Richard Travis Jerome

Richard Travis Jerome, 86, made his final departure on November 2, 2020 at his home in La Habra Heights California. He cheated death a number of times, bravely fighting his way back from serious health issues through sheer force of will. He never gave up, never backed down. A self made man, Richard found joy in the company he built, the exploits of his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, his friends, and numerous hobbies, which included running quarter-scale trains. Neighbors would come from all over the Heights to catch a ride on the Jerome Express, which encircles his property.

Richard was born in Downey, California. The family (Josephine, Howard Sr., and Howard Jr.,) owned a feed store in the area. His father, Howard Sr., also worked at an ice house. Richard could often be seen riding around the neighborhood astride his mule, with his dog Major and pet spider monkey along for the ride. At fifteen, he started working after school and on weekends for his Uncles’ company, Baker Commodities. Through this job, adventures beyond Downey opened up to him after high school.

At nineteen, two major life events occurred: His father Howard Sr. died in January. In October, he married Donna, the little red-headed girl who grew up across the street. In 1963, he began to build what became Southwest Processors/Southwest Treatment in Vernon, California. From there on, he was never again an employee. From 1963 through 2020, he was a proud business owner. His responsibilities took him to the Philippines, Japan, Hong Kong, Marshall Islands, Mazatlan, Australia, and up and down the California coast - often behind the wheel of a truck. He and Donna had three children, Jeff, Sue, and Jonna. In 1965, the family moved to La Habra Heights, where he and Donna resided ever since. Their 1920’s ranch house required some serious renovations, which Richard managed with the help of family and friends.

Over the years, in addition to the Jeromes, this homestead hosted eight dogs, five horses, two ponies, two turtles, three goats, 25 guinea fowl, countless chickens, and at one point at least 30 cats. The wilder visitors included hawks, raccoons, possums, rabbits, bobcats, coyotes, snakes and deer. Richard was always rescuing orphaned or injured animals. One of the oddest was an old turkey named "The Colonel," who followed him around like a puppy. Donna drew the line when he tried to bring home a baby elephant.

Richard took opportunities to give back to the community that he grew to love so dearly. Beginning in 1969, he served in the La Habra Heights Volunteer Fire Department as a volunteer fireman, maintenance officer, and Assistant Chief. In 1973 he took on the role as Chief for ten years. He renovated and donated several of the vehicles used for emergency response. Richard encouraged his wife Donna to become an EMT and create the first Rescue Squad in the Heights. His son Jeff became a fireman, and his oldest daughter Sue served on the women’s auxiliary. The Jerome household had a fire engine in the front yard, and a dispatch radio and red “fire phone” for emergency calls in the living room.

Richard also dabbled in many spin-off ventures and partnerships. He had ideas that he never took to the patent office, that would later show up in commercial use. He possessed a generous and entrepreneurial spirit, quick to lend a hand, tools, equipment, or finances to help others get on their feet. He thrived on finding new or better ways to do things or fix a problem. He said he figured out most of the answers to a challenge in his dreams, and implemented them during the day.

Richard always had an innate curiosity to understand how things worked, and an interest in hearing people’s stories. He had a passion for creating things with his own hands, and a natural ability for it, especially in woodworking. This enabled him to build everything from a canoe to clocks, and many types of furniture. He attended a boat building school in Canada and learned the finesse in crafting canoes and kayaks. He was later asked to go to Belize to apply his skills, and helped a team build a racing canoe to compete in an annual race.

Richard always loved an adventure. He rode horses. He took a course in a flight simulator to operate a plane. He played blackjack and poker in Laughlin, Nevada. He went on numerous fishing trips, including salmon fishing in Alaska. Despite Donna’s fear of flying, they travelled out of state to visit friends, and made it across the Pond to England. They also took road trips to Portland, Oregon, the Grand Canyon, tribal lands in the southwest desert, and enjoyed spending time at their cabin in Wrightwood.

Quite simply, Richard loved life. He enjoyed simple pleasures - cheeseburgers and saltwater taffy; classic westerns and Jeopardy; and working on his trains. Not necessarily in that order. He rarely complained; instead, he looked for solutions and worked to put a positive spin on difficult situations. The few things he was known to dislike were cake, complicated TV remotes, and phone solicitors. Not necessarily in that order.

Relatives and friends are encouraged to share their memories of Richard today. The family would also welcome letters or emails with your own stories about how Richard was a part of your life.

Unchained of his mortal bounds, Richard Jerome departed this Earth free to seek all the answers in the afterlife, and figure out how things work there. He can reunite with his otherworldly family and friends. He leaves behind his wife, Donna; his children, Jeff Jerome and his wife Carla, Susan Alfonso and her husband Armando, and Jonna Jerome and her husband Andrew Spilsbury; nine grandchildren; and seven great-grandchildren. His strong presence will be deeply missed.

_________________________________________________________

Eulogy ~ Jonna Jerome, daughter:

I want to thank everyone for braving the global pandemic to be here today in honor of my dad, Richard Jerome. So, I’ve heard some people fear public speaking more than death. You can imagine what public speaking in the face of death feels like. Today my fear is that trying to pay tribute to my dad in the way he deserves, or sum up the breadth of his life, seems impossible in a small speech - it just feels puny.

All I can offer is what he meant to me - and hope some of it resonates with you. I also hope some of you will also share - without worrying about public speaking. No one will mind if you stutter.

I want to start with a poem that always made me think of my dad. “Nothing Gold Can Stay” by Robert Frost.

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

This describes how fragile life is - and that everything and all of us come to pass. My dad has always been “gold” to me. Saying goodbye to his earthly presence seems unfathomable. The reality that he is not a drive away, or at the other end of the phone will take some getting used to. Whenever I called he answered with “Hi, kid. How you doing?” It wasn’t just words - he wanted to hear all about my trials and tribulations, my kids, or my dog. Not being able to be his “kid” in the here and now feels odd. It may sound ridiculous at my age, but the world seemed a safer place and all was semi-right because I could talk to him about it. He was the one person I didn’t have to be a grown up around. I’ve lost my anchor. I can’t go home again.

There are many things I admired in my dad, and topping the list was his curiosity about the world, people, and how things work. He could make friends with complete strangers he encountered - whether on a plane, train, bench, restaurant booth, and most recently, the barista at the drive- through Starbucks. And then he would likely bring them a bag of avocados from his orchard. He never lost that. Those who visited him were typically asked how they were doing and what they were up to. I was not in the car, but my sister said even on the last drive to San Diego, after being told he might have 90 days to live, he enjoyed the ride, pointing out places he’d been along the route, and commenting on the changes he saw. Still interested, still engaged.

One of my favorite stories that illustrates his ability to strike up a conversation with just about anyone came up one evening when we were watching TV together. Entertainment Tonight was on, and they were doing a segment on Jurassic Park, and interviewing the director Stephen Spielberg. Suddenly dad said “Hey, there’s Steve!” I was momentarily lost. “What?” “We were called to pump fake blood out a set at Universal Studios, and Steve drove me all over that place in a jeep.” I had to confirm this. “Stephen Spielberg drove you all over Universal Studios in a Jurassic Park Jeep?” “Sure, we had lunch and he got me the best damn tuna melt I ever had - off a food truck! Nice guy.” That was my dad’s takeaway. Now I’m sure Stephen Spielberg had a pretty pleasant afternoon, hanging out with someone who didn’t recognize him as a famous, or if he did, wasn’t affected by it. Someone who just enjoyed his company while swapping stories over tuna melts. He likely got a bag of avocados too.

My dad new knew just enough about most things to be dangerous - and if he didn’t know the answers, he would make something up that sounded so plausible you wouldn’t know the difference…sometimes ever. He could shoe a horse, drive a tractor, craft almost anything out of wood, make his own bullets for his antique rifles, or cook your breakfast - no sweat.

Even when he was critically sick - he never lost his personality or determination. There was a point in the hospital when one of his lungs had collapsed, and he had to wear this crazy Star Wars-esque mask to inflate it. He kept pointing at it, obviously wanting it off. I was tearfully explaining that it he could pass away quickly if we removed it. He nodded that he understood this, but he wanted it off anyway. Preparing for the worst, I took time to drone on and on about my feelings for him, and that if he was tired of the fight I understood his decision. Well, then mask came off. He gave me an exasperated look, complete with classic eye roll and said “I was just trying to tell you the mask was leaking out of the right side.” Nothing like totally misreading the situation! I should have known better, because this man never gave up. This is something I have learned from him - and try to emulate. There’s times you have to somehow summon up strength and courage when you least feel capable of it. Like right now.

I do wish there had been more profound talks about his wishes or what lies beyond, but it really was the little things that spoke volumes. Having him reach for my hand, or having him wink at me during some really embarrassing situations. And sure, sometimes he was crabby as hell because of his limitations. He just wanted to feel his feet on the ground. I don’t believe he exhibited fear at any point of his journey - just fierce that determination right up until the final days.

When I was sick, he accompanied me out of state, even though he had so much hardware in his own body he had to go through a special entrance to stop setting off all the alarms at the airport. He was always there in a pinch. He would often apologize for being such a pain in the ass during his many hospital stays. My sister very eloquently said, “If it was one of us in that bed, you would be here.” She also famously told many of the staff who seemed incapable of communicating - “This man is not Mr. Rogers. This is John Wayne, and you need to give it to him straight. Stop blowing smoke up his skirt.” Actually the skirt part was my addition. As for dad, even in the worst moments when asked how he was he’d say, “I’m a little under the rainbow. I’m am a little bit old, you know.” And there would be that twinkle in his eye.

He had a lot of little sayings unique to him. His signature line when parting was always “be good.” I loved the fact it used to scare the bejabbers out of anyone I dated when I lived at home. One time my husband said “be good” to dad before he got it out, and he was so flustered that Andy never did it again. That’s his sign-off.

When it became clear the hospital could not help him, we brought him home. He wanted to gather his family and friends together and share a beer. This was terrifying, because the doctors had told us if he ate or drank anything he would aspirate. Yet dad proceeded to chug a beer! Later he pulled out his feeding tube and began eating food. That included a crunch wrap from Taco Bell. He asked me, “You know what I’m doing, don’t you?” And I replied, “Yes dad. I know exactly what you’re doing.” And that was proving those “bastards” wrong. If he was going out, he was going to do it his way.

Leading up to this day was messy, I’m afraid. Not neatly tied up in a bow. We really aren’t taught how to deal with death the way we are prepared for other things in life. Our family, like most, has had our share of messy. Dad could be explosive or sweet, and sometimes both at the same time. And relationships are complex. As adults we can choose what to carry with us, and what to let go. I have an abundance of good to carry with me. In the end, what matters and what remains is love. That’s what brings us together today, and I’m grateful dad was able to have his family close, and have a beer, before the last curtain.

Richard T. Jerome was not a man to go quietly into that good night. He raged against the dying of the light with everything he had. He wanted to get better. There were still things he wanted to do. Kids to see grow up. A big garden to plant. Trains to run. And still so many questions…

“How will I know when I’m dead”? Having never been dead, that stumped us. I reminded him that he had been clinically dead once before, what did he see? He replied that he must not have been dead long enough. He also instructed us he wanted “Kick some ass” on his headstone. I’m not sure if he meant it’s hard to die and life kicks your ass, or go kick some ass while you’re alive. It doesn’t matter. Both are fitting. Let me tell you, John Wayne had nothing over Richard Jerome.

The last two nights of his life, he appeared to be having conversations with his mom. I find this comforting - because it seems right that grandma would be the one to come collect him. Many people see their loved ones who are no longer with us when they are close to death. This is called a hallucination. Yet who’s to say they aren’t really there?

During one visit, dad said “I thought the next time I saw you, I’d be an angel.” Well, this time you are, dad. And I hope you let your presence be known. I will miss you every day of my life, as will those here today. Until then, be good.

_________________________________________________________

Andy Spilsbury ~ son-in-law

Richard Jerome. I hardly ever called him Richard. I never called him Rich or Rick. I would never even think about calling him Dick. I never called him Dad, and “Dad-in-Law” might be accurate but it’s awkward to say.

I almost always called him Grandpa. If you would’ve asked me why I would have said it made it easier to refer to him as Grandpa since that’s what my kids called him.

But that’s not the real reason. To me he was a grandpa. Someone who made a bad situation a little bit better. Someone who evened the playing field when life wasn’t fair. If an extra twenty bucks was the answer, he’d slip you a twenty. If you needed a guy to do a thing, he had the phone number for the guy (along with a good story of how they met). If it was advice you needed, he’d give it to you. If it was him asking the right question so you could make the right decision, he’d ask it.

Yesterday a friend at work posed this question: What’s the best gift you ever received? I’ve been thinking a lot about Grandpa lately so I started thinking about the gifts he gave me over the years. Not the ones Grandma & Grandpa gave me but the ones where Grandpa saw a need (even if I hadn’t seen it yet) and he bought me something to fill that need.

One of those gifts was the best gift I ever received. But first I want to mention some oversized gifts that slightly missed the mark.

Back when Jackson was about 5 years old he and I were about to go car camping with other Adventure Guide dads and sons. I had some old sleeping bags from the 1970’s that we were gonna use. Not good enough, Grandpa thought. He brought over two sleeping bags for us. Brand new from Cabella’s. They were big cloth rectangular bags. Not 3-season bags but heavy 4-season bags good for zero-degree weather. We were camping in Yucaipa, not Alaska, but OK. I unrolled the first one and held it up against me. It was about as tall as I was. I said, “This will fit me perfect. Thanks Grandpa.” “No, that one is for the boy. The other one is for you.” I unrolled the other one. It was an extra large. At least 7 feet long.

A couple days later he returned and gave me a new tent. He must not have trusted my old tent either. Remember, this tent is just for a 5-year old and me. 2 of us. The tent he gave us was a 6-man tent. It was huge. I never lost sight of our tent that weekend. It was the biggest, tallest tent there.

Another time he saw me working in the house on an old aluminum ladder. It was a fine ladder, I still have it. But he had a better ladder in mind. He soon gave me a Little Giant ladder, capable of numerous configurations and lengths - an A-frame or straight extension, or a scaffold, stretching anywhere from 5.5 feet to 22 feet. It’s a great ladder to be sure, but it also weighs 60 pounds and I get winded just carrying it up the stairs. For most jobs around the house I grab my old aluminum ladder first.

Again, like the camping gear, the ladder was way more than was necessary. I think I figured out Grandpa’s motto, his creed, for gift giving - “It might be more than you need, but it will never be less.”

I think you could stretch that a little bit and it would be a pretty good representation of his life and his relationships to his friends and family. “I might give you more than you need, but I’ll never give you less.”

So with this backdrop in mind I had my expectations set slightly low on one Christmas afternoon at Sue and Mando’s house. Grandpa handed me a small box. It was a pocket knife. And it was… perfect. It wasn’t too big or bulky, too flashy, too heavy. It was a stainless steel gentleman’s pocket knife with a single locking blade. A Buck Knife model 526. It was thin and sleek and practical and useful.

So how did Grandpa know to give me this perfect gift? I never asked for a pocket knife but in a way i was literally asking for a knife, EVERY SINGLE Christmas and birthday party when the kids opened their presents from Grandma & Grandpa and I kept borrowing Grandpa’s pocket knife to help the kids unbox their new treasures.

I walked around with that knife in my pocket for a year or so. Almost lost it a few times. In the washing machine, down in between the couch cushions, down a movie theatre seat, etc. I started worrying about permanently losing it or what a catastrophe it would be to have it confiscated at airport security.

So, I took it out of my pocket and I put it in a drawer. And I left it there. For about 10 or 12 years. The thought of losing it was so great that I stopped using it altogether. That’s kinda messed up.

Then Grandpa passed 3 weeks ago and I started thinking more and more about that knife.

I thought about what Grandpa would have said if I ever told him that I didn’t carry it with me because it was too precious to risk losing. You can tell me your thoughts - there are plenty of people who know him better and longer than me - but I think he would have said something like “If you hide it away and never use it, it’s like you never had it.”

So I got that knife out of the drawer and I started carrying it around in my pocket again. It feels good. Everytime I touch it or feel it in my pocket I think of Grandpa. He feels close by. And it makes me smile.

Grandpa believed in me more than I believed in myself back when I was a younger husband and father and general handyman around the house. Sure, more than once he told me I had “more dollars than sense,” but knowing he was looking after me kept me on track and in line. Life is easier with a guy like that in your corner.

So I will continue to carry that knife in my pocket and I might lose it someday. That would be sad but I’d get over it. Because it’s not really about the knife. It never was. It’s about the memories of Grandpa and how much he cared for his family and his friends.