Robert Barcley Neilson

Although his passing was inevitable and we knew intuitively that it would happen sometime in the near future, his actual passing was unexpected and sudden. I like to think, however, that it was the way Bob Neilson liked things – private, without a lot of fuss or fanfare, on his own terms, and in the comfort of his home.

Robert is survived by his wife, Evelyn, of 57 years; his son Scott; daughter Leah, their spouses Susan and Cris, and grandkids, Alexander, Connor, Mattias, Samuel, Steven, and Sylvia. He is also survived by his sister Deborah and her husband Richard Collins, and brother Donald and his wife Donna Neilson. He was Uncle Bob to scores of nieces and nephews on both his and Evelyn’s sides of the family.

Robert was born on May 23, 1941, in Waltham, Mass., to Douglas Robert Neilson and Jean Howard (Robb) Neilson. He grew up in Newtonville, Mass, outside of Boston. He graduated from Newton High School in 1959 and attended Boston University, where he graduated with his Bachelor of Science degree in Education in 1963. His parents moved to Colorado Springs during his senior year of college. He followed them out West after graduation, driving his old MG across the country, held together, as Aunt Debbie joked, with “baling wire and duct tape.” He started his teaching career at Carson Junior High, at Fort Carson, in 1963. He initially taught math (not his favorite) and geography, but quickly switched physical education when a position opened. He earned his Master of Arts degree from Adams State College in 1969. Bob spent his whole educational career at Carson and retired after 32 years of service. During that time, he coached basketball, football, track, wrestling, and one year of girls’ volleyball. His favorite sport to coach was basketball, which he did until he retired; his teams were always respectful, well-disciplined, and championship contenders. He continued to be the head starter for track meets and on the chain crew for football games into his retirement years.

My mom was always supportive of my dad’s coaching. I remember being really young and going to his football games and track meets. We continued going to the majority of his home basketball games, even as teenagers. The smell of popcorn and sweat, the dim yellow lights, and the din of squeaky sneakers and bouncing balls in the Carson Junior High gymnasium are seared into my memory. When I started my first teaching job at Carson Middle School, I walked down to the “Old Gym” and re-lived all the hours spent there, seeing my dad rallying his players, hearing the whistles blowing and fans cheering, and noticed, even in the quiet, how nothing had really changed. This was my dad’s place.

Sports were definitely one of my dad’s passions. He loved coaching, watching, and talking sports. He was an avid hockey player growing up, playing into college, and even though he didn’t play basketball, he was a brilliant coach. He often planned his days around the sports on TV. If a game wasn’t on “poor man’s TV,” as he called it, because he didn’t have cable, he listened to it on his transistor radio. He loved to take walks every evening, listening to a game. Even when he was coaching, he still managed to get to my brother’s and my meets, matches, and games. It was always reassuring to see him on the sidelines, in the stands, or on the course cheering us on and encouraging our efforts. My brother was a great athlete. I wasn’t the same caliber, but either way, our dad always made us feel like champions. He knew what to say, coached us through the tough spots, and always pushed us to finish strong. It felt special to have Coach Neilson on your side.

In addition to sports, my dad was a voracious reader. He loved a great story – mysteries, spy novels, anything by James Patterson or Clive Cussler, and usually finished about 3 books a week. He was a regular at the Old Colorado City library!

One of Bob’s favorite pastimes was getting together and “having some ‘yucks’” with his old teaching buddies. Bob looked forward to his regular get-togethers with “the Guys.” They made him laugh. He brought home their news and kept us all in the know about the updates with their families. It was really cool.

In 1970, our grandparents built a cabin in the mountains outside of Westcliffe, Colorado. Dad relished time at the cabin by himself and with his parents, his sister’s family, our family, and his friends. Besides doing the work required of maintaining the cabin, he basked in the solitude, relaxing, reading in the sun on the front porch, and walking in the woods and by the creek. The cabin is still in the family and a treasured place for all of us.

One of the traits I admired most about my dad was his work ethic. He always said, if you start something, finish it. Dad rarely missed a day of work in all of his years of teaching, and was pretty proud of how much money he got paid out for all of his sick days when he retired. He was a doer and great time manager. He made his lists, ran his errands, and finished his projects, so he could relax, read his books or watch sports on TV. He preferred to fix things on his own (the “Bob Neilson method,” as Cris called it, which usually meant suspiciously jerry-rigged), and only reluctantly gave in when my mom insisted that there might be a better way to do something. Procrastination was his nemesis. He got irritated when things weren’t dealt with immediately. He was aways early, and he always planned ahead. His patience was a practiced art – waiting made him antsy.

My dad was pretty old-school and liked things simple. He didn’t have a cell phone, he rarely used email, and if he didn’t know how to get somewhere, he pulled out a map, marked the route, and wrote down the directions. He was on a pretty steep learning curve with his Smart TV, but was slowly figuring it out. He did all of our taxes by hand. Dad was super frugal and hated spending money. Thankfully, my mom kept him decently dressed, but he was most comfortable in a t-shirt, old jeans, a sweatshirt, ball cap, and “tennies.”

Dad was a life-long musician. He took piano lessons when he was a kid, but didn’t like practicing, so he quit (a decision he, of course, regretted later). When he was older, he told his parents he wanted to play the guitar, but this time around, they wouldn’t pay for lessons, so he taught himself. He started playing in bands during college. After he moved to Colorado, he played in restaurants and clubs around the Springs, in the choirs at church, and on the “retirement home circuit,” as we called it. My dad was humble, and because he never had formal lessons, he said he wasn’t as good as someone classically trained. But as I looked around our house, at his collection of 6-string, 12-string, electric, and bass guitars, banjo, and piano, all of his binders of music, pictures with his different bands and groups, and the fact that he had actively been playing music since childhood, I think he was pretty accomplished. It was just that music was his hobby, and not his main job. He made the big bucks from teaching! His music gigs just gave him spending money.

There were so many things I loved and admired about my dad. I think what I loved most was his voice. I loved his Boston accent. I loved making him laugh when I imitated it. I loved listening to him talk and recording him in my mind, so that I would always have that part of him in my memory. He lived in Colorado the majority of his life, but he always sounded like a New Englander. I loved to listen to my dad’s stories about growing up in New England, especially winters skating on Bullough’s pond near his house, spending summers in Westport Island, Maine, as a kid, and working as a waiter with his best friend Rui at a lodge in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, during the summers when they were teenagers. His grandfather, Eckles Donald Robb, was a famous architect, having designed the Washington Cathedral in Washington, D.C., and Grace Episcopal Church here in the Springs, among other buildings. As a hobby, Grandpa Robb painted watercolors, and his artwork was displayed in all of the relatives’ houses. When my dad talked about the ocean, the seaside towns, the fall colors, and idyllic landscapes of New England, I looked at the paintings and imagined living in those places. I longed to be a New Englander, too.

As you may or may not know, my dad was not Catholic, which probably makes you wonder, “What’s an old Protestant guy doing in a Catholic church like this?” Well, good question. Bob wasn’t Catholic, but he was probably one of the longest serving members of the Sacred Heart Parish community. I think it’s fitting that he started his “Catholic” journey in this building and here he comes to rest.

My dad was a parishioner of the Sacred Heart Parish since his marriage to my mom on September 2, 1966. They attended Sacred Heart Church in Colorado Springs and Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church in Manitou Springs. Just like in his teaching career, he rarely missed a Sunday Mass. When my parents got married at Sacred Heart and he committed to raising his kids in the Catholic faith, he never looked back. As anyone in the Parish can tell you, he was dedicated, committed, loyal, and always reliable. At OLPH, he always arrived early, unlocking the church, shoveling snow, sweeping the sidewalks, setting up the handicap ramp – whatever little jobs needed to be done before Mass to ensure people’s safety – and then “taking attendance” and keeping track of all the people in church that day. Everyone could always count on Bob.

For as long as I can remember, my dad played in the choir, initially, guitar and then bass. He always liked the songs that were upbeat, had great chord structure, and didn’t “drag along.” He didn’t like the songs that were slow and sounded “like you were at a funeral.” He continued to play until just before Christmas this year. He planned to play this Christmas, but he wasn’t feeling great and was having a hard time getting around, so we kind of discouraged him from going. It was probably the right decision, but he was bummed out. I think he thought he would only be taking that day off and would be back the next week. I know he wanted at least one more opportunity to play with his group and do the thing that brought him so much joy.

My dad and I never talked much about religion, because, to him, it was very personal. He never questioned anyone else’s spiritual path, religious background, denomination, beliefs, or convictions. He just kept his thoughts close to his heart. He always claimed he went to church because of the music gig, but I know his faith was much deeper, and I know he paid attention (I could always tell, because of the nicknames he had for the priests or how long their homilies were – don’t worry Father Randy – you’re good!). He was a quiet observer and would never share his beliefs, but the messages resonated with him. This past year, one of the former priests, Father Pat Hannon, visited Sacred Heart to share the new book he had written. I knew my mom wanted to come see Father Pat, but imagine my surprise when my dad walked in (without looking put out!). Father Pat is a great story teller, and my dad loved stories. But something about Father Pat’s message really hit home with him. Cris said Dad was still laughing and talking about Father Pat’s visit days later.

Even though he never proclaimed his beliefs from the rooftops, his actions everyday demonstrated that he lived a life called by God. I mean, he was a middle school teacher for 32 years! That has to take some divine intervention! But really, my dad was always ready to be of service to anyone in need. He was always available to fix things, give you a ride, lend you some money, help out a family member, move your stuff, take care of your kids, bring a lunch or instrument to school. He preferred advanced notice, so he could put you on his calendar, but he never hesitated to drop what he was doing to help in a crisis or problem solve a situation.

If I had to think of words to describe my dad, I would say that Bob was humble, frugal, generous, committed, strong, straightforward, simple, pragmatic, steady, compassionate, and loyal. He didn’t like change, he liked quiet, and he loved to be outside. He was sometimes grouchy and a little opinionated, and never, at all, sarcastic. But above all, he was selfless.

When Alex was born shortly after I finished graduate school, my dad grumbled to me, “Don’t ask me to babysit. I don’t hold babies until they’re a year old.” I was able to stay home for a while but I needed to start working when the next school year started, or I wouldn’t be able to complete my professional certification. Alex was 10-months old when school started, and we had to put him into a home daycare. Well, Alex cried for 2 weeks straight. The daycare lady called my dad half-way through the day and told him he needed to pick up Alex. My dad said when he arrived, the look on Alex’s face broke his heart. He picked him up, took him home, and started babysitting by himself for the rest of the school year. My mom retired the next year, and they spent the next 23 years helping raise all of our kids.

My dad deeply loved all of his grandkids – Alex, Connor, Mattias, Sam, Steven, and Sylvie. He always made an effort to show up for them – from taking them to story time at the library and volunteering in their preschool classrooms, to attending sporting events, school plays, concerts, arts and career nights, field days, school presentations, birthday parties, student of the month breakfasts, and graduations. Whatever the kids had going on, he was there to support them. Many of my kids’ friends knew him by name and always enjoyed talking to him. I always heard the comment, “Your grandpa is so funny!” I think what made my dad a great teacher was what also made people like him so much. He knew how to relate to them. He was a little rough around the edges and self-deprecating, and his humor was disarming. He could talk about sports, music, and people’s interests, and he didn’t take himself too seriously.

My dad deeply loved my mom. He was not prone to romantic notions. But he was always steady and constant, willing to deal with the good, the bad, and the ugly of whatever life threw at them. My parents made each other laugh; they made each other grumble; and often, they drove each other nuts. But they committed to making their marriage work every day. My parents were strict, but fair; consistent and allied with their decisions; supportive and compassionate when we needed their strength. They valued education and made sure we knew that college was an expectation, not an option. I’m not sure if my dad really knew how to deal with all of my emotional drama. But he would listen, put his arm around my shoulders, and pat my leg, give me a bit of sage advice, and tell me I would be ok. He was always right.

Some days, God’s Grace works in mysterious ways. Some days God’s Grace is very obvious, if you’re willing to be open to it. Sunday, January 14, was one of those days where you just need to look and the answers are right in front of you.

On the day of my dad’s passing, I needed a minute, so I went into the quiet space of his bedroom. One of the “Breaking Bread” missals was on top of his desk under a couple of bank deposit slips and receipts from donations to Goodwill. I was curious what the readings were for Mass that day, hoping they might give me a little comfort. The first reading was from the first Book of Samuel. It read: “The Lord called to Samuel, [who] said, “Here I am. You called me.” The refrain for the Responsorial Psalm read: “Here am I, Lord; I come to do your will.” In John’s gospel, John’s disciples begin to follow Jesus, whom they called Rabbi, or teacher. The words from the readings represent my dad and his spiritual journey, whatever he believed: he was someone called to service, who was always willing to lend a hand, to help those in need, give comfort to those who were suffering, to love his neighbors, and treat others the way he wanted to be treated – with dignity and respect. I think that’s the embodiment of how God wants us to live our lives.

My dad was pretty tough. He didn’t like going to doctors. Being sick was a hassle and just something to get over and check off the list, so you could get back to doing the things that mattered. He was patient to a point, but he really just wanted to get back to the business of doing. A few weeks ago, when his doctor told him that his condition was manageable, but not curable, I sensed a shift in my dad’s mindset, and something I had never seen from him: he seemed at peace and accepting of the journey ahead. He didn’t talk about his ailments anymore, just expressed his gratitude and quietly went about his days.

As I was looking at the readings for January 14, the second reading from Saint Paul read: “Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ? But whoever is joined to the Lord becomes one Spirit with him. Avoid immortality.” I believe, whole heartedly, that in the quiet moments before sunrise as he was stumbling through the process to start his day and greet my mom down the hall, Jesus walked by his side, and the Holy Spirit enveloped him and carried him beyond this world to walk with the Lord in Heaven.

When the family was gathered at my parents’ house on the day of his passing, my mom was talking about my dad’s love of music and all the binders of music he had collected. She brought out a massive 3-ring binder thinking it was one of his “fake books” containing jazz and big band tunes, but it was actually one of his notebooks with hundreds of church songs (#499-931, to be exact). Later in the day, as I was cleaning things up around the house, I brought the binder back to his bedroom. As I was opening up the book to straighten the pages, it fell open to Number 629, “You Are Mine.” My breath caught in my throat as I read the lyrics, and any doubts about my father’s faith journey, his path to salvation, or his walk with the Lord to the next life were dispelled. The lyrics read:

I will come to you in the silence,

I will lift you from all your fear.

You will hear my voice,

I claim you as my choice,

Be still and know I am here.

I am hope for all who are hopeless,

I am eyes for all who long to see.

In the shadows of the night,

I will be your light,

Come and rest in me.

I am strength for all the despairing,

Healing for the ones who dwell in shame.

All the blind will see,

The lame will all run free,

And all will know my name.

I am the Word that leads all to freedom,

I am the peace the world cannot give.

I will call your name,

Embracing all your pain,

Stand up, now walk, and live!

Do not be afraid, I am with you.

I have called you each by name.

Come and follow me,

I will bring you home;

I love you and you are mine.

We love you, Dad. Godspeed.