Larry Samuel Fulton

West Point, 1968

Be Thou At Peace

Posted by Wes Fulton on October 26, 2017:

Good morning. On Aug. 6, 1945, the U.S. dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan, thus setting in motion the events which would end World War II. Just a little less than nine months later, Gabriel and Edith Fulton became the proud parents of a new baby boy. Now I'm not saying that those two events are connected. But I'm just saying. You could say that baby -- my Dad, Larry Fulton -- was a baby boomer in the most literal sense of the term. When your conception is greeted with fireworks that big, you've got a lot to live up to. I don't know about you, but I'd probably wilt under that kind of pressure. But Larry Fulton rose to the occasion. You see, with the end of that terrible war, my grandparents' generation bequeathed their offspring a priceless inheritance, and the task for their children, most especially for my Dad's generation, was to prove themselves worthy of the gift. In the case of my Dad, I believe he more than fulfilled that charge. He wasn't raised with a silver spoon, but he grew up surrounded by riches in the form of a family that loved him and raised him to walk tall, do right and have faith. His family's coffers might have been empty, but being an American, he had an unlimited account at the bank of opportunity. Dressed in a suit called "hard work" and clutching a lottery ticket called a library card, he caught the express out of a small town in South Carolina to one of this country's premier citadels of leadership at West Point. From there, he went on to a decorated career in the U.S. Army. It might have been a much longer career, except that somewhere along the way he picked up some extra baggage in the form of two squabbling and fussy little boys. They say that if the Army wanted you to have a family they would have issued you one, so forced to choose between serving his country and wiping snot from the noses of a couple of rug rats, he chose the kids. From the Army, he joined the business world. He started off with a safe job at an established firm -- but this is America, and nobody ever did anything great in America by playing it safe. So he took a chance on a little startup firm that some of you here in the audience might have heard of: Mevatec. By the time they were sold to BAE Systems, they had more than a dozen locations and employed 500 people. Not bad for a farm boy from Blacksburg, South Carolina. But a man shouldn't be defined solely by his job, and I suspect my Dad would be the first to tell you that the none of the golden moments of his life happened while he was in an office, wearing a suit and tie. I believe he'd most like to be judged on his accomplishments as a husband and father. On the day of my own wedding, my Dad pulled me aside and told me that those would be the two most important jobs I would ever do in my own life, and while I haven't yet had a crack at the second, I strive every day to live up to my Dad's example with the first -- and he set a very, very high standard. I don't think I need to go into detail, because many of you sitting here are already very familiar with the love and dedication and, yes, the joy with which he took up the vocation of a spouse. As many of you know, marriage isn't always a path strewn with rose petals, but far from being disillusioned by it, my Dad seemed to draw strength from the rockier parts of the journey. He said those were the parts that made it worth it, because when you came out the other side, it left you with an even deeper connection. As for fatherhood, well -- I will leave that judgement up to you. The result of his efforts stand before you here today, in the form of me and my little brother. But while it's not my place to critique his work as a father, it was as a father that I knew him, and I'd like to share just a few memories I have of the man as he made his way along the journey of fatherhood. I want you to get a glimpse of him as I remember him. My dad was a brave warrior, but he was also a gentle and loving parent. My earliest memories of him are from when we lived in St. Louis, where he was a helicopter pilot for the Army. I remember him coming home, and I remember him letting me put his huge pilot's helmet on my head. No matter how exhausted he was, he was always ready to indulge me and pretend to be my copilot as I imagined myself soaring over the city. My Dad was an engineer, but he was also a philosopher and storyteller. His favorite thing to do when we were kids was to take us on nature hikes. He had a knack for turning the whole experience into a great adventure -- hunting for arrowheads, searching for caves, pointing out the snippets of wildlife that you might miss if you weren't paying attention. And for a guy who spent most of his time working with with physics, he was always most fascinated by plants. If he came across a plant he'd never seen, he wanted to know all about it. If you've ever been to his house -- or if you remember visiting his old office at Mevatec -- you should know all about his green thumb. He once told me if he hadn't gone to West Point, he would have become a botanist or a horticulturist, and I believe he would have been a good one. My Dad took a sometimes maddeningly practical approach to life, but at the same time, he never quite lost a sense of whimsy. One of my favorite stories of him was when he was an instructor at West Point, he was tasked with putting together a display showcasing the Army's helicopter technology. I was going through a Spider-Man phase at the time, and I had a little toy of Spider-Man's helicopter. Anyway, he took my Spider-Man copter and snuck it into a corner of the display as a joke, showcasing "the future of Army helicopter technology." My Dad was always ready to give you a firm push, but once it was given, he had no trouble cutting the strings. The nearest thing I can identify to an overarching philosophy in his approach to fatherhood was to give you the tools you needed to accomplish the task and then let you go off and learn through your own mistakes. That was ... well, that could be frustrating at times, and I can remember many times gazing enviously at other kids whose parents took a more hands-on approach. But I can say this: His way definitely forced you to take ownership over your own life. Every failure was your own, but so was every success. Just last night, I was looking through his old high school yearbook, and I noticed that his senior quote was "Every man is the architect of his own destiny," and I believe he strove every day to live up to that ideal. Though many remember my Dad as an athlete, he was also a scholar. Our house growing up was always filled with books -- not novels, but serious books about serious issues. And he was always ready to talk about them, even to a pesky little kid who could barely understand what his explanations. I remember the first time I read Socrates and feeling the shock of recognition, because it felt like I was having a conversation with my Dad. In fact, if Socrates is up there in Heaven, I can guarantee him and my Dad are already fast friends. My Dad was the sort of guy who found the question more interesting than the answer, and if you came at him in righteous certitude with the capital-A Answer, he was always ready to pick it apart with questions. Believe me, I know. I was on the receiving end of it more than a few times. I'm sure some of you were too. My Dad could be a razor sharp skeptic, but he wore it lightly, and never let it sour him on faith, hope and love. His skeptical side gave him a certain dry wit about of the world, and maybe a touch of cynicism. But not bitterness; never bitterness. After all he'd seen and been through, my Dad somehow managed to never, ever be bitter. I don't think my Dad would have described life as easy, but I have no doubt he would have said it was sweet. That, as I grow older, is probably the greatest lesson I learned from my Dad, and one I believe he learned from his own father: No bitterness. The world is not a bitter place. Not gentle, of course -- we are not gathered here today for gentle reasons. But never bitter. Bitterness is a handicap we force upon ourselves, and how much easier our life can be when we simply let go of it. My Dad was ushered into this world by a great explosion. He grew up with the burden of a weighty fortune -- not of gold or silver, but an intangible wealth, one of freedom and opportunity, and I believe he made the most of it. The legacy of my Dad, and of thousands of others just like him, can be seen all around you in this great city. As for his personal legacy, it is gathered here today in this church -- I invite all to come forward and examine it for themselves, and render judgement. Do not let my words sway you; make up your own mind. But speaking only for myself: Dad, you did great, and your rest now is well-deserved. If I can be half the man you were, I will feel taller than the highest peaks of the Smoky Mountains. I love you. Thank you.

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