I told mother a few days back that I wasn’t sure how, but life was going to be a lot different when I returned to Seattle. The death of my father, and R’s response are the two points of interest.

Clearly, R’s actions are important. She was here, by my side when appropriate and standing back when appropriate. M never even sent condolences. Z probably doesn’t even know and is probably still unable to deal with the thought of me. And R was here. Others would have come if asked. Most probably don’t know what to do other than ask if I need anything.

Sometimes I kick the wall, not to damage it, but for it to push back at me. I own a house. A big, solid house. What does one do with a house? Live in it? Where to go from here? For a spell I have intended to move back here to have children and raise them as a good father. When did I realize that? When I said it out loud to R? She mentioned that I seemed to have more definite plans then her. Since when? Since I gave up on Z and her inability to communicate with me, let alone to cope?

When my father died in my arms, was I an adult then?

I hadn’t spoken to K in twenty years, but she seemed everything I had hoped. Too much hope? It doesn’t matter really, it might under different circumstances. I need to return to my other life for a while, the one that pays me. There is much uncertainty there. In that futute. My financial situation has changed, my plans, have they? What will R do? J once recommended that I meet Z and let her make a move. I did, and Z later revealed that it made her not want to be with me. I never told Z about this. In retrospect, I missed the lesson that J offered; I can’t be in love with someone who doesn’t love me of their own accord. I simply, have never been as important to Z as I wanted to be.

Moving along…

The eulogy I read at my father’s funeral.

My father would often say, “there are people that I like, but I don’t like people.” In the past week I have received numerous condolences and offers of support from family, colleagues and friends. Clearly, there were a lot of people that he liked, and in turn, that liked him. As stoically as he presented himself, he was a compassionate man who cared about us all.

I work in Web Operations, a particularly stressful field of Information Technology. The ability to remain calm and clear during a service outage is a valuable and respected personality trait in my industry. I exude this, as did my father. We have very much in common and we grew to have an understanding with each other as to how we lived our lives. I am my father’s son.

Dad said that our family was one of “tremendous strengths, but great weaknesses.” He accomplished tremendous things. They were often not easy roads, but he persevered and lived his life as best he could. He did not complain; fault his problems on the gods or on other people. Neither did he sulk and blame himself for his situation. He accepted his own lot and chose his own way. I’m very grateful that he raised me to be the same.

I wrecked a fair number of cars in my youth. It wasn’t that I was a reckless driver, but I was living too hard and that had unfortunate consequences for the cars. After one incident, dad said to me, “it’s not that you’re doing anything wrong, it’s just that there is something that you’re not doing right.” That was all he said. He left it to me to consider and correct. He had a unique ability to teach others with his silence.

He was very successful in his career and craft. He was highly regarded as an instructor and mentor due to his great skill and natural patience. Yet, he was a simple and humble man. He would captain a $15 million dollar jet one day, then come home and cut firewood the next.

I take great personal pride in coming from a long line of hard working people. My father worked to support his family because he loved us. He did, as he would say, “what he had to do.” There was no long explanation for the meaning behind this. It was not an excuse for his behavior, nor was it a chip on his shoulder representing the sacrifices he made. I was raised to understand this, that some things must simply be done and there is no point stewing over them.

My father lived as this man. I thank you all for coming today to pay respect to him.

Barry McLellan, 58, died peacefully in the loving arms of his family on March 19, 2011. He passed in his home in Surry on the land he carefully tended for over 25 years. He was born in Winchester, MA. August 12, 1952 the son of Betrand “Bud” and Carole (Ambrose) McLellan.

Barry was an airline pilot for over 30 years and was respected by his peers for his extraordinary skills and ability to mentor and train other pilots. He began his career with Bar Harbor Airlines in 1973 and retired as a captain with Continental Express. Barry loved the outdoors. He was an avid snow and water skier, sailor, and woodsman. He loved the North Maine woods; enjoying flying float planes; fishing at Jerry Pond and camping at Lunksoos Lake. He spent hours walking in the woods near his home with his dogs, Joe and Kiska. He loved the Red Sox. Most importantly, Barry was a wonderful father.

He is survived by his beloved son, Bryan of Seattle, WA; parents, Bud McLellan and wife Carole of Naples and Delray Beach, FL.; sisters, Christy Fogg of Naples, Brenda Olson and Bonnie Pierpont both of Raymond, their husbands, children and grandchildren. He is remembered and loved by many other cherished relatives, friends and colleagues.

Visiting hours will be held 1:00-2:00, Wednesday, March 23, 2011 at Jordan-Fernald, 113 Franklin St. Ellsworth where a funeral service will be held at 2:00. Spring interment will be at Cunningham Ridge Cemetery, Surry.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations in Barry’s memory be made to the charity of one’s choice.

Condolences may be expressed at www.jordanfernald.com

1. Eat
2. Rest
3. Rove in between
4. Render loyalty
5. Love the children
6. Cavil in moonlight
7. Tune your ears
8. Attend to the bones
9. Make love
10. Howl often

Barry Delmont McLellan
8/12/1952 – 3/19/2011

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain with words the experience of having my father die in my arms. I know that having me and my mother with him when he died meant everything. Despite everything that happened, for those final moments we were a family again.

Dad’s phone book is full of history, at least the reminder of history. Addresses are crossed out when people move. Old office numbers and people I’ve worked for are crossed out. Parents of people I’ve dated. Names are crossed off when they divorce or die.

As people call who my father trained to fly and loved him, I flip through his book and examine the writing for minute clues of history. I laugh at the Howard Johnson and Ramada from ‘EWR’ (Newark) being in the book but crossed out. Dad was based there for a while. Hell of a commute.

I think Dad is getting more sleep then the rest of us combined. That’s good.

I can’t. I’ve said for a while that I can’t measure stress. Still, I know I’m way underslept for the circumstances, particularly because I’ve had a cough for a few days that has made me feel sick and killed my energy and spirit at times. I fear my headache at times. There isn’t a ton to do, so despite all of the family we’re mostly all trying to keep busy and distracted because we are all to anxious to sleep anyhow.

The sun is coming up. The snow is almost melted. R and I took a long walk around the neighborhood but through the woods most of the way. It’s good to be in the woods again. If only it could help me sleep. I’ve been thinking that if I don’t crash after this I’ll need to go spend a few days at Jerry Pond to sleep.

I’m glad R is here, but I worry about her sometimes. There is a helluva lot for her to absorb and in quite stressful circumstances. I thought about M recently, I can’t tell days apart anymore. I thought about her inability to take care of herself, let alone anyone else. It reminds me that I have high hopes for R, which means I’m dangerously vulnerable again.

I have a bike friend who lost a great deal of weight taking up bicycle riding. I didn’t know him before, but I remember seeing him at a Christmas party and commenting on his weight because I noticed facial features around his temples for the first time.

You could give a lesson on the human skeleton with fathers body right now. He’s covered in a blanket now, but changing his clothes in the days previous… not clothes, bathrobe, diaper…. his skin is stretched tight around his bones.

Ethel and Robyn are in here now talking about religious romance novels, and Dad’s eyes have been open for a bit, which is probably the longest period today. We’ll see about getting him to drink something. The hospice nurse should be here soon.

This room is about the same size and in the same place as my room was in the modular fire. The two windows and the door are in the same place. When I look out the windows I remember that.

You couldn’t recognize him. I bet it would be hard for people to know it was him if not for the situation. The emancipation(?) And beard make him look like another person.

He’s barely ate or drank for days. We’re at a point where we’re waiting to ask the nurse about giving him IV fluids just to make his skin and muscle cramps hurt less. We may not bother carrying him to the bed in the living room now.

B: Have a good night, Dad.
D: You too Bry… I’m really glad you’re here.
B: Me too.

“I’m lost,” he says to Christy. “Where have we been?”

I just called hospice. The counselor said I sounded very calm and asked if I had experience with traumatic events. You could say that. I told her that we had been through a lot.

I dug through paperwork this morning for a while. Funny how everything has its place with him. My plan today was to try to get a wheelchair so he could get back and forth from the table to bed, but Christy and I agree that if we get him to bed he probably won’t be getting up again.

Now, I think I’m just waiting for hospice.