literature, there’s a story-telling pattern called the Heroic Journey. Also known as a monomyth. And a couple of other names. But, it’s basically a story-telling template that a lot, a lot, of narratives follow. Once you know about it and see it, you can’t unsee it. The Heroic Journey sounds all high and mighty like it needs to be a big, grand adventure, but it’s really not. It’s really the story that most of us go through in some way shape or form.

We go about our daily lives ho-humming along, and then something happens that jerks us out of normal routine and forces us into an unknown world (middle school comes to mind or stepping onto college for the first time or weightier things like a evil forces intent on harming the young child of a mortal enemy destined to be there downfall, or you bought a couple of droids of some junk people a couple days ago). 

Anyway, we find ourselves in uncharted territory slowly turning away from the familiar world that we know and move forward step by step inch by inch niagra falls. We’ve seen it played out on screen in theaters, living rooms, and on the printed page. One of the main players in the Heroic Journey (other than the hero or heroine) is a character archetype called “The Mentor”. Nothing too ominous sounding. But, the mentor is the person that shows up when the hero most needs advice, direction, or comfort that usually reveals a lesson that the hero winds up using later in the story. The mentor is:

• Obi-Wan Kenobi

• Professor Dumbledore

• Gandalf

• Merlin 

• Rafiki

• The Tobey Maguire Spider-Man and the Andrew Garfield Spider-Man helping out the Tom Holland Spider-Man

• Mr. Miyagi

• Definitely not the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket.

It’s the Mentor that guides the hero forward and encourages them to pursue the call. The Mentor may go away (or be stricken down only to become more powerful than ever before imagined). But they almost always return in some form later to provide the hero with the extra encouragement to achieve their goal, overcome weakness, be confident, put away the targeting computer and trust the force to guide the photon missiles down the exhaust hatch of the newly completed Death Star (like you’re shooting womp rats back home).

That’s who my dad was. He was my Mentor on my heroic journey. He’s been there since the day I arrived. I’ve been able to do a lot of things that others haven’t because I knew that I could reach out to my dad, no matter where I was, and he’d be there. And that. That’s a lot. To never doubt that no matter how badly I mess up, no matter how utterly I fail, no matter how hard I fall, my dad would be there when I needed him to be. That I could come home broken, defeated, deflated, and he’d open the door and let me in. And, that’s an amazing thing to have in life.

That was my dad. My hope is that my sons, David and Jase, will know and realize that no matter what they do or don’t do, what they succeed at or fail at, and when they rise or fall, they’ll know that their dad, like his father, is there to guide, advise, and support whenever they need him to be. That’s what I think about most when I think about my dad. He was there. I hope people will say the same about me. 

To say that I already miss my dad, well, is there anything under an “understatement”? Anyway, if there is that’d be it. I’ll miss his greeting when I called, “Is this THE Eli Roberts”, his 3 Stooges hyuk, hyuk, hyuk, references to Mother Murphy, and a host of other things that I’m sure will hit me completely out of the blue as I and others try to figure how to move forward

We will, you will, all of us will in some way shape or form find a way to persevere, to pick ourselves up, gather everything up, close our eyes, take a deep breath, knowing that this too shall pass, and take the first step on a new journey where we’re still the hero on our journey, but now we’re also mentors to others. Taking what was shared with us:

• setting a fishing hook with a worm (gross, yuck)

• learning how to use a chainsaw or drive a tractor down S. Broadway

• lawn Care maintenance 

• the time of the year for trimming trees

• how to be a good dad and husband

• fix underground irrigation

• accelerating out of a curve

• why you should pick up dog poop before mowing

• not playing leapfrog with unicorns

• Just. Being. There.

And sharing whatever we learned from Lee Roberts with others and them sharing it with others and them sharing it with others. And one day, when we’re at our wit’s end or something equally dire, we’ll remember something from Lee Roberts, and we’ll smile and be a little more confident, and that little bit makes all the difference in the world.

Later, someday down the road, maybe at the end of the line, someone'll ask, “Where’d you learn that?”

Maybe you’ll say, “My dad learned from this guy he worked with, and he showed it to me, and it worked, so I’m showing it to you, and you’ll show it to your own kids.” 

Or, “A guy I taught with learned it from his dad, and he showed me how to do it.” 

Or, “This lawyer showed me this park her husband helped build when I last visited. That's pretty neat.” 

Or, “Why do I know the kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, species of the Indian Paintbrush? Well, my dad’s dad always quizzed him about it when they took road trips, and then my dad told it to me so many times it’s now stuck in my head.”

I think my dad would like that. Not his name stretched on a plaque on the side of a building, but just knowing that (to whatever degree or scale - big or small) and that something good came from meeting, getting to know, and being around Lee Roberts and that something was carried forward and used to help people. 

I mean, I tell everyone I know about oak wilt. I cringe when I see landscaping crews trimming oaks in the spring and summer (oak wilt is more likely during this time best to wait till fall or early winter). There’s no reason why I should know this. I didn’t study trees in school or forestry at college. 

But because my dad told me that’s when it should be done, and he’s my dad, and he knows his stuff, and I have no reason to doubt him, then I guess it’s true and run with it. 

Which always makes for a great conversation when the tree trimmers come around, and I tell them about the oak wilt.

They’re all like, “Well, who told you that?” 

I’m like, “My dad”

And they’re like, “Well, what makes your dad the expert?”

And that’s when I say, “My dad, got his Parks and Recreation degree from A&M, and he worked in the Parks department for the City of Tyler for over 20 years, and had his own landscaping business, and he was the manager to two Texas state parks, so I think he knows what he’s talking about. If you want, I can call him and you can ask about oak wilt. I know he’ll pick up.”

And that - was my dad.

Thanks.