Mint julips, necco wafers, ginger snaps.
1977 ….a handsome young teacher with massive shoulders and
forearms. His smile lit up the room. We connected immediately.
For 36 years, we cemented our friendship.
People say that David was an amazing genealogist, a
passionate environmentalist, or an incredible teacher, but I don’t see it that
way.
David was not an
amazing genealogist; he was a historian who understood stories. He did not report research;
he told your story as it connected to your past. Characters were real—not just
bloodlines but lives of adventures, the way he told his own story.
Sometimes we would go for breakfast…without fail, he would say,
“See that man over there?” I would nod--
“Well, we are related. His name is Conrad O’Malley. His great-great grandmother on his father’s side had a baby when she was 15. She gave the child up for adoption to another Irish family. It was quite a scandal at that time. His name was Davin_, and he would be Conrad’s great uncle. Well his father was a second cousin twice removed with my great grandmother on my father’s side. Later he married Margaret O’Sullivan and they had two children, Amon and Ashling_and they were, of course, Conrad’s first cousins once removed. When I discovered this, I contacted Conrad and brought him pictures of his great uncle. He was shocked because he never knew this story.”
It was not a hobby; stories were David’s way of life.
We attended the last mass at St. Dominic’s. Outraged that his
Irish community church would be closed, he vowed to save that sacred space. He
would have gone to the Pope if he had to, but he would not allow that story to
be lost; not tolerate the Irish community to be forgotten.
He was also not an environmentalist. He simply lived as if he were solely responsible
for caring for the earth. He chuckled about having been a dishwasher at the
Port Hole, dumping garbage down a hole in the floor to the ocean. I swear he
spent the rest of his life making up for that. Tiny scraps of paper went into
the recycling bin along with cans, cardboard and plastic. Hannaford bags hung
over a chair in the kitchen where he stashed recycling. He never refused
leftovers, forbidding waste, and he put about 1000 miles a year on his
car—that’s it. He passed on things he no longer needed—tablecloths, clothing,
furniture. Nothing wasted, but everything had a story.
David was also not an incredible teacher. He was more. He
cared like a parent, he consoled like a priest, he fought like a mother hen, he
guided like a counselor. He mentored, he listened, he valued them and mostly,
he loved them without exception.
His relationship to students was not defined by IEPs but by
what each one needed; simple as that.
His advocacy was unrelenting. Studying files was important, but
he knew their families, their pain, their stories. He worked tirelessly, often
compromising his own physical needs, making parent calls on weekends,
informing, soothing and guiding. Parents appreciated David; students loved him.
Nine years at the HS, I was in awe. Given the most demanding students—one’s he
described as “so naughty” or “scallywags”, ones who were in fights, skipped
school, swore at teachers and generally a handful. David would say, “You were
disrespectful to that teacher. I won’t have it…you know that, don’t you? Now
you need to go apologize to Mrs. So and So.” The student would grumble
opposition and David would only give a look.
“Ok, Souleman, I will do it.” It was magical.
Sometimes one would ask, “Mr. Soule, what happened to your
legs?” One of David’s favorite questions.
“Well, I was scuba diving off the barrier Reef when I was attacked
by a vicious shark…it is amazing I made it out alive.”
OR
“I was hiking Mt.
Everest when I fell into
a deep cravace…rescued after three days but still alert, although my legs were
damaged.”
Stories…
Firm but tender, he valued them as individuals. Years later, he
could recall names with ease, imprinted in his mind because they were far more
than students on his caseload...they were young adults who were trying to survive
challenge and David understood the meaning of challenge.
His nurturance did not stop at 18. They visited him at Churchill Rd, mowing
his lawn, fixing windows, shoveling steps. They loved him as deeply as he did
them.
Upon graduation, they were told they could call him “David”
but none ever did. “Souleman” was the closest they came to familiar; respect
prevailed.
Students like Patrick Nixon, Jeff Legere, Hassan Salad, Jake
Myrick and Donna Doyle came to visit him at hospice—recognizing all, recalling
their names and smiling at each face.
Patrick, Jeff and I talked about how Mr. Soule had impacted
them, and then I described a younger David, with long hair, a beard and a
leisure suit. I said, “Ya know David, you looked like quite a hippie back then…almost
like you might have experimented at some point”
Jeff leaned in closely, “I really wanna hear this answer,” he
said.
We waited as David whispered, “I don’t recall.”
A few nights later, a text from Patrick showed a photo of
David skiing down a mountain and his caption read: “Just another one of
Souleman’s amazing accomplishments.” The love that exuded from that text was
incredible. That is what David did…he gave them love so, in his end of life, it
was returned to him.
Family, Faith and Friends—
David loved his family with immeasurable depth. He loved telling stories of his mother preparing cowboy steak, riding on
Bill’s handlebars or escapades with Aunt Diane who was more like a sister. His
bond to his nieces and nephews was like cement. Home was more than a house—it
meant family; it had history; it was a story.
Ian said yesterday, “Uncle David was something else” and that
says it all. Mostly though, Ian told me how much he would miss going through
the kitchen door and hearing Uncle David say, “Hey Sport, want some Crystal
Lite?”
We all know David was a man of deep
faith; he lived his faith. I would sit
at his kitchen table over a pot of Irish tea, asking all my bible questions; he
answered every one plus reporting every change after Vatican II, every Pope’s
name, country of origin and some personal life story.
He preferred St. David’s Day over his own birthday, and never
missed the Feast of the Blessed Mary. Unyielding in his dedication to God, we all
know his favorite was the Virgin Mother. May God have mercy on him now!
Every August 15, he would insist we go to the ocean to put
his feet in the water. This past August, at Spring Point Light, he did not feel
strong enough to go down the beach, so I brought a basin and he soaked his feet.
He insisted I refill the basin for
Chris. Though not at home, David said, “Leave it by the door. Chris will know
what it is.” I am blessed with this memory of his faith, his love.
As a friend, I found it difficult to argue with David. It was
so aggravating that he never used angry words, only spoke firmly in his
disagreement, looking you straight in the eye. As good as I can be in an
argument, I was no match.
Many times, he would call, “Hey Rosie (the only person
besides my Dad who could get away with that), wanna take a ride to Higgins Beach to see how the other half lives?”
An ice cream at Red’s and then combing the streets as he told stories of who
had lived in every home for the past 159 years.
I never tired of his stories—my most favorite was his climb
of Mt. Chicurra with the CYO, when they were
lost and he descended on Rick Urban’s shoulders, lighting each single match
from the one book they had amongst them. The suspense was incredible and I had
him tell it over and over to everyone I knew, only so I could listen again. I
told it one night in the hospital as he lay quietly with his eyes closed. At
one point, I said, “Did I get it right, David?” and without opening his eyes,
he said, “No, it was better than that.”
He was my colorist, my go-to guy when choosing paint. “The
kitchen needs a buttery yellow, Rosie, not lemon..buttery…with a green accent,
apple green” and flipping through the chips, he would hold them up, one at a
time, until he found the exact one. The one I loved.
As my confidant, I could tell him anything without judgment.
He listened, accepted me unconditionally. He did not expect perfection and
always believed in forgiveness.
Bill told me a story of asking David for forgiveness once; his brother struggled, choking up some. When he was done, David looked up and said,
“Ok, I forgive you. Do you wanna have some tea?” There was no time for grudges, only love
because David knew that life is short.
David and I frequently joked about where we would live in our
“old age”…might we winter at Churchill
Rd. and summer on Buttonwood? I will miss the chance to know.
Facebook comments abounded. One was from Joe Brann who spent time with David at my home,
“David was an extrordinary man. It's hard to imagine how someone who was dealt
such a lousy hand could shine so brightly in spite of it all, and go beyond
that to actually inspire and enlighten others with his enthusiasm… Loved
talking to him, loved his grace, sad that I will not have another dinner with
him.”
I cannot think of a finer man, a more faith filled man or a
more loving friend. I will miss him immensely and his stories that came alive
when he spoke. My life is richer because of his friendship… the world is a
better place because he was here, and our faith will keep him alive amongst us.
May David Jonathan Soule rest in
peace.
