David 'Skip' Carleton

Let me tell you about our dad.

For starters: I was not his biological child, but yet he gave me his name and would often forget that fact (as if it were inconsequential). That right there should tell you all you need to know about the kind of man he was, but believe me, there is more.

He was patient, he was kind, and in the more than four decades of knowing him, I never heard him say a cross word about — or to — anyone. He could do anything. Build it, fix it, restore it — whether a furnace or broken heart — he was our Superman. He was in the business of building — literally — but anyone that knew him will tell you that more importantly, he built people up. Always.

He was a man of integrity. You know how they say the true measure of someone’s character is what they do when no one is looking? Well it didn’t matter who was watching or not — he always did the right thing.

He was a protector. Affectionately, my sister Sarah and I sometimes referred to him as “David No” — not because he was a naysayer, but rather, he saw things three steps ahead — and if he thought a choice would lead to a bad outcome, he was quick to let you know. He was always right.

He was a teacher. He taught my sister and I how to love (with everything you have); how to do home improvements (with a tape measure and a level at the ready); and how to deal with disappointments (I will forever hear him saying “You can’t control others’ actions, only your reactions”).

He signed his texts to us “DOD” (Dear Old Dad).

His favorite foods were cheeseburgers and ice cream. Bacon too. No one was a better grill master. He drank his coffee (Dunkin Donuts, of course) black. In his younger years, he was an expert bowler, golfer, and canoeist. He liked fishing, listening to sports radio, and going camping.

But hands down, his greatest love in life was our mother, Edna (Centrella) Carleton. They met as kids growing up in Brockton, MA. More than 40 years after they married, he still referred to her as his “bride.” I don’t want to speak for her, but I believe the only time he disappointed her in all those years was that Valentine's Day in 1997(?) when he bought her a bouquet of grocery store carnations and a sweatshirt (LOL). They spent most of their adult years in Sandwich, MA, before retiring to the Lakes Region of New Hampshire where they took pleasure in the simple things — watching the lake change with the seasons, watching the birds. Most of all, they enjoyed each other's company.

The nickname “Skip” or “Skipper” came from his grandparents and the sailor suit his mother dressed him in as a toddler. He tolerated the name from lifelong friends, but preferred David — not Dave. Only my mother could call him by a nickname. He was her “Davey” and she was his “Ollie” and the two of them — having known each other their whole lives — spoke their own private language. If ever there was a model for love, respect, and commitment, it was my parents.

To his three grandchildren, Benjamin, Natalie, my (Amy’s) kids, Michael and Riley (Sarah’s children), he was their doting “Grampy.” When they were little, he pushed strollers, warmed bottles, and happily endured marathons of “Elmo’s World,” “Sophia the First,” and “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.” As they grew, he welcomed them into his workshop and taught them how to hammer nails and use a vice grip. He was also their sideline champion — always staying in the loop in person or through group chats — always encouraging them.

He also prayed for all of us. All the time. Even if you didn’t ask, you could feel it. And it is the knowledge of his — and our — belief in God that gives us some comfort in this moment of extreme grief — because right now it is that kind of sadness that takes your breath away. While it is devastating that of all days, Father’s Day was the one we lost him, it is in some ways fitting because we were all together.

There won’t be a service or memorial — he didn’t want that. Besides, he will live forever in our hearts. And if you were ever blessed to know him, he’ll live on in yours too.