Colman L. Peter Dr. Author of Father of the Man

“OK, dear. Just lock the latch when you come in.”

‘Dear’ was an affectionate term Uncle Jim used on rare occasions. Jim is the kindest, most generous, unpretentious man I know. He is a ‘died-in-the-wool’, no-nonsense New Englander who puts little stock in superficial talk or excessive emotion. ‘Think’n ain’t do’n is his favorite riposte. He has little time for hypocrisy, or for mundane distractions that seem to fuel modernity. He has a chronic but honorable disdain for laziness, waste, and excessive charges for services rendered, especially by the medical profession. Perhaps it has something to do with two eye surgeries, two open-heart interventions (one was a new procedure, through the ribcage, which caused irreparable nerve damage, and for which the presiding surgeon admitted no responsibility), plus three hip and knee replacements in recent years. To those medical challenges, add the blatant theft, by a close neighbor, of cherished, vintage rifles belonging to his Dad, a small quantity of coins, and forty cases of antique bottles from an unlocked trailer. Jim and Joyce never had to lock their home, or car, or anything else, in nearly sixty years of marriage. All the thefts occurred in his eighty-forth year! Did I mention he’s also had more than half-dozen brushes with death and near-fatal accidents?

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I forgive Uncle Jim for his disdain for my Dad; he didn’t hate him, he just couldn’t bring himself to respect him. Dad had experienced a very dramatic conversion to Jesus Christ on the island of Moiseul, as a Marine serving with the First Marine Division in the Pacific theatre during World War II. When Dad returned home to Manchester after the war, his new-found zeal for the Christian faith flew in the face of most who knew him. He had stopped cursing and smoking cigars. His own mother, Nellie (Moy) Colman (Dwire), didn’t even want to greet or kiss her own son. “I want the old Bob back,” she said, when he greeted her in full uniform at the door. For Uncle Jim, all this talk about Jesus, heaven and hell, and ‘being saved’ was best left for church. He and Mom and all the Rogers clan had all been raised in the Baptist Church and were well acquainted with the story; they had all been baptized, had frequented Sunday school and periodic ‘revival meetings,’ and the like. The Bible, God and Jesus…these were things you just accepted; it wasn’t necessary to talk about God personally…unless someone died.





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