Eulogy for Alvin Waldimore Newell

By Alvin Valentine Newell

August 20, 1998

Before writing this memoriam I looked up the meaning of the word Eulogy: and found the following possible meanings - praise, homage, glorification, commendation. This afternoon I am here to offer praises for my father's life, to pay homage to his humble existence, to glorify his service to his Savior and to commend the exemplary life he lived.

Someone once said "You can choose your friends, you can choose your spouse, you have a choice when it comes to a lot of other things, but you can't choose your family". The family you are born into is the outcome of some kind of cosmic roll of the dice, and let's face it, the odds aren't always that great. So it is truly a gift to be born into a wonderful family; and you are especially blessed when you have wonderful parents. I/We have been blessed with such a gift - a sentiment that I realize and appreciate more, as I grow older.

As I contemplate the conspicuousness of this moment, I cannot help being struck by the irony of it all: pops was a modest person, one who never relished the limelight. As such, I think he would have felt self-conscious about this service, this eulogy, and everyone's attention being centered on him. Instead he would have wanted us to change our focus - from him to ourselves. He would have wanted us to use this time to look within and gain a new appreciation of everyone in our lives and find new ways to make our time together more precious, more meaningful. If you will, take a moment with me to do just that.

In this time of transition from "being with" to "memories of" there is some consolation for me, indeed for all of us, in the good feelings that our memories give us. Memories of rounding the bend by "Huxley Copeland's shop" and coming face to face with Pops, a bundle of grass on his head, on top of that sits a bunch of banana, and a bag filled with ground produce hanging from his shoulder. His was an unselfish devotion to family. Gone to the fields at the crack of dawn and returning home well after dusk - my father was not afraid of hard work.

I had the distinct pleasure of having Pops live with me during his failing years. This was after the birth of his grandson, Alvin III, and I saw the pleasures he had nurturing and caring for this child. At times it was obvious that he no longer had the strength in his arm that he was used to, he would still pick him up at every opportunity. He would sit for hours in the backyard with his grandson on his knees, telling him stories, and counting airplanes and birds as they flew by. Even though his grandson was only months old I think he had understood it all. It was as if he was passing the mantle onto his grandson. This was quite evident in the few hours before his passing when he kept asking for his grandson by name.

My father was a God-faring man and as such he would use the scriptures, like any good Christian ought to, as a daily guide. There are several stories from the bible and others with biblical connotations that he would always use to make a point. Favorite amongst them were the stories of Lot's Wife and that of the Ten Virgins. I can remember him on several occasions recounting a story that is based on the principles found in Matthew 25 verses 31 to 46.

My father had a very simple philosophy - Do all the good you can to all the people you can and good will forever follow you. Although at times it would seem that this philosophy did not serve him well, as often times he was heard to lament - "The good that I do always seem to become a whip to my back." This lament, however, did not prevent him from continuing to be benevolent. His was a simple existence - he would always use the story based on Matthew 25, verses 31-46 as a guidepost for continuing to do good knowing that his rewards won't be here on earth.

My father's house was like a welcome center for strangers to the District, somehow visitors to the District seem to find their way to our house. As a child I can remember being awakened in the middle of the night to knocks on our door. As it would turn out it would be someone in need or seeking shelter.

Most important, for me, however, are the fond memories of the love that he had for his children. On the day before his passing, while visiting him in the hospital, and in trying to console him as well as myself, I turned to him and said " Pops do you know that I love you" and he replied " All a mi pickney dem luv me and mi love all a oonuh . I know that my brothers can attest to this love, if not let me translate " All those floggings that I administered, was a demonstration of my everlasting love".

You see, as a young man my father had suffered a near fatal injury, which left him in a coma for several days. After recovering, it seem as if he made himself a promise - That if and when he fathered a son or sons as it turned out, he would make it his personal responsibility to see to it that none of them would find themselves in a similar position. We are all the better today as a result of his vigilance.

Foremost in my memories, is an incident which occured when I was about seven or eight years old. Pops was digging yams just out in front of our house. Being inquisitive, which was quite natural for one my age, I stood close by, trying to observed as much as I could. He in wanting to impart as much as possible did not see the danger in having one so young and frisky so close. He would dig, then stick the machete into the ground beside him, stoop over to scoop the loose dirt from the hole in order to free the yam. It was a big yam so he had to dig a deep hole, or so it seemed at the time. During one of these digging sessions I took a step closer without him knowing. As fate would have it, I was too close to the action. As he stuck the machete into the ground to remove the dirt, one of my feet was in that exact spot. Luckily for us, at the last moment he realized the tragedy and was able break the force with which he was about to plunge the machete into the ground. This caused the machete to graze rather than penetrate my foot. Pops not knowing the extent of the injury, scooped me up into his arms and began running towards the house. calling "Vie, Vie," this was the name he called his sweetheart of fifty-six years. As it turned out the injury wasn't as bad as it seemed, and I, in turn had to console Dad. He was devastated at the thought that he could have severely injured one of his children.

In the final analysis-when you're lying down there and everyone else is standing/sitting out there, and the votes are tallied about your life, it doesn't matter what kind of car you drove or what you did for a living. You are remembered for what is important: did you have a heart? did you love people? did people love you? did you give more than you took? were you thoughtful, kind, easy to be with? did you have an impact on people's lives? were you fun? did you have a sense of humor? and ultimately, will you be missed? To all of these questions I can say, YES, a resounding YES, about my father. Above all he will be remembered for the richness of the memories and the depth of the feelings that he gave to others. My father has enriched my life beyond measure, and for that, I will always be grateful. He will always hold a special place in my heart, in our hearts.

Pops loved poetry, especially those with rhyming words at the end of each line. During my reflections I came across a poem written by Mary E. Frye. I know my father would have loved it dearly, entitled: