Rex Maharg Martin

Rex M. Martin died July 5, 2010. of complications from Parkinson's disease. He was 76 years of age. Rex is survived by his wife, Jane, his daughters, Diane and Kathleen and his brother, Dave. Rex's legacy to family and friends is the memory of his life. He graduated from Grand Junction (Colorado) High School with academic honors in 1951, where he was student body president, co-captain of the football team, and Western Colorado wrestling champion in his weight class. He graduated from Dartmouth College in 1955, where he was captain-coach of a fledging wresting team and president of his fraternity. After graduation and two years in the U.S. Army, he obtained a Master's degree from the University of Colorado's School of Business, became a Certified Public Accountant, worked a few years for a national accounting firm, and spent the balance of his working career as a treasurer or chief accounting officer in the real estate industry. He retired at age fifty-eight after a bout with prostate cancer to travel extensively and ""smell the roses"" with his wife for several years. Rex enjoyed history and read extensively about Western civilization, philosophy and religion. Being of Scottish heritage and a member of a Scottish clan, he favored Scottish history and literature. My Dad loved reading, writing, classical music and opera. In his last years he spent considerable time reading the books and poetry that gave him the most joy. Most often it was the poetry and writing of Robert Burns, Robert Service, and Edgar Allen Poe. Included on this memorial page are three poems. The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service he enjoyed for its humor and delight. To Helen by Edgar Allen Poe he appreciated for its loveliness. And finally, The Release, by Robert Service, he specifically requested included in his memorial. Dad had a life - long passion for learning which continued through his last hospitalization. Whereas some might enjoy the latest best sellers, he often read the works of philosophers and historians - the kind of books you find in the back of the bookstores. Here is just a sampling of the subjects he read and wrote about from the titles on some of the many ring binders in which he organized his notes: Social Contract, Roman Empire, Christianity, English and American History, Philosophy, Hinduism, Global Warming, Memory Loss, Nervous System, Ottoman Empire, World War I and II, American Presidency. It goes without saying that my dad throughout his life was honest and fair. He valued loyalty and commitment. He couldn't have been a better role model for his family and friends to work hard and do your best. This tribute is not complete without recognition of my mom, Jane, married to my dad for 51 years. The two of them were truly in love all their lives and supported and nourished each other every moment. His tenderness and concern for her during her slow deterioration and loss of memory was perhaps the most painful experience that he bore with dignity and grace. My dad wrote an obituary for himself barely a week before he passed away. Brief and factual it sums up his accomplishments modestly. But everyone knows that he was much more. Sadly, his obituary is a reflection that he knew his time was limited, but that he was not quite ready to pass on. He wanted to stay the course for my mom, be there for her until her time. My sister and I will do our best to care for her with the same love and compassion that he showed us. What gave my dad most comfort in his final years was the friendships he maintained. He enjoyed the company of friends and family to his apartment especially when he wasn't able to get outdoors anymore and of course the many emails and letters he received which were always a source of entertainment and motivation. To everyone who reads this memorial, please write about anything you wish to share about my dad! You are also welcome to write or call me! His wit, humor, and friendship will be missed by many. Love you Dad, Diane A Point of View It's awfully hard to speak or write In rhyme and measured meter, I'm never sure I've got it right In dreaded iambic tetrameter. The agate lamp held in the hand Of Muse begins to glow. Now obscure truths I understand; The words begin to flow. A glass half full, a glass half gone, It's just your point of view, They're both the same, its plain to see, No difference 'tween the two. The same divergent view we see In politics and religion. The goal's the same, how differently We reach our own conclusion. Our paths diverge into the wood Each path will get us there; Some are blessed with all that's good And some much to beware. And that is where the danger lies The path that we pursue Grows greater than the common ties We used to keep in view So let's use reason as our guide To justify our stand And listen to the other side Don't reject it out of hand. We all see things so differently With passions hard to tame. Remember that through thick and thin That glass is still the same. Rex M. Martin August 16, 2007 Retirement Old age is not the Golden Years; We can't ignore the clues. Only callow youth will say it is. 'Till they don these traveled shoes. What used to work without a hitch Now comes so awfully slow. The rose bed has so many thorns I wish I could forego. In youth our future had no bounds, Not physical or mental, Determined effort won it all, Just had to show our mettle. Then our youth began to ebb, The sand began to fill The bottom of the hourglass; Our youth was quickly nil. We stepped aside so callow youth Could feed its own ambition Reluctantly we smoothed the way To ease the feared transition. But freedom was our earned reward Relieved I am to say, A door has closed, I won't go back, Carpe diem every day. Rex M. Martin July 20, 2007 THE CREMATION OF SAM MCGEE There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd ""sooner live in hell"". On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee. And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and ""Cap,"" says he, ""I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."" Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan: ""It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."" A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee. There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: ""You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."" Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing. And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin. Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the ""Alice May"". And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; Then ""Here,"" said I, with a sudden cry, ""is my cre-ma-tor-eum."" Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee. Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky. I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: ""I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked""; . . . then the door I opened wide. And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: ""Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."" There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Robert William Service To Helen (1831) Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! Edgar Allan Poe The Release To-day within a grog-shop near I saw a newly captured linnet, Who beat against his cage in fear, And fell exhausted every minute; And when I asked the fellow there If he to sell the bird were willing. He told me with a careless air That I could have it for a shilling. And so I bought it, cage and all (Although I went without my dinner), And where some trees were fairly tall And houses shrank and smoke was thinner, The tiny door I open threw, As down upon the grass I sank me: Poor little chap! How quick he flew . . . He didn't even wait to thank me. Life's like a cage; we beat the bars, We bruise our breasts, we struggle vainly; Up to the glory of the stars We strain with fluttering ungainly. And then – God opens wide the door, Our wondrous wings are arched for flying; We poise, we part, we sing, we soar . . . Light, freedom, love . . . Fools call it – Dying. Robert William Service