On June 1st, 2016 I gave the eulogy at
my father’s memorial service. Certain immediate family members demanded that I
leave out references to what my dad worked on while employed at Lockheed. After
much argument, I finally edited what I had written to remove the “offending”
references. Later that day, while watching a video picture collage at the reception, I discovered
that they had included pictures of the SR-71, along with a shot of Dad in the
cockpit of an SR-71. With that obvious reversal of their purported beliefs, I’m publishing the unabridged eulogy,
below:
Eulogy for Stephen Raymond Hoag
June 29th, 1929 - May 19th, 2016
By David Alan Hoag
For those of you who don't know me, I’m David
Hoag, the eldest of Ray and Barbara Hoag’s 4 children. On behalf of our family,
I’d like to thank all of you for coming today to celebrate Ray’s life. I’m
honored to be able to briefly share with you some of my recollections of his
life.
Born Stephen Raymond Hoag on June 29th, 1929 in
Oakland, California, he was known to all as “Ray”. Ray was in the ROTC while at
Berkley, served in the Navy, and ended up missing both the WWII and Korean
conflicts. Ray’s high-school sweetheart was the girl across the street, whom he
married in 1949. This August would have marked the 67th wedding anniversary for
Ray and Barbara. My father was completely devoted to my mother… and she to him.
Ray was fiercely proud of his Irish heritage, and
loved all things Irish. He could proudly trace his Irish genealogy, was in
contact with relatives in the old country, and even went so far as to provide a
headstone in Ireland when he discovered that the grave of his grandparents was
unmarked.
Ray also worked tirelessly behind the scenes for
the church, was a past president of The Holy Name Society, and had the honor of
being the very first lay lector at his home church of St. Pius V in Buena Park.
He was a member of the Knights of Columbus, where he rose to the rank of 4th
Degree Knight while he served the organization with selflessness and quiet
dedication.
Dad liked to tell stories, share jokes, and loved
puns to the point of elevating them to a high art form, like:
“When
cannibals ate a missionary, they got a taste of religion.”
This seemingly dominant genetic defect is
something I have been accused of inheriting. He was quick to fire up his pipe,
and even quicker to offer you advice, a statistic, or… quite often… both. He
was surprisingly well versed in the poetry of Alexander Pope, and usually
quoted the following to me when I argued with him:
We think our
fathers fools, so wise we grow.
Our wiser
sons, no doubt will think us so.
It took quite a bit of maturing for me to appreciate
the irony of his favorite poem.
From early on, Ray had a passion for electronics,
electrical circuit design, and aircraft. He eventually followed his passions
into a lifelong career with Lockheed, supporting the F-104 Starfighter for 6
years in Germany, and ultimately working in Lockheed’s famed “Skunk Works” on
the super-secret SR-71 spy plane until he retired after more than 30 years with
Lockheed. Ray never shared with his family exactly what he did at Lockheed or
exactly what he was ever working on, answering all of our questions with: “I
could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
It turned out that dad’s retirement from Lockheed
coincided with the government’s decision to retire the SR-71, so his retirement
party was a huge who’s who of politicians, generals, famous test pilots,
Lockheed top management, and other luminaries. Eventually, the stories began to
flow as freely as the alcohol and I heard not only about what a great engineer,
and even greater guy my dad was, and how everyone held him in highest esteem,
but also dozens of top-secret stories about his job and the SR-71. I could tell
you a few of the juicier tidbits, but then I’d have to… well, you know…
Dad taught me how to use, AND… how to care for
tools. He taught me to use the right tool for the job. He taught me how to fix
things, rather than just toss them aside. He taught me how to “measure twice,
and cut once”, and he taught me to plan to succeed while being prepared for the
unexpected. He taught me that whether digging a ditch, or designing an
aircraft… that you always gave your best effort, and that neither task was to
be held in any higher esteem than the other. He modeled a way of approaching
life that that I came to know as “common sense”, and constantly drummed into me
the fact that common sense was the most underutilized, and most UNCOMMON thing
on the planet.
As you are no doubt aware, Ray had been diagnosed
with Parkinson’s disease in his late fifties. Studies show that life expectancy
for patients with Parkinson's disease is poor, with barely one-third of
patients surviving six years. But with an amazing force of will and a positive
attitude, Ray struggled against, and continually adjusted to, the debilitating
disease for 27 years.
Over the last 3 decades, one of Dad’s greatest
joys was to experience the visits of his grandchildren and greatgrandchildren.
When they were around, even the toughest physical challenges seemed to melt
away in the presence of their innocent laughter and enthusiasm. They seemed to
connect him to memories of better, earlier years and good times. If you knew
Ray, it’s those memories of better, earlier times that ultimately define his
life, as well as yours.
Now Ray is finally and forever at peace in God’s
merciful… and loving hands.
Rest in peace, Dad.
Your brother in Christ,
Dave
