David W Matteson
M, b. 15 April 1949, d. 22 August 2005
| Father | Richard A Matteson b. 5 Jul 1908, d. 25 Nov 1987 |
| Mother | Madeline Shelp b. 1910, d. 1952 |
| Charts | Shelp Descendants |
| SSN* | His Social Security Number was 206-40-2125. | |
| Birth* | 15 April 1949 | David W Matteson was born on 15 April 1949 at Scranton, Luzerne County, Pennsylvania . |
| Death* | 22 August 2005 | He died on 22 August 2005 at La Junta, Otero County, Colorado, at age 56.1 |
| Note* | He A Brother’s Words Larry's eulogy. August 27, 2005 If we are fortunte, we get to live more than just one life. We grow and change—sometimes so quickly and completely that we look at things in our past and wonder if those things really happened to us, to the people we are now. Looking back at my own life, I see not just one me, but several: my life as a boy with my familiy in Scranton, Pennsylvania; my life as a college student, traveler, and teacher in foreign countries. My present life in San Francisco with Chris. These are some of my lives and I am grateful for them. The Dave Matteson you knew had a rich life here in Colorado as a husband, father, and friend. But he had other lives as well and I would like to share with you something about the lives I knew. Dave’s first life began in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania—a place called Scranton, named after one of the early “founding families.” By the time Dave was born, Scranton itself was experiencing another life. It had transformed from a gritty, energetic industrial hub into an even grittier place of secondary importance—a city that had seemingly lost its reason for being, which was the extraction and transportation of coal. By the time Dave was born, Scranton was struggling, like its citizens, to reinvent itself. In Scranton, as kids when Dave and I introduced ourselves to people, we called ourselves brothers. “Born 18 minutes apart,” we would say proudly. “So, you’re twins,” people would say, looking at us strangely. Then one of us would add to the confusion by asking: “Do you really think I look like HIM?” Life is full of mysteries. And this is one of them. We were brothers and not brothers at the same time. Maybe it was a coincidence. Or another example of how fickle destiny can be. Dave’s mother and my mother were sisters. Madge and Eva Shelp, two fiery siblings from a big family filled with colorful characters, people who laughed hard and worked hard. Like so many others in Scranton, they mined life. By most measures, Madge—Dave’s mother—had a short life. Far too short for Dave. She died of cancer when he was only three. Dave’s dad, Dick, whose other three children were already grown, must have felt helpless with a three year-old, not knowing how to raise a son alone. He tried. But the whole job just became too much for him and he asked for help. That’s when my mother Ev, Dave’s aunt, and my father Jerry offered Dave a new home. A new life. At the age of three, I suddenly had a brother. Someone to play soldiers, swim, and ride bicycles with. And, of course, someone to fight with. Imagine. I was no longer the only child. Now I had to share the spotlight. Vie for my parents’ attention. Dave and I grew to be brothers while we continued as rivals and friends. The old black and white snapshots show us with plenty of Christmas gifts and matching Easter suits. With football gear, baseball bats, and bikes. Like all siblings, we shared both the approval and reprimands of Eva and Jerry Schwab. Who, like Dave and I, were doing the best they could. Soon Dave no longer called my parents Uncle Jerry and Aunt Ev. They became Mom and Dad. As the members of blended families learn, “parent” and “child” are imprecise terms. Naming, like living, is an inexact science. While my father labored as a salesman, tinkered around our house on Woodlawn Street, and played at being a baseball mentor, my mother did just about everything else, especially taking care of her two boys. Meanwhile, Dave and I were fully immersed in the task of growing up. We adopted stray dogs, formed iron-clad bonds with the boys across the street, and stumbled awkwardly into adolescence—with scrapes on our knees and elbows. Covered with iodine. We were boys. We rode bikes, went on hikes, joined the Little League. We made forts and went to summer camp. We swam in lakes and caught lightening bugs in summer and wondered who made the stars. What held the moon up. Why we were alive and what life meant. At school I quickly got the impression that I was meant to succeed. I won the spelling bees and became captain of the crossing guards—my only-ever military position. I watched the approval on my parents’ faces and I basked in the attention. Dave chose another path. He ignored the awards, knowing that competing against his brother would be a full-time job. AND MORE. The different drum beat that people talk about became the music in Dave’s head. And he began marching. He became what we called a “fashion plate.” Someone whose sense of style was cutting edge. He was the first guy I knew to wear Beatle boots. And Cuban heels with cleats. You could hear him coming from blocks away. As a teenager, his pants were the tightest. It must have hurt to wear them, I thought. How did he get them on? Or off? He rolled up his short sleeves to accent his newly formed muscles. His chiseled biceps. I noticed. And so did the girls. Like his natural father (and very unlike mine), Dave had a strut. An attitude. As a teenager, he had mojo. He had show. Sometimes, we—my parents, or a friend like Paul Johnson—would call him on this new persona, the “new” Dave. And he’d laugh with us. Make fun of himself. Which turned into a show. A performance. I have to say, I admired him. He was cool. He was discovering another life with new friends who liked to stay up late and play hard and drive fast. They flirted with danger. Played with fire and laughed it off. They drank and threw cherry bombs and, once in a while, got in trouble with the police. Those of us who obeyed all the rules called them “hoods.” They called us “straight.” Each side had trouble understanding the other. This was in the 1960s and, much like today, a war was looming over the heads of the young like a storm. Then, however, the draft required all young men to go to war. Unless you had connections, or were in college, or moved to Canada or Sweden. Dave was drafted. He did not resist or move. On the contrary, he and two of his buddies saw it as an adventure. A chance to be together. Not as draftees in the Army, but as enlistees in the Marines. They would “serve their country,” as they said. And have a good time in the process. War buddies. I got letters from Dave during that time. I was in college, living a completely different life, in opposition to the Vietnam War, and war in general. Dave didn’t say much about what was happening in Vietnam. He toughed it out and worked hard to stay human in the face of so much destruction. So much fear. He missed his family and friends. He thanked Aunt Nane, Aunt Marion, and his mother for the goodies they sent. He longed to come home. When he did, we were all very grateful. We thanked God. But Dave had changed. The war had changed him. He had lived another of his lives and most of it had not been pretty. He had seen death firsthand. He had been in the middle of it all. After Dave’s return from Vietnam, we became even closer than before. We both had long hair and listened to loud music and seemed to be part of the same thing. Though what that was, exactly, neither of us knew. But clearly, Dave was now against the war and so was I. Were were truly brothers again. When I moved to California, Dave saw this as a chance for a new start. Another life. He followed me and we lived together for a time. We shared friends and he made new ones. We got tan and played on the same softball team. We went to Giants’ games together and ran to the ocean and back. But the scars Dave suffered in Vietnam were never far from the surface. He had nightmares and often drank too much. I became very familiar with the streets from my apartment to the Veterans Hospital at Fort Miley in San Francisco. Then he was getting better. Then worse. Then better again. We argued and laughed and cried through it all. Among all of Dave’s lives, the one that seemed to offer the most hope was the one he made here. It was another new start. A chance to turn things around. He found a woman, Valentina, who loved him for who he was and for who he could be. He adopted a whole family with wonderful children and several relations. He raved about them. He became a father and a protector to his family. He was incredibly proud and happy. Most of you know Dave’s life here much better than I do. He lived with you and among you. With his demons as well as his angels. Here Dave became a living symbol of the Marines. He loved his country and his flag. He became a coach and a member of the church community. He loved trucks and motorcylces. He loved cartoons and comedy shows on TV. He loved you and you loved him. As he did with me, Dave entertained you, confused you, frustrated you. He made you laugh and cry. You couldn’t help feeling his joy and his pain. Sometimes Dave seemed bigger than life, aided by his weights and barbells. He pumped iron religiously. But if you knew him, you understood that under all that muscle was a broken heart. How do you do justice to a person and all his lives in just a few words? I will do my best to finish with this: Dave could surprise you. Just when you thought you had him pegged, he’d come up with something which, in my mother’s words, would “throw you for a loop.” Last October, just before the presidential election, I asked him if he was going to vote. His answer was a resounding “yes.” When I asked him who he was voting for, he didn’t hesitate for a second. “Kerry,” he said. After I got up from the floor, I asked him why. “I believe gays have the right to marry. They’re just people like you and me.” Do you believe it? Dave had flaws but few prejudices. He knew all kinds of people and made friends wherever he was. He had an open heart and an open mind. All he asked is that you be honest and true. Because he was. Dave, dammit. Why can’t you be here to hear this? |
Citations
- [S479] David W Matteson, 206-40-2125, U.S. Social Security Death Index, Family Search.