08/02/2021
Here is the eulogy that I gave at the memorial on Sunday. Thank you all for coming.
My dad was born in Detroit on July 25, 1953 to Marjorie and Clay Keeton, both of Tennessee. He was the third of seven children, and is survived by Jeff, Joel, Jamie, Jerrold and Jennifer, and joined his sister Janet on January 12 of this year. I know many of you remember my dad as a kid, and might have even been an actor in some of the stories he told me - and he told me plenty.
He spent a lot of time bumming around with his best friend Johnny Aote, and they’re probably hitchhiking a golden road right now. From what I can gather, much of my dad’s youth was spent hanging out, playing the guitar, listening to music, and hitching rides down south, sometimes just for breakfast. Eventually that carefree life came to an end when his draft number came up, and he joined the Navy. He was stationed a few places while he was in, but when he got out, he came back home to Hazel Park.
In 1975, he married my mom, Dana, who lived just down the street, and together they moved to the wild west - Phoenix, AZ where I was born in 1980. He and my mom divorced a couple years later, but stayed great friends, and he stayed in Phoenix and got into broadcasting. He started working in television, working his way up from master control to management, and eventually finding his niche in sales.
I think it was a little surprising to him that he ended up being a salesman, but for those of us who knew him, it’s no surprise - he loved talking to people about nothing for hours.
It was while working at the TV station that he met Tori, my step-mom. They got married in 1988, and had their first child Cole in 1989, who was soon followed by Marjorie in 1992 and Harrison in 1993. Together they moved to Tennessee and then Nebraska. After he and Tori divorced in the early 2000s, my dad really wanted to go back down south, and eventually bought a group of radio stations in Tompkinsville, KY.
Now, for those of you that visited my dad there, you know that T-ville is a little remote, but it was just that remoteness that suited my dad. Life was slower, there was time to go for long, beautiful drives, time to talk to folks about how their day was going, and time to just generally take it easy, which you all know was one of my dad’s favorite mottos.
After he got sick, my siblings and I tried to get him to move to a less secluded location, but he would have none of it. I remember sitting with him on his porch a few months after he got back home, watching the sun go down, and him saying, “this - just this - you can’t get this in the city.” And he was right - for him there were too many distractions in the city to just sit and appreciate the beauty of the world. In many ways, my dad lived in constant reverence of the natural world around him - being off the beaten path meant that he had the time to appreciate all of it without being disturbed.
So that is a super brief overview of 67 years in the life of a man that we all held so dear. I know it’s been hard for all of us to live in a world without Jon Keeton, and I have no words to describe what I’ve lost. So when I began the task of writing a eulogy, it was very difficult. All that kept coming to mind were facts i just laid out. It took a good deal of reflection to realize that the purpose of a eulogy, or at least this eulogy, is to put into words what we lost when my dad died, and how, through knowing and loving him, he can still be with us.
And so what I’d like to talk about today are some of the qualities of my dad that I’m sure we all experienced, and that I will remember, reflect on and try to learn from for the rest of my life.
Bob Dylan said that a man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night and in between he does what he wants to do. Stretching this axiom from one day to a lifetime does a pretty good job of describing the way my dad lived. My dad told me on my wedding day not to plan too much - take things as they come. Now, my dad was not a detailed planner, as many of you know, and I’ll admit that I didn’t totally understand the advice at the time, but now I think I understand - he moved through life with a great curiosity, and planning too much could prevent changing course to explore a new thing, or have a new experience that piqued his interest.
My dad was a student of life - he found something new to learn every day, and from everyone. It was not uncommon for him to have extended conversations with people he just met - more than one person has told me that Jon Keeton never met a stranger. He approached people with a kindness, and openness that allowed him to connect with others on a very personal level in a very short period of time. He always seemed interested in what they had to say, and how they felt about things, and that wasn't an act - my dad was genuinely interested in people’s stories, and sharing in the human experience.
Through the process of thinking about what to say today, I realized that my dad was also a risk taker. Whether it was moving to new places, or buying dubious cars that might not make it to the destination, each day for him was a blank page, an adventure to be had, and a memory making opportunity. This was especially apparent after he got sick - he was always willing to take a risk just for the chance to see the next tomorrow. And I think that is because he had so much still to learn, and so much love to give to his family and friends. He was always interested in what they were all up to - his favorite way to pass the time was listening to music, and talking for hours with those he loved about nothing and everything.
He told me last year that he loved driving, without a destination, just to see what he could see. It was with a sense of awe that he continued that a person could go down the same road a hundred times and still see something new if they just paid attention. He also said that it was better to share those experiences with someone else, and not to keep them to yourself. It’s pretty clear that this is not just literal advice, but applies to every aspect of life. I’m sure that each and every one of us can remember a conversation with him about something he just saw, or did, or learned that he found interesting, and he wanted us to know. It was through those conversations that he was taking us with him down the road.
67 years is too short, especially for someone like my dad who lived in wonder and curiosity. I think that he’d want me to express to you all his deep gratitude for your loving support, not just after he got sick, but throughout his life. We all accompanied him on his journey.
I took a trip to Kentucky to gather the thoughts I’m sharing with you today, and as I sat writing this in the Kentucky rain, of course I felt the tremendous loss for a man who was not only my father and teacher, but also a dear friend. I am humbled and grateful to see so many of his other beloved traveling companions here today, to be able to share this part of my trip with you. May you all look forward to the many tomorrows to come, where we are not alone, but have our own families, and friends, and his memory to keep us company along the way.
I learned a lot about life just by watching how my dad approached people and situations, and I know that I don’t just speak for myself when I say that I owe a deep gratitude to my dad for allowing me to be with him in the end - to see and experience the full circle of life, and to learn how to approach an unknown situation without fear or resignation, but rather with curiosity and appreciation.
These are the qualities that I hope you remember most about my dad, when you hear a song that he loved, or think of his smile. I don’t have any comforting words on death to leave you with, because the thing that is important, and was important to my dad, was life. To that end, I would say, slow down, take it easy, keep an eye out for the new thing to be seen. Share the wonder you experience with those you love, and remember that even though all individual things pass away, strive on, untiringly. I think my dad would say, keep on keeping on. Thanks.
