So Long, Don’t Let Anybody Pass You: a Memorial for Kenneth Wayne Thomas

For someone who loves ghosts, coffins, skulls and creepy things in general, I handle death terribly. Some people are stoic and composed. I’m not absolutely not one of those people. I fall to pieces, hyperventilate and sob uncontrollably. You will never be fully prepared to watch the last breath pass the lips of a person you love dearly, and I was not at all prepared to lose my Grandpa Ken. I got the news that he was on a ventilator after a surgery and that he wasn’t going to make it. I, and other out of town family, jumped on the quickest available flights and made it in time to say goodbye and was there when he passed. He lived a great life and was almost 96 years old, but it’s a devastating loss to all who knew him, nonetheless. When reflecting on his life, he would frequently say, “We don’t know the minute, the hour or the day... but if I died tomorrow, I’ve had a good life.” And he did. He found my grandmother, the love of his life, and created a big family. He missed her horribly after she passed, I take comfort in knowing that he is no longer suffering or mourning and they are reunited once more. They had 6 boys, a slew of grandchildren and two great grandchildren. When he passed, he was surrounded by family.

We had always been close. He used to yell at my dad for saying the F word in front of me, which is a very funny thought, given my highly colorful vocabulary. Once, my dad said, “you should hear her, she swears like a sailor!” To which my grandpa replied, “Now why would he say that?” And I said, “I haven’t the faintest idea, Grandpa. I just don’t know why he would say such a thing.” I threw my dad under the bus and delighted in doing so! Ken and my dad had a very special bond and my dad was his primary caretaker. One of the last things I told him, was that I would take care of Jim (my dad) and that we all loved him so much. He was a compassionate and genuine soul, who instilled a deep love for animals (especially dogs) and Folk/Americana music in me. I loved listening to Johnny Cash and John Prine with him. He had a favorites playlist my Aunt made, that we listened to in the hospital. I will miss our music sessions and I will miss the way he used to stand on the porch and wave, saying, “So long, don’t let anybody pass you on the way home!”

After he passed, my uncle Phil said to all of us in the room, “not too bad for a skinny poor kid.” It was a perfect, funny thing to say, following such a heavy loss, and he was entirely right. Ken created an incredible life for himself and his family. He grew up very poor but was a family-oriented person and an extremely hard worker. He was a Navy veteran, serving in both WWII and the Korean War, and went on to have a long and successful career with USPS, before enjoying a well deserved retirement. He took pride in his service and spoke of his time with the Navy fondly, and often, as I was growing up. He was a Signalman and knew all the signs for the remainder of his life and would show us the motions and explain what each one meant. From his warm smile and goofy, witty jokes, you would never know the extent of violence, death and fear he witnessed while serving. He told me once a few years ago that his memories from the war haunted him still and that he sometimes woke up from nightmares. It was always remarkable to me that someone could carry that heavy burden and trauma and still have such a grateful and bright outlook on life. It was only in recent years that he detailed some of those experiences to me and my heart broke for him.

He was actually given a special award, the Bronze Star Medal after WWII, for leaving his post while the ship was under attack and saving eight of his fellow crewman. Part of the letter read, “He is solely responsible for saving the lives of eight injured sailors on that evening...His skill, courage, bravery and unswerving devotion to duty were in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.” Ken served on the U.S.S Abbot DD 629, which was later renamed the U.S.S Sullivans DD 537. The ship is preserved as a naval museum in Buffalo, New York. I had the privilege of visiting it with him in 2013 for a college photo project I was doing about his Navy days. It’s a trip and memory that I will cherish forever. He was emotional when we arrived, understandably so, but took so much joy in showing my Uncle Brian and me the ins and outs of the ship, the exact bunk where he slept and the Signalman Tower he manned daily. He got such a kick out of showing me how to use the light. The pride for serving his country stayed with him until his last breath.

Toward the end of his life, Ken told us, “No one can tell me what happens when we die.” Grandpa, I don’t have the answer. I can’t tell you what happens, but I’ve had enough spiritual and paranormal experiences to know that energy imprints and lingers, and that love is everlasting. Death is not the end. The soul continues on when it’s time to leave our vessels; whether that’s in the form of reincarnation or a beautiful paradise beyond the veil, I can’t be certain. But know that we are waving to you with love, Grandpa. So long, and don’t let anybody pass you on the way home.