In June of 1959, when I was 7 years old, I awoke to the sound of a splash, a “whoop!” and then a sputtering exclamation: “Brrrrrsk! Delightful!” It was 7 a.m. The sun was barely over the trees. We were all asleep. But Dad had gotten up to take his morning dunk in Ahmic Lake. That was 46 years ago. And for nearly forty of those years, that’s how we were awakened to greet the day – nearly every morning at our cottage he so dearly loved.

He’d sing then – some part of a song. “It’s a lovely day today…” Then shout: “Get up everyone! The water’s fine!” Then he’d switch melodies… “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree…”

Some mornings – still dark and etched into my memory - he would wake me with a whisper: “Come on… The mist is rising… get dressed… let’s see if we can’t catch a few before the sun rises…” And I’d slide into some kind of pants and a sweatshirt, and sneak down the creaky stairs. We’d climb into the boat like thieves and push it away from the dock and wait as we drifted from the boathouse …until we could start the motor without waking anyone… (right!)  That whisper, “Tom…Tom… wake up…” and that that smile, as I turned to face him in the shadows: “its time to go” is etched forever in my dreams.

On November 2, 2005 at 6:15 p.m., with the whole family gathered about him, the most excellent man I’ve ever known … stopped smiling…

Dad was a trusting guy. He could never understand why some people deceived or let him down – and people some did. But then he would ultimately turn around and blame himself for being naïve. And he was bewildered when it seemed as though the government had lied to us or stretched the truth in some futile way. He was a veteran. A Navy Man. He fought in World War II for the United States of America, to which he pledged allegiance unashamedly, and for which he sang the national anthem, dropping an octave near the end. But the USA was, in his mind strong, but fair...fair.... fair and honest.

He was all of these things. A successful mortgage banker, a football fan, (he probably loved the Kenston Bombers more than the Cleveland Browns – for one thing they won more often), a disk jockey after he retired, a frustrated computer user, a water skier, a diver, a community leader, a volunteer… and perhaps best of all – a fisherman. He was all these things – you can read about them all on our website – in the paper – in your program.

None of these things, though, were the focus of his 80 years of life. No. Tom Fulton was the head of a really great family: a husband, a father, grandfather. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to celebrate our victories, or help when we screwed up, or advise when we were feeling desperate or alone, or uncertain , or laugh when we were happy. He was “Father” in the grandest sense of the word. – He was the father of this family here. He was the grandfather of this family here. And I know that every one of us will hold the image of his broad, uncomplicated smile in our hearts forever.

Dad slept on a bed – on the porch – when we were at our cottage. He loved the sound of the waves, the call the loon, the cool air on his face. And he snored like freight train – all through the house, late at night, we could hear the rumbling of his deep and oblivious sleep. It is a sound that, I for one, will miss dearly.

There are many portraits of my dad. This is only one.

But for now, it feels like to tell too much is to tell too little.

The rest is silence...