John Joseph Geary, Sr.

Pueblo West, CO - John J. Geary Sr. of West Costilla Plaza died Friday, June 24, 2011 at home. He was 77. He was born in Kingston, a son of the late James C. and Helen T. McMahon Geary. A commercial artist / technical illustrator, John worked for Western Publishing from 1956 - 1969 and for the City of Kingston from 1969 - 1996. He graduated from St. Mary's School in 1947, Kingston High School in 1951. He attended SUNY New Paltz from 1951-'53 and the University of South Carolina from 1953-'55. He was a member of the Newman Club at KHS and SUNY New Paltz, the Saugerties JayCees and was a former state director. He was the first president of the Columbian Squires in Kingston. He was a founding member of the Ulster Federal Credit Union and a member of it's board for 11 years. John served in the Army as a member of the 101st. Airborne Div., in Korea. Surviving is his wife, Rita M. West Geary whom he married on June 28, 1969 and his son, John J. Geary Jr. of Port Hueneme, CA. Three nephews and five nieces also survive. A brother, James C. Geary Jr. and two sisters, Helen Marie Schaible and Joan Amato died previously. Friends will be received at the Simpson-Gaus Funeral Home, 411 Albany Ave., Kingston onf Friday from 2 - 4 & 7 - 9 PM. The funeral procession will form at the funeral home on Saturday at 9:00 AM and process to St. Mary's Church for a 10:00 AM Funeral Mass. Interment will follow in St. Mary's Cemetery. ****************************************************** **********************DAD***************************** If you think about it, it can be a pretty tall order to put together something in just a few days that can adequately capture the character, the personality and the substance of a person Then I started contemplating it and realized something I didn't really have to think about what to write at all it was already done for me. My father spent 77 years of his life writing his own story. My part is easy. All I have to do is to remember him. All any of us have to do is remember him. Remember how he touched your life, how he made you laugh, how he helped you through something you didn't think you could handle. Remember how he imparted his wisdom to you, or taught you something you didn't know. Remember how he shared stories of his life or memories of good times you had together Right now, in your thoughts, you are all reading the personal messages he wrote to each end every one of you, all the stories are different for each one of us and they are all safe, because they are our memories of him, and no one can take them from us, no natural disaster can destroy them, no thief can steal away with them in the night. They are his gifts to us all and we should cherish them because they are what he has left of his spirit, and as long as those memories live within each of us, he will live on in our hearts A large number of my memories of my Dad involve his love for Kingston and his love for the river. My father always loved the water, in whatever form, river, sea, ocean, creek. It was in his blood and in his being. He was as much at home on the wooden decks of a boat as he was on the solid ground of mother earth and probably more so to be perfectly honest! From the time I was a child I remember my dad taking me to do things on the river with him. It started at the Dwyer's boatyard, I caught my first fish there. It seemed like a magical place to me. I was fascinated by the ruggedness of everything, the giant chains that hauled the boats, the capstans, the docks and the pilings. I drove by there the other night, and I noticed the gates were open so I went in. It was about 11:00 at night. I parked the car and got out, I walked over to one of those metal capstans, and I climbed on and sat down. Just like I did when I was a kid. I stared out into the black water, it was as smooth as glass, incredibly peaceful and perfectly quiet. I know my dad was standing there with me, hand on my shoulder, gazing out on the water with me. I felt perfectly at home there, and I know why he did too. He was generous to a fault and always had a kind word, a compliment or a joke ready for any situation. I grew up listening to the myriad of stories he would weave about his past, and his present or watch him as he patiently and precisely lettered a sign. I loved his hands, they embodied his true nature to me. They were strong and confident, yet gentle and caring. They were weathered like the hull of an old tugboat yet they could give the most gentle and caring touch that you have ever felt. They picked me up and brushed me off dozens of times, they supported me and they urged me on when I was ready to give up. They held me steady when I was trying to learn how to ride a bike and they let me go when he knew I was ready to go it on my own. Those hands created images and words that so many people saw and enjoyed, from the illustrations he did for Walt Disney's comic books to the Eskimos on Mickey's Igloo, to a multitude of signs all over Kingston. His creativity and artwork helped to adorn and decorate the buildings and businesses in town, the same way that his generosity and kindness helped to adorn all the people that knew him. He was incredibly proud of his Irish heritage, and was always the life of the party The day after he left us my Mom said to me what do you think is going on right now? I looked at her and said what do I think?? I said I know what he is doing! He is up there at the gates of heaven telling Saint Peter a story!! I loved his stories, I could have sat and listened to him tell them for days, his stories about riding the tugs, or racing stock cars with his friends and I can't leave out the stories of Boyllies and all the mischief that ensued! That is probably one of the things I will miss the most, because now the stories have gone quiet, and I will miss those dearly. There is a story on the back of your mass program, it is a story by Henry Van Dyke and it was in the booklet that Hospice provided for us. I thought it was especially fitting for my father. It is called Gone From My Sight. I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!" "Gone where?" Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear the load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: "There she is gone!" There are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!" And that is dying. To me my dad is still as majestic and strong in mast and spar and hull as the ship in that story and it is in that strength, that he taught me to be the man I am today. It is in that strength that I find comfort and support now. He has left my home port but I know that he is OK because he has just sailed into another part of his life and he has found the safest harbor there is On his last day I leaned in to his ear and I said Dad, you are going to get on a big beautiful ship, and they are going to take you to your new home, and it's going to be an amazing journey. At that he raised his eyebrows and let out a rather pleasant sigh, as if to say that sounds nice. And so on this your final voyage Father, A blessing: May your journey bring you fair winds and a following sea. May St Patrick guide your way to the other side. May you be welcomed with grand Irish style, and my you reap the reward promised to God's child. I love you Dad. Who's to say where the wind will take you, who's to know what it is will break you. I don't know which way the wind will blow but I know that this is not good bye.