Farewell Captain Matheson

I remember the first time I met him.  It was about 43 years ago, but for some reason I remember elements of that encounter vividly.  Back then I was a fledgling attorney trying to make my way in the world.  We had a paralegal in our office named Betsy (later to be known as Lily) who had told stories of her father that would fill the pages of a movie script: tales of adventure, accomplishment, and fortitude.  One day, he decided to visit his daughter at the office, and Betsy showed him into my office to make the introductions.  He was wearing a khaki safari shirt and had the look of a man of the world.  He strode in to meet me, arm extended in what would prove to be a most firm handshake.  The look on his face and the meaningful eye contact could not disguise the obvious confidence he had.  In that moment, combining the almost legendary stories I had previously heard from Betsy along with that most impressing spirit about him, he could easily have garnered the title of the "most interesting man in the world" that we see in TV ads these days.

What I learned about and from Jim Matheson, Sr. was stirring and memorable.  From an education at the Naval Academy, the University of Chicago, MIT, and Harvard to serving in a submarine off the coast of Japan in World War II, to working with Admiral Hyman Rickover in the dawning age of the nuclear submarine, to his skills as a Deputy Director and then Director of the Peace Corps in Jamaica and then Ecuador, to his directing of the Fermi Lab in Chicago, Jim was, to put it mildly, a most accomplished fellow.  Amidst all this, he even found time to get a law degree.  And, most importantly, he helped raise a family of four children: Ann, Lily, Susan and Jim.  As was so often the case with military families, they wandered the country from Massachusetts to Key West to New Hampshire to New York to California and ultimately to Northern Virginia.

Over the decades, once I became a member of the family, I would get beneath the surface and learn in greater depth more about Jim.  He was an avid debater.  Nothing spurred him on like a vodka martini and a debate of all things political.  He was not always the easiest man to contend with; his views were drop dead strong and even closer held.  He would hear you out, but it was not a commonplace thing for him to change his views after hearing the other side of the issue.  But, having those discussions were great fun if only because of his energy, passion and extensive knowledge which he freely shared.  While they were sometimes trying, they were always stimulating and energized discussions, a profile he would carry with him for the rest of his days.

Jim was a man who relished the open waters.  Starting with the navy, and then later as boat owner and sailor, it seemed to me this is where his heart was at its fullest.  And, Jim was no casual sailor.  When he took his boat out on Chesapeake Bay it was all business.  No margarita-filled lazy cruise here.  The few times I was aboard, we'd hit the waves and beat into the wind for hours on end making me think I was actually racing in a marathon, not out for some laid back afternoon dalliance with the sea.  But, again, this was a pure reflection of his passion which he so avidly embraced.

Jim died last year at the age of 96.  A life in full by any measure.  Because of his military background, Jim was entitled to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery.  Although I had lived in the Washington, D.C. area for almost four decades, I was never privy to share in such a poignant tradition.  As is true with so many things in life that are understood only in the abstraction, I had no idea the impact the ceremony would have until I experienced it myself.

It was a brisk day, at least for Lily and me.  Temps in the mid-40s, but with a clear and sun-filled sky.  As we entered the gate at Ft. Meyer, we were instructed to proceed straight to the Colonial Chapel where there would be a memorial service for Jim.  When we were all gathered, the organ music began.  If, in the preceding moments, we might have momentarily lost sight of why we were there, the music changed all that in a heartbeat.  There is something so penetrating, so resonant, about the organ music that filled the chapel, the spare decorations of the building allowing the music to fill  the room and echo in it like it was alive.  After some opening remarks, the chaplain explained that since he had not personally known Captain Matheson he thought it appropriate that all of us focus our thoughts on him as we listened to the sentimental strains of "Amazing Grace."  In those moments, my memories of Jim darted through my head in no particular order and with no hierarchy of importance.  Just random thoughts about a life led and the impact he had on so many people.

At the end of the ceremony, we headed outside to now witness the caisson waiting for Jim.  His cremated remains were carried solemnly, one gloved hand above and one below the box.  At the curbside, the box was ever so carefully set into the casket which would be taken by the six horse drawn caisson to the grave site.  It was an eighteen minute walk from the chapel to the grave, and it was along this walk that we witnessed something extraordinary.  There were many people at the cemetery that day, many just tourists but undoubtedly some visiting departed close ones of their own.  As we moved along trailing the caisson, people would line up along our path.  All stood facing us.  Many stood with their hands over their hearts; others stood and saluted to what they knew was a fallen veteran.  It is one of the images I will take with me forever.

At the grave site more words were spoken, but what brought the undeniable air of finality was the playing of taps, the firing of the guns, and the band's playing of the emotionally laden "Going Home." A most memorable day by any measure.

Rest well, Jim.  You have earned it.