Horace G. Smith

Horace Garlton “Red” Smith, age 91, entered into his Heavenly home on January 4, 2013, in San Antonio, Texas. He was born on June 8, 1921, in the community of Tira in Hopkins County, Texas. He was the second child, and oldest son, of Carl and Altie Smith. He grew up to be the leader of five sisters and two younger brothers. Of his seven siblings, he is survived by his youngest brother Noel Smith and his youngest sister Mae Varner. He is a WWII Veteran, and was awarded the Bronze Star Medal, Good Conduct Medal, Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal with 2-Bronze Stars, WWII Victory Medal, Combat Infantryman Badge and Philippine Liberation Ribbon. He entered the U.S. Army at Camp Wolters, Texas in 1942, and was discharged in December 1945 from Fort Sam Houston, Texas.

He is survived by his wife of 67 years, Clara Juliette “Judy” Smith, and their two sons, Jimmy Wayne Smith and his wife, Janet Smith, from College Station, Texas, and Thomas Noel “Tom” Smith and his wife, Kathy Smith, of San Antonio, Texas. Red and Judy Smith have five granddaughters, two grandsons and four great-granddaughters. The granddaughters and grandsons include Jimmy’s daughters, Christina Smith-Green (and husband Lance Green) and Charlene Smith; Janet’s son Justin Molina (and wife Leigh Ann Molina); Tom’s daughters Kyla Smith (deceased) and Kera Bell (and husband Joseph Bell); and Kathy’s daughter Tara Reddy (and husband Sudhir Reddy) and son Brendan Haney (deceased). Red and Judy’s great-granddaughters include Christina’s daughter Caitlin, Kera’s daughters Lily and Lori, and Tara’s daughter Leela. Grandson Justin and his wife are currently expecting twins, which will be Judy’s fifth and sixth great-grandchildren. Red and Judy’s former daughter-in-law, Cynthia Ann Smith, is still a very close friend and considered by them to be family.

The funeral service for Horace Smith will be held at 1:00 pm on Friday, January 18, 2013, at Sunset Northwest Funeral Home, 6321 Bandera Road, San Antonio, Texas. A military graveside service and subsequent interment will be conducted at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery at 2:30 pm the same day. Family viewing will be held from 6:00 - 8:00 pm on Thursday, January 17, 2013, at the funeral home. Flowers are not requested by the family, but may be sent by those who wish to. Instead, the family requests that donations be made to the National Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas. A link to their donation page is http://www.pacificwarmuseum.org/MakeDonation.asp

HORACE GARLTON “RED” SMITH FUNERAL SERVICE

Friday, January 18, 2013

1:00 pm

(Music – a collection of his favorites)

“Gathering Flowers for the Master’s Bouquet” by Kitty Wells

“Matthew 24” by Kitty Wells

“Life’s Railway to Heaven” by Roy Acuff

“The Great Speckled Bird” by Roy Acuff

"I Saw the Light" by Hank Williams Sr.

“Beyond the Sunset” by Hank Williams Sr.

"I'll Fly Away" by Alison Krauss and Gillian Welch

"Angel Judy” by Marty Robbins

“Wait a Little Longer, Please, Jesus” by Red and Judy Smith

TOM SMITH SPEAKS

My Mother wants to speak, so she’s speaking in the black box:

JUDY SMITH RECORDING: “Dear Lord Jesus, I want to thank you for this time in my life when I have to be strong, and You are helping me. And I also want to thank each and every one of you that has come to share in the celebration of Horace Smith, my husband for 67 years. We will miss him, but we know he has gone to a better place, because absent from the body, present with the Lord.

He has gone to have the family reunion up there, that have already gone ahead. Can’t you imagine all those Smiths and Hamiltons up there! We talked of meeting at the Eastern Gate, under the Tree of Life - you know, that’s where all the food is. So I have been left behind to share in the raising of the grandchildren and great grandchildren. He especially loved all of those great grandchildren, and they’re all girls. I prayed, before Kyla was born, that I would have some granddaughters. I only had – or we did – we only had two sons, and I always wanted a girl. So, when Kyla was being born, she was a girl. I adored that baby; I got to be with her a lot, up until God took her away. Then, there was Brendan, he was a lively one, but God took him also.

So he is up there meeting with all of his kinfolks. And, I hope he is enjoying himself. Look over there, he’s asleep in Jesus. He is at rest. I am so proud that we had time to talk about the things that was to come. I always said I wanted him to go first, because he didn’t know how to live at this age without me.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I say again, “Thank you for coming to share the life, or celebrate the life, of my husband, which I loved very much.

Thank you. Bye.

Horace Garlton “Red” Smith, entered into his Heavenly home on the evening of January 4, 2013, leaving behind his wife of 67 years, Clara Juliette “Judy” Smith. He was 91, she is 84. She remains here on this earth to continue the plan that God has for her, with their two sons, five granddaughters, one remaining grandson, and four great-granddaughters.

Horace Smith, my father, was a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ. His faith came from East Texas Baptist roots, where he was baptized in a cattle tank, where the only necessary details of Bible doctrine were faith alone in Christ alone, no works, no boasting. Saved by grace, in faith alone. Those words will be inscribed upon his headstone. Back then, there was no time for anything else. There was work to do, and mouths to feed, and it was not easy.

Born into hardscrabble, with a father who did not exactly like to work, he took a leading role among his siblings, and worked hard and worked long. He could not finish school beyond the 8th grade because work was too important, the days were not long enough. He saw the Great Depression, survived a long and brutal war, the second war of the industrial world, and when he returned, all he wanted to do was marry my Mom, his Judy, find a job, raise a family, and be a decent, honest man. At first, he struggled to find his way in a post-war world. Twenty years into it, he found a good, good job. Twenty years later, he retired. No frills, no investments other than two boys and a good credit name, nothing fancy. But everything decent, honest, and fair.

I was here to watch him. Proudly, I watched him take the hits of Life and keep his faith and carry his faith all the way to death. His life was tough, much tougher than any of us could stand. He used this Bible, this fabulous, old, worn-out, valuable Bible, to strengthen his soul and spirit, and make a journey through hardscrabble. In this Bible are the words and the promises that he is now claiming. His rewards were there, waiting for him, as he arrived, fresh and new, to his Heavenly home two weeks ago tonight. Now, that was some retirement party!

Mom said that they liked to read and often talked about the 23rd Psalm. The 23rd Psalm is on the inside of the leaflet you picked up. If you haven’t read it, I would recommend you do. I will also read…I’ll share that and you take it home, and …. I’ll share a couple of verses that he liked and he underlined himself. I remember him sitting in church with this Bible, it is very well marked; he had the biggest Bible of any of the other Deacons…but that was neat.

St. John, the Gospel of John, Chapter 14: “Let not your hearts be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in me. In My Father’s house are many mansions. If it were not so, I would have told you. I go there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare that place for you, I will come again and receive you unto Myself, that where I am there you may be also. And whither I go, you know; and the way, you know.”

Jump over to Corinthians, II Corinthians: “For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though He was rich, yet for your sake He became poor, that you through His poverty might be rich.”

Titus: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith”.

He was the most important and dearest man I have ever known. He taught me the meaning of the words decent, and honest, and fair, and humility. To him, the word “adequate” was sufficient. His humility was greater than any man I have met my entire life. The only upgrade he ever bought himself was a beautiful, brand-new, red and white 1964 Ford Galaxy 500 with a 390 engine. We just drove to Sulphur Springs one Saturday morning in a 1957 Ford and drove home that afternoon in a classic. He didn’t need it, but he got it. He drove it to California the next summer. Easiest trip he had ever made. Best trip I can remember.

I never heard him make idle, vain chatter. I never heard him talk much about the war. He never owned a gun after the war. He never fired another round after the Philippines. He never made a political statement, he just voted every 4 years, felt proud to do it, and went on with living. I guess he took a different view of voting and choice after he put his life in the cross-hairs of the enemy to defend them. He never owned a riding lawn mower; sure could’ve used one. He never looked down on other people. He never asked for money, but he never refused money to anyone who asked for it. He never asked for more than his fair share. He enjoyed his coffee black and his toast unbuttered.

I admired his ability to be satisfied with what he had, and, in his words, “this is good enough,” and “we can do OK with that”, and “that’s all we need,” these words were so far above the words I heard from my own generation, that I wanted to distance myself from my own time, from the excesses of everything, and I yearn for those times when he was still young and I was very young and all was right, all was good, one car, one bathroom, one job, one house. He came from a time that we can never re-create. We have taken from this earth more than it has, and we have filled our lives with more than we need.

Dad was a precious jewel that I had the God-given opportunity to hold and to watch as he walked the long journey that all men will walk, from an old man to death. And he was good at it. I watched him day after day, year after year, in all his strength, and in all his grace, and all his meekness, I watched, and took note. He was always there, at the door when I arrived, wanting a hug, and then he would stand up as I left, I would say “You don’t have to stand up,” stand up anyway; he would stand up, wanting another hug. He knew. He knew that every day just might be the last. And I knew. And when that last day came, I was there, to hold his hand, to brush his hair, and to tell him in his good ear, that’s this ear, that’s the one that pointed away from us, I was there to tell him in his good ear that he was doing a good job, that we were all proud of him, and to make sure that his Judy’s voice was in his ear, on my phone, as his strong but humble heart stopped and his soul and spirit made that final, glorious, triumphant, short flight from here to eternity in Heaven.

His death has changed me in a way I did not expect. When my daughter Kyla died in 2010, I found peace and comfort in the knowledge that she was a believer, and that she had just left this troubled and painful world into eternity with Christ. And, when Kathy’s son Brendan died two years and one month later, I was likewise comforted, comforted, by the knowledge that he, too, was a believer, and that he had just left his troubled and painful world into an eternity with Christ. But, when Dad died two weeks ago, it was as if I had watched him, there at his bedside, be translated from this world into Heaven. It was sad, oh yes, it was sad, tears were shed, but it was a foregone conclusion: in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, he was absent from that body and face-to-face with the Lord. I watched it. Nobody called me on the phone and said “your daddy just died,” I was a witness to an event of Biblical proportions, and I had no doubt. He had said to himself many times that he was ready to leave this body of pain and misery to claim his cabin in Glorlyland. God gave me the gift of watching death and knowing that it was His will, that it was not final, that I had just stood there as clearly as watching a train leave a station, or a plane take off, or a car back out of the driveway, …. I watched a soul and spirit depart for Heaven. I watched the monitor screen as his heartbeat changed from regular to irregular, from rhythmic to arrhythmic, to a smooth pattern that to me looked like dolphins joyfully dancing in the surf, to a flat line. I watched as life ended and eternal life began. It was as if God was giving me an advanced lesson in life and death. I cried, oh yes, I cried, and Kathy cried, and Kera cried, but I knew it was not about an ending but a beginning. I knew that I was now on the short straw, I had to continue living, I had to keep glorifying God by my actions, I was now his legacy, because he had just gone Home.

He waits for us. As believers in Christ, we will see him again. All I want from life is to be good as he was when my journey from old man to death begins, and to be as graceful and courageous as he was when my soul and spirit make their final, glorious, triumphant, and short flight from here to eternity in Heaven.

May God bless you all, and may His grace and mercy be abundant, and may we all grow in grace and knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.

I believe Jim would like to say something now.

JIM SMITH SPEAKS:

I’m going to try and condense 65 years into just a few moments. My Dad was a simple man, but he was strong in character. He taught me things as a child and also as a man. You know, he taught me how to fish, and how to change a tire; all those things a father teaches a son. He taught me how to play the guitar, and that has been a source of joy for 55 years for me. The most important thing he taught me - I didn’t realize until I was in my 40s - he told me that when you shake a man’s hand and you agree to something that it is a contract and it is just as valid as if it had been written on paper.

I remember just after graduation from high school, I got my first full-time job he wanted to know what kind of job he put his hand on my shoulder and said “You make sure you give them a full day’s work.” I didn’t realize what he was saying until I was in my 40s.

You know you can watch someone and, without them saying a word, you can understand their character, and that was my Dad. I watched him get up from a meal and clean the table and do the dishes. I felt like that was something I should do also, because that was my Dad.

He never talked about the war, as Tom said. In January of ‘66 my friend and I - that’s when Vietnam was going and the draft was going - we knew that we were next and we decided we would go to the Marine Corps. I came home and told Dad what we were going to do. He sat down at the dining room table with us for a couple of hours, and it was the first time in my life he ever talked about World War II. He talked about conditions in a fox hole, you were neck deep in water, going for days with wet clothes on, and eating his food out of a tin can; and, if you wanted to shave, it was cold water out of his helmet. He said “I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I would suggest that you look at the Air Force or the Navy.” So, we went in the Navy. We didn’t go into the Marines. But I can count the times he talked about the WWII on the fingers of one hand, and have fingers left over. He just did not discuss it.

My Dad was my hero. And he taught me everything I needed to know, as a man. I just wish I’d have taken his lessons a little sooner in life, but, thank God, I did do that. He taught me how to be a husband, how to be a father. I know he loved my Mom. And I will miss him.

Good-bye, Dad.

TOM SMITH SPEAKS:

My wife, Kathy, would like to say something now.

KATHY SMITH SPEAKS:

I’ve got a lot written on paper, but I also have some things I didn’t know I was going to say.

Christmas-time, Popa was down the road at rehab, and Tom and I had a talk over about Christmas, because we always spend it with my parents. But, even so, we decided that we wouldn’t be together this year, that it was time, that he had to be with his parents. And, some things kind of opened up, and it looked like that he was going ahead and join me for Christmas Eve. So, he got here about 10 o’clock Christmas Eve and spent Christmas with me, as we’d done for many years. At noon , he got in his truck and he came back to San Antonio and took his lovely Mother to see her husband and have Christmas Dinner with him. I know nobody else who would’ve done that, and the million other things that people won’t know that he did for his parents. He is the epitome of “Honor your father and mother, and your days upon the Earth will be long.”

When I was at Christmas at my parents’ house - I don’t speak to people well in a crowd, I can speak one-on-one, and I have a hard time - but I learned Christmas when I got up and talked to my family about losing my son, and being the first Christmas, and how it was with Tom’s daughter, and then Popa was sick, and I said “I know we are a close family, but we don’t always speak it, and we need to speak it more, because time is moving on, moving on, it won’t stop. And, that we need to speak the name of the Lord Jesus Christ a lot more.”

And, so, for – I don’t know how many days it’s been – a long time I’ve watched my husband put together everything that you see. And, I’ve helped him as much as I could, and, a good little note myself, because I knew I wanted to speak; I had done it at Christmas at my parents’ house, and then I realized that I can do it. And, so, Tuesday night he was out of town, and I knew that was my opportunity to sit down and write something of my own. I scribbled in some things, I jotted down. And, I thought, “How can you talk? What can you say? Because, there’s so much about him, and so much that I like?” So, I prayed for God the Holy Spirit to fill me with what I needed to say. And, He did. And, I sat down and wrote. The version that I have is the first version, with no re-doing of it. So, this is it.

I picked one little chapter in my life that I shared with Popa. When I first met him, I used to call him “Red,” but the last few years he was Popa to me.

The man, sitting alone at the table, watching the woman walking toward him, with eyes not so clear as in his youth, said, “Is that you?”

The woman said, “Yes, it’s me.”

He said, “I’m glad you’re here. Have you had your supper yet?”

She said, “No, not yet.”

She sat down beside him, and mostly just kept him company, while he slowly, ever so slowly, ate his meal. Once in a while, he would say the familiar words, “This has a good taste to it.”

Sometimes, he would ask the woman how Grandma was.

Then, he would recognize it was getting dark outside, and would say “I guess I better lay down now.”

The woman would push him in his wheelchair down the long hall into his room, and to his bed by the window. She would tuck him into bed, and pin the call light for the nurse on his sheet next to him. Then she would adjust his pillow and blankets, and he would say, “Now that feels right. You better get on home now, it’s dark. You be careful driving home.”

And the woman smiled and hugged him, and say, “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And he would say, “Thank you, Kathy.”

Such was the evening routine of Popa the first weeks in rehab after his fall. It was my privilege to be part of that routine every night for a week, because Tom was out of town with work. I was blessed with that private time with him, and it’s become a very precious memory for me. I didn’t know what the future held at that time, but I knew and I sensed that this was a very special time and unique. I think I fell a little in love with him that week. I never had that much time alone with him. And all that week I watched his quiet dignity, his polite manness, and always the “Thank you” for all the things that were done for him. I observed the manner in which he seemed to accept his situation with such poise and graciousness.

I knew him for 18 ½ years, not so very long. But those years filled a lifetime for me. I got to know him almost as well as my own father. The “greatest generation” they are called, and indeed he was one of them. The farm boy, home from the “Great War,” who simply came home and continued the simple life he had always lived. He was an example to me and all who knew him, of how to live life to the fullest without much money, power, or any other trappings of life that people yearn for these days. The things in his life that mattered most were his Lord and Savior, his beloved wife and children, his large extended family, and love of a country he would have died for.

Horace Garlton Smith, you most definitely heard from your Lord, “Well done, my good and faithful servant,” when you left your earthly home and entered into your eternal one.

But let me say now, he is in Heaven at this moment, not because he was an outstanding man, and he did good all his life. It is for one reason alone, and this is it. This is what he believed:

“For by grace you have been saved, through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, that no one should boast.” Ephesians 2: 8-9

I’m so glad to see so many people come and honor this man. He has a story that only God knows, and we know some of it.

Thank you.

Popa, I salute you.

TOM SMITH SPEAKS:

Kera, his granddaughter, and, we could talk another hour about that man, but I think Kera will be the last one.

KERA BELL SPEAKS:

My fondest childhood memories were times spent at Grandma and Popa's house, a modest, double-wide mobile home set on maybe a half acre or so in Rowlett, Texas. Yet, to me and my sister, Kyla, Grandma and Popa's house was a magical place where imagination ran wild and the trees in the yard seemed to bend down for us to climb up upon and hold their branches strong to keep us safe for countless hours of play.

Some of my earliest memories were when Popa was still working for Texas Instruments, and he would leave to go to work at what seemed to my sister and I to be the middle of the night, but was probably around 4:30 or 5:00. In the summer months, when we weren't in school and spending time at their house, Kyla and I insisted that Grandma wake us up to watch her ritual of making Popa fried egg sandwiches that she would wrap in wax paper and pack in Popa's black, metal lunch box that he would take to work. The background music to this daily ritual came from a stereo cabinet receiver that was always playing classic country music. I remember, through sleepy eyes, watching Popa leave with his lunch box in hand as he kissed Grandma goodbye and walk down the front steps and pet Kandi, our dog, and went off to work. If I recall correctly, in all of his years of work, he was only late once, and that was due to bad weather. Unlike his red hair and many other traits, I, unfortunately, did not inherit his trait of punctuality.

For as long as I can recall, Grandma and Popa slept in separate rooms, which I always understood to be a result of Grandma’s snoring and the other curious sounds she made in the night, and she did indeed make many sounds. Unlike Grandma’s room, Popa’s room was like a sacred place, the room that us kids were not supposed to play in. I was always intrigued by Popa’s room; it was always dark with the curtains drawn, not scary, but a sacred place that was to be respected. I do remember snooping in his room and finding some photos in an old cigar box, photos of Popa’s hula-girls, that I assume were taken when he was stationed in the South Pacific. I think I may have gotten into a little bit of trouble for that.

Popa loved his dogs, our family dog Kandi and then Kyla’s dog Keisha. Both dogs spent their later years in the love and care of Grandma and Popa. I remember Keisha would bark for Popa until he gave her a drink, which he always did. He loved those dogs dearly, and they loved him back ten-fold.

Popa loved his family greatly. He loved his grandkids, Kyla, Christy, Charlene, and I. We were like little angels. I remember nothing but love from him. Never a harsh word, only love. He was always joking, laughing, telling funny stories, which were mostly about something silly Grandma did. He had a good sense of humor about things, he always loved to laugh and make you laugh. I remember he would often make a train sound coming down the hallway of that mobile home, just to be silly, I guess.

He would always say "OUW-WEE!!!", which I find myself saying for reasons I can’t fully explain, but I’m sure it’s the same reason that Popa did it.

I thank Popa for being so loving and kind to Kyla. I don’t think he fully understood the struggles she dealt with, but it didn’t matter. He just loved her. And he never passed judgment upon what she did or who she was, just simply loved her. Thank you, Popa, for being so loving and gentle and kind to Kyla, she loved you so very much.

For the past eight years, I’ve watched Popa smile and laugh at my own daughters, two of his great-granddaughters in the same way I know he enjoyed us grandkids. Just this past December 26th, when we visited him at the rehab facility, through weak and weary eyes he smiled and laughed at my daughters, Lily and Lori. He simply adored us kids.

I’m so proud of my Popa, such a good man, as many have said, he fought so strong and bravely for this country in World War II, and received many medals and never, ever boasted about it, in fact said very little about it at all.

I remember most his dedication to our Lord and his family, I will miss his hugs, and him saying, “I love you, Hun, you take good care of yourself and the family.” I promise you Popa...just as you did, I will take care of my family.

I love you so much, and I miss you dearly, but I know you are in Heaven with Kyla and all the others who have passed before us. And I will see you when my time comes.

TOM SMITH SPEAKS:

Alright, at this point I’m going to turn the program back over to the funeral home staff. And we will have our closing prayer out at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery – that’s such a beautiful ring to it.

FORT SAM HOUSTON NATIONAL CEMETERY GRAVESIDE SERVICE

Friday, January 18, 2013

2:30 pm

TOM SMITH SPEAKS:

He was a true hero. He was a patriot. He was an Ambassador for Christ. He was a father who was an example to his sons. He was a husband who was faithful and true to his wife. He was an uncle who was treasured by his nieces and nephews. He was a grandfather who was loved and adored by his grandchildren. And he was a great-grandfather who will be remembered by his great-granddaughters as a true gentleman. Horace Garlton “Red” Smith will now be laid to rest with heroes just like him, true heroes, a band of brothers, to be remembered and honored in perpetuity by his country, by his government, by his comrades-in-arms, by his family, by his wife, and by God Almighty.

Please join me in prayer.

“Heavenly Father, we bow at your throne of grace this Friday afternoon, by our calendar the eighteenth of January 2013, but by Your calendar, the fourteenth day of eternity for Horace Smith. We know that he is with You, and that we must continue our life, and continue to seek your favor in living our lives according to Your plan. We ask that you comfort the family of this good and faithful servant, and that You bless his wife of 67 years with the courage and strength to continue her life until we all meet at this same spot again to commend her spirit into Your hands and into eternal companionship with her husband.

In Christ’s name we submit this prayer,

Amen.”