Dr. Peter Colman "Father of the Man" Author

One of those faceless heroes was Robert Everett Colman. My dad. The cancer, which had begun so surreptitiously in the colon during the previous year, had extended its merciless grip to the liver and lungs. He was eighty years old, and dying.

“Peter, you had better come. Your Dad is not well.”

My father, Robert Colman (friends and family called him ‘Bob’), had been receiving chemo-therapy for the better part of the last year. Dad had taken care of his second wife of forty-four years, Dorothy Samara Colman, right up to her untimely death the previous year. I recall presiding at the burial service at the Pine Grove cemetery morgue that cold November day. Dad was in a wheelchair in the front row. Family members on the Colman and Moy side, some whom I hadn’t seen since my childhood, had gathered for the brief, but very emotional ceremony. There was a very small, wooden table and a simple piece of white cloth for the tiny white container of ashes. There were few, if any, chairs. But the Colmans are very resourceful. Uncle Bill and Uncle Frank and I pilfered a couple visitors’ benches in the adjoining corridor, and borrowed a few bouquets of artificial flowers nearby. After a few brief words of tribute, a couple of passages from Scripture, and a few of Dottie’s favorite hymns, we all proceeded to Uncle Arthur’s home for a sumptuous turkey brunch, complete with Uncle Artie’s homemade lemon squares, and a photo of the five Colman sons and grandsons.




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