Date: Mon, 31 Aug 1998
From: Garth Vant- Hul
Subject: John Elmer

John Elmer was one of the truest and kindest souls I’ve ever known. For a few years following my COS, John was my touchstone to sanity in what seemed like an insane America. And although in the past few years our correspondence was reduced to letters every eight or nine months, his were always the kind of letter than *lasts* for that long (as others who were lucky enough to be on his mailing list know). John took me to a Royals game in early April, 1992, and got out of the way of a foul line drive off of David Segui’s bat that then smacked off the heel of my hand and into John’s lap. Now John loved his baseball and his little house was full of souvenirs–ticket stubs and such–but you wouldn’t have known how much he’d've liked to keep that ball when you saw the way he turned around and gave it to the kid sitting behind us. It’s very hard to accept that he’s not there. John is (damn, was) the person I’d think of calling were my marriage feeling shaky or my spirit low (or my fantasy baseball team in last place). And the remarkable thing is that I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in feeling that way–I think a lot of us got considerable comfort from knowing he was there.

And now he’s not.

(In case John is wired to the web)
Thank you, Homer, we love you.

Date: Sat, 29 Aug 1998 10:52:17 -0400
From: Peter Nerone
Subject: John Elmer

Please join me in a moment of reflexion to celebrate the life of John Elmer (Animal Traction, Baga, 1983-86) whodied in his sleep Wednesday night [8/26/98]. Many of you will remember him as Fr.John, Rev., or Homer.

We’ll fondly remember the lighter side of John. While stationed in Baga John hosted many Saturday night confessions and Sunday morning breakfasts. He mapped out wiffle golf course at his home, named it Bagausta, and hosted a PC Togo rendition of the Masters tournamment on Easter Sunday 1995. The prize being the Ugly Green Jacket, a plaid, top rack special from a Dead Yovo market. Accounts of the first match can be found in an underground newsletter called Pas LeGriot. (Last I heard John still had one of the original seven copies)

John presided over my first wedding one Sunday morning at Baga. (one marriage, now 14 years and counting, but it took three ceremonies to satisfy friends, family, tradition, and the embassy) he also servedas my Chief of Staff during my term in office of the Volunteer Council. I’ve had the pleasure to meet many of his brothers and sisters and introduce him to mine. We’ve enjoyed some memorable baseball games in Chicago and Cincinnati and some priceless weekends at the Howell Living History farm in New Jersey.

John’s life was not all fun and games. He worked very hard atmaking contact with people around the world. He had a gift for putting people at ease and extracting their better side. I’ve never seen a fight in John’s presence. I’ve never met a person that couldn’t shed their emotional armor and let out their inner soul with John. He has touched people’s lives on every continent thru his work with the Peace Corps and Children International.

I remember grieving with John the terrible deaths of Jim Woods and Jenny Rubin. Some will say a part of John died with Woody and Jenny, John believed that we all gained parts of Woody and Jenny that lived onthru our own lives. A part of John will live on thru us now. Peace and love, Homer, thanks for sharing your journey and soul with us. We’ll meet again.

Hooty Hoot!

It’s likely someone else from John’s KC family has written you by now to thank you for the kind tributes. As the days push past one another, the reality of his passing becomes clearer. But, for an Irishman prone to high highs and low lows, John’s death is a ready anchor during every moment of even remote sadness.

I’ve met some of John’s Peace Corps family, but far from all of you. It was wonderful that Farge could be at the memorial service to represent you all – and to read Duncan and Robin’s tribute.

A few days after the service, I got a thank you note from John’s family for being “MC” at the memorial service. This has to be one of the most touching honors of my life. I’ve never before known of a memorial service with a “Master of Ceremonies”. But then I’ve never before been mentioned (twice, but who’s counting?) in anyone’s obituary either.

I’ve started writing this thing several times already. And each time, when I do the read-through, it sounds like it’s more about me than about John. Perhaps this can’t be helped.

Sometimes friends get to the point of being perversely proud of taking one another for granted. Maybe John and I got to that point so many years ago that we even forgot to notice it anymore.

John and I thought up the Parker Sisters Monopoly League. More than 27 years ago, John thought it his duty as a friend to try to talk me out of getting married. (That pissed me off some; but I knew that he took it as his obligation.) It didn’t work. Then we thought up Cornstalk (AKA : “Cornstock”, an annual three-day party to celebrate my wedding anniversary at an abandoned farm in central Kansas… that lasted for six years… with two reunions… the last one just this past summer). Katie feels strangely guilty that she and I went to a movie instead of going to John’s last barbecue at Jesse Bustamante’s the Saturday before John died.

John and I didn’t think up wiffle golf together. The Elmer family did that. But John and I did expand upon the idea to include a number of yard golf courses throughout the Kansas City area. And I am proud to have encouraged him to take his yard golf design skills overseas.

We schemed up so many things just for the fun of scheming that I couldn’t tell you how many incredible projects we just plain forgot in the rush of more great ideas.

The night John died we were supposed to get together to watch South Park – as we often did on Wednesdays. He phoned me earlier in the day to “dis-invite” me because he’d be at the hospital visiting his father. We made plans to watch the tape and make a night of it on Friday. Didn’t happen.

I used to drop by John’s twice a week or more. He lived just a few blocks from where I work at Camp Fire. Other folks dropped by too. Especially on Friday afternoons, there was often a gathering on his front porch – Pat McDonnell, Kevin Locke, Tim Rice (Jesse would run by when he could – between heating and air conditioning jobs), brother Joel would often be there, sometimes with daughter Abbie (you probably know that Abbie has never missed attending a World Series in her four years, and that Uncle John was always there too) and every once in awhile brother Jeff would surprise us.

There were others. John was a bit secretive about some of his visitors, some of whom were sons of our high school friends. “Father John” you called him. We just called it happy hour – especially on Fridays.

Jesse, John and I used to celebrate our birthdays for the whole month of June.

Here’s another time I got pissed at him.

Last year, during the NBA play-offs, I went to John’s to watch a game. Close game, last minute, John switches the channel to check the baseball scores. I howl. He loves it. He says, “This is a baseball house! Live with it! ”

I’ve imagined the words in the dictionary that could have John’s face by them:

Stubborn

Generous

Private

Friend

At the memorial service, there was so much talk in the crowd about what a great person he was, I had a fantasy of opening my remarks with a call for reports of miracles — it only takes two, you know (before the sainthood proceedings can begin)!

There were so many remarks about what a peaceful and non-violent man John was.

It’s not true that John never lost his temper. (This may be a problem during the campaign for sainthood.)

For example, I remember once during the Carter administration…

…when Cyrus Vance (then Secretary of Defense) did something that really pissed John off.

I don’t remember exactly what it was, but it prompted John to get the Parker Sisters (the Board of Directors for the Monopoly League) to ban “the use instruments of war as tokens in the games of the Parker Sisters Monopoly League henceforward.” We threw away all the cannons and battleships immediately. I told this story at John’s memorial service. As I said then, whatever it was that Cyrus Vance did, I’m confident that I’d never remember him otherwise. I believe that Cyrus Vance earned his place in history the day that he crossed John Elmer.

Until he gave up canoeing, John was my regular partner on all the float trips the ol’ gang used to take. John in the bow, me at the helm, so to speak. I’m not even sure how many great floating adventures we had. Till that fateful moment we both leaned the wrong way at the same time. I’m not sure that John ever got in a boat with me again.

Several people told wonderful stories about John at the memorial service. Jesse. Jerry Hurlbert. Farge, of course. Phil Wilson. Did you know that Phil Wilson is the guy who introduced “free hits” into the Parker Sisters’ Monopoly League? Later, Phil became a private detective and no one could find him for years and years. At the memorial service, he told a story about how – when they were almost youngsters — John had stepped in front of a gun for him – several times – when they were confronted by a young gang following a professional baseball game. (Go figure. This led to Phil’s life-long love of baseball.) Kevin Locke told about how John and he had driven more than three hours to find me on my 50th birthday on a float trip in the Ozarks. Then they turned around and drove home — mission accomplished – through one of the most horrific storms in years.. Larry Ryan talked about how John was always so good to talk to at parties. He was always so interested in what you had to say.

To tell you the truth, I hardly ever even noticed that. I hardly noticed anything. I took him absolutely for granted. And I’m still pretty proud of it.

Here’s the song I sang at his memorial service. It’s called “The Parting Glass. ”

Oh, all the money e’r I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I’ve ever done,
alas it was to none but me.
And all I’ve done for want of wit,
to memory now I can’t recall.
So fill to me the parting glass.
Goodnight, and joy be with you all.

Oh, all the comrades e’r I had,
they’re sorry for my going away.
And all the sweethearts e’r I had,
they wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls unto my lot,
that I should rise, and you should not.
I gently rise and softly call,
Goodnight, and joy be with you all.

Goodnight.

Steve McCue
10-11-98

Reflecting on the Life of John Elmer

For the last forte night or so I have awoken with the strange feeling that something was amiss and each morning I would ruminate on the passing of John Elmer. It has finally dawned on me that for each of the previous fourteen mornings I had awoken much poorer. I am not speaking of the down turn in the stock market nor Clinton’s apparent credo of “What this country needs is an intern with a good five cent cigar”. No what I speak of is, in this country where role models are usually associated with physical or financial domination, we have lost, in John, a role model who possessed a transcendent humanity and a profound gentleness of spirit. Additionally, as I read and reread the other tributes on Paul and Gretchen’s “Bye Elmer” web page, I came to realize that I did not know John well (though I knew him for 16 years) and more importantly that, oddly, it did not matter.

As I read the tributes and as I spoke to those that knew him more completely, I remember thinking “I didn’t know that, but it makes sense”. For me, John was the only person who did not need a past to make them complete, nor for that matter, a future. As I search my memory, I can never remember asking John about the myriad of questions that one friend asks another 6,000 miles from home, loosed from the constraints family and vocation. I remember contenting myself with the vague rumor that John had sold insurance before he came to Togo (whether that is true, I do not know). Conversely, we also never spoke of the future either. Further, if I remember correctly, if either subject came up, John usually just laughed, no really John would giggle while shaking his head, and somehow the conversation would return to the moment. John was the master of the moment. While the past was to be considered and perhaps the future to be pondered, the present was to be savored, and fully lived. John savored each swing of a softball bat, each swing of a golf club, each round of the Rotisserie League Draft, each sip of a beer or bite of fu-fu, each word he wrote. He also really appeared to love each and every moment he spent with each and every person no matter how obdurate. He brought out the best in people with a smile and laugh. Yet, John also loved competition and miraculously each person John competed against came away the better for having played the game with John. It is not that John let them win; no as I remember John was too good an athlete and too keen a strategic thinker. No, John or John’s team usually won and somehow the competition always smiled.

I think John’s secret was that he could so entirely live in the present and that he was so acutely aware that he was the accumulation of a million such moments. When he spoke of his family, of his friends, of any of the moments of his life, he was thankful for each and every interaction, fully aware how his life had been enriched by each interaction. He – I am convinced John thought himself one of the most fortunate men that ever lived – made wealthy through the love of his family, his friends, and his interactions with mankind. In turn, John tried to do his best to share the source of his wealth with all those he touched. Now, fourteen days after his passing, I have come to realize that I have not woken each morning a little poorer. In fact, each morning I have awoken a richer man, thanks to John. Such a life and such a legacy is one to be celebrated, not one to be mourned

So John, where ever you are, Thank you and Godspeed . . .

It is difficult to add much to the words already written recently about John. I laid in bed last night for a long time thinking about John and the relatively few times I was lucky to spend time with him while in Togo. What Tarzan wrote is very true; John embodied the present. The past was important because we had been there, and the future was important because we would be there; but actually, John knew that neither really existed except in the present and that the present is both the past and future at the same time.

What is fantastic is that John has given rise to these thoughts without ever having said such things to me (or perhaps to any of us) directly. As is evident from what we have all written here about him, he spoke to us more through the power of spirit than through words. I believe John was (is) a saint, in much the same way that Ghandi was (is); a spirit conscious of residing in a physical encasement (as opposed to a physical encasement conscious of encasing a spirit). But all this is verbiage rubbage; you expressed it better, Tarz.

I did not have the luck in spending much time with John, but as you all know very well, that did not matter. Meeting John even briefly was enough to make you feel warm inside, secure, peaceful and energetic to bring out the best of yourself…a feeling that did not go away when you weren’t with him. His letters (until most recently) were always hand-written; something that John told me he felt very particular about doing. I recently got a hand-written letter from a friend and spent about an hour just holding the paper and ‘feeling’ the script. It felt good. I wrote back, also by hand. That felt good, too. You are right, John, there’s nothing like it.

Before he left Togo, John encouraged me to take over his role as Reverend. I had no pretensions of officially doing so in his stead; however, I suspect he may have encouraged all of us to do so individually. I still think this is relevant to us; to take what we have been given through John’s existence with us and make it a part of our lives; but more importantly, to pass it on by touching others with it. The struggle to make the world a better place is still, and will always be, hand-to-hand combat, fought only in the present. Intellectually, we all know this; it’s living it that can be difficult at times. John showed us all how, so we can’t feign that we don’t know.

Thanks for touching my life, John. Now that you’ve got ‘the best seat in the house’, I hope you’ll send us all a hand-written letter once in a while to remind us that we, too, have the capacity within us to make a positive difference in the lives of those we encounter. That elusive hole-in-one, or home run, is ever only a swing away…and I’m gonna keep swinging, John! Stay with us and keep watching. God bless you. Peace.

John,

I knew you through Paul and Church-on-Sunday. Those Sunday mornings (and into the afternoons) were for pancakes and syrup (real pancake syrup!!) and beer, and lots of talking. I loved just listening to you talk, because you made every one of the words important and joyous. Sometimes you repeated those words, looking at the ground as you did – like you were also convincing yourself of what you had just uttered. It did not hurt that your red smiling cheeks and your thick beard complemented the warmth of what you said. And I enjoyed your seriousness. You do not have much stomach for the way institutions and governments can turn on their own people. You seem to feel pain whenever it is inflicted on others.

That way of sharing that you have! Church-on-Sunday was about sharing, as Church ought to be. I knew you had been in seminary – I knew you didn’t like talking about it. But I was going there, too, and I had to know about it. But you taught me all about priesthood on the few Sundays that I made it up to Baga. It’s about being with people, about sharing everything with them. And that is why I didn’t become a priest – I have a long way to go before I can share as you do.

You remember that night. The night of beer and fondue before Jenny’s memorial service, after everyone had left or gone to bed. How is it that someone as far on the periphery of life as I am could have spent that particular night talking with you about a woman we both loved so dearly, whose death we were still refusing to accept? We sat alone outside your house, just the bugs dinging the lantern as we sat and talked about the most amazing woman either of us has ever known. And we bared our souls to each other. John, this is not something I often do, with anyone. But you have some kind of presence about you. Forgive me – I think of the drawing of Jesus as carpenter – the eyes, the face – inviting you to open yourself up to him. So it is you; and Paul; and Jenny; and Maryanne; and my soulmate, Diane; my son, Jerome; my daughter, Ellen; and my dearest friend, my wife, my wisdom and breath and joy, Kim. You are the ones who have mattered, who have changed my life. Because of this Great Confession the day before we tried to accept Jenny’s death, and because of all the Confessions-on-Saturday-Night and all of the Church-on-Sundays, I am the husband and father I am and ought to be, rather than the Franciscan priest I never should have imagined becoming. You are the one who brought us together all those Sundays, John: you celebrate and enrich our humanity in your jokes and your smiling red cheeks, in your delightful laughter over the stupidities of our own narrow-sightedness, and in your resolve to uphold the ineffable value of life; that is to say, you are our priest.

I confess to you that I have not yet learned to bring your joy and your laughter into my life – to my wife, to my children, to my friends. But I tell you that I laugh more now than I used to. I confess that I am still on the periphery of life. But I tell you that I remember your quiet dignity, and your insistence that everyone be treated according to the dignity that we all bear – and I am learning to insist on this, also. I confess that I do not always see relevance in the events of life. But I tell you that I remember how you distilled relevance from authentic friendships with so many people – and I am learning to build up this relevance and authenticity.

John, I miss you. Thank you for being there, in Baga and Niamtougou and Lama-Kara. Thanks for the pancakes. Thanks for Sundays.

Pax et Totum Bonum,
Dans l’amour et la paix de notre Seigneur, Del

Del Freeberg

(Corps de la Paix, Sokode et Tsevie, Togo, 1983-1985
Prof. des Sciences Physiques)

I’ve got to admit that the last week has been a bit of an emotional roller-coaster ride. I was very grateful to be able to attend the services for John. I was honored to attend as a representative of all of our Peace Corps famil. Special thanks to Caryn and Paul and Jim Lewis who helped by paying for my plane fare.
Visitation service was on Sunday afternoon. About 250 people attended. John knew so many loving people. Almost all of his fellow seminarian friends were there. At the service, people shared stories of their lives with John. Some of the stories were light, all were touching. I shared by reading the letter from Duncan and Robin. It was a very sad service, even though we try to tell ourselves that John wouldn’t like it that way…

It was 5 a.m. I couldn’t sleep. The hotel was like being in an empty box. I decided to jump in the car and run down to John’s house on South Jefferson St. I pulled up in front of his house on the opposite side of the street and parked the car. It was 75 degrees. Cool but damp, with the promise of a hot and muggy Midwest summer day ahead. I looked at the house, listened to the bugs, and in the quiet of watching the morning stars, I felt peace; I felt quiet; I felt calm. I don’t know, but I think John was with me then.

I walked up to his house and picked a handful of flowers from a bush that draped the entire railing of the front porch. The flowers were delicate. Radiant white.

The practical one in me said you’d better go back to the hotel and get prettied-up for the funeral. But the one in me, the one that I don’t listen to nearly enough, said I want to stay here.

I found a bakery open at 6 a.m. I walked in and ordered a bagel from a perky, 35-ish guy behind the counter ( I think he was a sister). So I smiled at him and made a little small talk even though I felt like my heart wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t know what I felt. Vulnerable and alone I guess. Then I realized that this is how John passed his love on to us. This incredible guy with an extraordinary loving heart, this special person seemed to go out of his way to care for me and to be nice to me.

At 10:00 a.m. the Mass was said in the family parish in the rolling hills of the Kansas City suburb where John’s family lives. The priest (and fellow seminarian) who said the Mass talked about how John always looked after the incoming classes, offering them respect and understanding in those “para-military” days of the mid-1960’s. So, whether it was in the seminary in 1965 or in the Peace Corps in 1983, John really did look after us; it’s like he traveled the road the night before and was there in the morning for us just to reassure us and, of course, to let us know that we’d all be just fine.

I think he was right. I think we’ll all be just fine.

God Bless,
Farge

Fax Message
To: Susan Hogan
From: Duncan Earle
For John-

Father John we called him

For his open spirit that was always willing to listen without judging
For his fantastic positive energy that infected all of his who were around him
For Saturday night “confessions” and “church on Sunday”: the nearly weekly gatherings at John’s house in Baga, Togo which took on greater meaning almost weekly with all we went through together
He was a quiet leader whose humility, tolerance and loving spirit affected a whole generation of Peace Corps volunteers who were fortunate enough to be in Togo when John was in early and mid-80s. Undoubtedly, he left a similar wake of loving friends whose lives he affected when he was a Vista volunteer, and in all his other adventures in life.

He was at once strong and vulnerable as we tried to deal with the tragic deaths of two of our friends, and two of his best friends in Togo, Woody and Jenny. It was John who, through all of his and our pain and loss reminded us that we were fortunate to have known those two great people, and that in spite of our grief we should celebrate their memory, rather than dwell on our loss. We are now challenged to do the same for you John, though I have a hard time forgiving you for leaving us thirty or so years short of what we had planned.

We had so much more to create!

Together, he and I created Bagusta, one of his many contributions to whiffle golf architecture around the world. We held the first Masters of whiffle golf there in April 1984, and he took that Ugly Green Jacket from me in a match play final. Afterwards he told of us of the circuit back in KC where in an afternoon you could play a half dozen crazy courses.

And we played them too, on the first stop of The Tour, that fantasy that John’s energy made a reality that was Robin and my honeymoon, and with Rick, the four of our excellent adventure. Many of you were our hosts or cohorts that great bittersweet baseball summer of 1986 – I am a Red Sox fan…. Touching All Bases, Peace Through Baseball – an idea born in the dusty Togolese countryside as we lay on our backs staring at the African sky and listened to Armed Forces Radio bringing us ballgames from back home. John came up with the spiraling 14,000 mile route that began in KC and took to us every Major League ballpark. He worked the schedule out while housesitting a boat in dry dock in Maine in winter – where else? – and Rick, Robin and I couldn’t resist.

Not just a fan, but a lover of sport, John unashamedly pursued his love of games, almost any: from Parker Sisters Monopoly Tournaments to the Final Four. Many of you must know that he had tickets to the last 8 Cards games to make sure he didn’t miss seeing McGwire go Maris one homer or several better. John won’t need those tickets, but if life were like the movies, he now has the best seats in the house, and he might just help Mark with a little good karma – he certainly had plenty left to use.

I feel far away today, and I want to be there in KC even if I don’t really want to say goodbye. Bob and Jo, Joel and Jeff, and all of you who loved John, please know that there are hundreds more of us around the world who loved John, and more importantly who were fortunate enough to be loved by him. He has left all of us better for having known him.

Hooty hoot Homer, Peace though baseball.

I don’t really have anything to add that hasn’t already been said, but John Elmer was definitely an exceptionally decent person. I was in training with him from Huntsville, TX to Agbassa to Lome, etc. During all of that time, I never saw him lose his temper or stress out or even show any signs that we were all going through an unfamiliar and uneasy transition. In fact, given the fact that many of the rest of us were going through all kinds of mood swings, elations, depressions, and other inner struggles (not to mention stomach cramps, etc.), it’s probably a good thing that John was there to serve as the camp shrink. The amazing thing was that he did so unselfconsciously, people just felt very comfortable talking with him and he was always ready to listen, even if he was having his own stomach cramps. As much as anyone else, he was undoubtedly the glue that kept all of us on good terms during training and for so many years after.

Unlike many others, I haven’t been in regular contact with John. In fact, we last met sometime in 1991 at the Cafe des Arts when he was in Togo for a training program. I don’t even remember what we talked about, but it was just good to see him. I couldn’t help thinking at the time that he must have been an incredibly good person to have running a PC training program. He had that mixture of respect and empathy that seemed to give him a balanced perspective on everything.

I’m sorry to hear that John Elmer is no longer with us in person. As so many others have said, the kind of life that he led is something that we should all try to hold on to and think of when we have difficult decisions to make.

Sincerely,

Charlie Cogan Togo, Antrac, 1983-86

Date: Sun, 30 Aug 1998
From: Aaron Barlow
Subject: John Elmer

John was my trainer as an Animal Traction trainee in 1988. He was a lovely person; I am saddened to find him gone.

–Aaron Barlow