The Second, Second Best Blog

When my uncle died in June (2002), I was asked to deliver the eulogy. It was a small funeral in Hemet and, I’m embarrassed to say, I was late. A few photocopies of my effort were made afterward. My uncle Dar deserved better. I hope this page is seen by all who were a part of his life…

The name on his birth certificate is “Darllo Archie Fuller”, but most everyone knew him as “Dar”. He was “Uncle Dar” to me. We weren’t that close – the Fullers are kind of an independent bunch, scattered over the western states with different lines of work and incompatible religions. At the end, I was closest as the crow flies, and that will have to suffice.

The family members in my generation are independent by choice, but in Dar’s time it was more a matter of survival. On one of our infrequent meetings, he told me the story of his “Independence Day” – my description, not his – when he was sixteen. The year was 1932. His mother had died of tuberculosis, making him an orphan along with his two younger brothers and one sister, their father Archie having died some six years earlier. He was the oldest, so he took up an observation post in an old oak tree in back of the house where he could see the comings and goings of the adults and hear the discussions of who was going where. Dale was going to live with Aunt Evelyn in Salt Lake, Caroline with an uncle in Southern California, and Vernie was headed for Susanville with Thad Coonie. At the end of the day, “there was no place for Dar” – his words, not mine. He spent the night in the tree and set off alone the next morning.

He made a living fighting for a while. His youngest brother Vern, my father, later told me Dar had a short temper and a powerful arm in those days. But it wasn’t too long before he joined the California Conservation Corp and applied his strength more productively building Ortega Highway.

In the years between the CCC and the first time I remember meeting him, he tried a variety of occupations. He worked for McDonnel Douglas during World War II. Later, he had his own electronics store in Monrovia. He could build and repair most anything. Somewhere in there, he married Virginia Pizzo and they had a daughter, Darlene. He developed a fondness for horses and hunting. He became a devout Mormon. He and Virginia divorced and he married Kelly. I was a little afraid of him at first when he came to our place in Lassen County for some deer hunting. He was much bigger than my father. He brought a couple of large rifles, the first I had ever seen. He drove a propane-powered pickup truck with a camper. He had tools and knew how to use them. He drank Ovaltine, not coffee. His wife, Kelly, was the most strikingly attractive lady I had ever seen. He made a strong impression.

Eventually Dar settled here in Hemet. He became a real estate broker and appraiser and did some teaching at the college. It was at the college that he met Elizabeth Gibbs who became his third wife. He bought a boat and chartered it for fishing trips out of San Diego for a while. Genealogy occupied his spare time, then became a reason to learn about computers, and finally, a passion. I made the trip from Mission Viejo over Ortega Highway a few times and helped with his computers.

After Liz died, just last year, my wife and I drove to Dar’s home in Hemet. The wizened old man who answered the door was – a shock. He was no bigger than me. His head was shaved. He wore trifocal glasses and could barely hear. But he broke into a big smile when he recognized us. He walked slowly and needed help getting in and out of his recliner. He was nearly exhausted, having spent part of every day for several weeks driving to Redlands to be with Liz in the hospital. It was difficult to have a conversation. He never asked for help, but was very appreciative when it was given.

As we sat in his living room having some sandwiches for lunch, I couldn’t help thinking of the strong, capable deer hunter and his raven-haired wife. I told Dar that I always thought Kelly was a very classy lady. He replied, “Yes, she was.” And then he began, slowly at first, to answer my unspoken question. The transformation that occurred as he told the story of their parting was remarkable. Sitting before me once again was the strong and capable man I remembered from my boyhood.

Now that he has left us, I hope he is in a better place – and I know he will not be forgotten.

- Jerry Fuller, Mission Viejo, June 19, 2002