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Frank R. Hamilton, Jr. Obituary

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Frank R. Hamilton, Jr.

Delaware, Ohio

January 15, 1948 - July 6, 2024

Frank R. Hamilton, Jr. Obituary

My dad can fix anything. This was my mantra from the time I was little. Whether it was a toy I loved or a broken heart, I thought my dad could fix anything. Of course, I thought that because he told me so. And, typically, he could fix nearly anything.


Dad was a problem solver. I was graced with this gene too. I am not sure if it is a gift or a curse. You can ask my wife about my problem solving and depending on the day, I suppose, that answer may vary. As an adult, I cherished this trait in him as I shared with him every life problem. Sometimes the best solution he had was to sit with me in those spaces.


Dad was a mathematician. He could figure out any math problem you might have. He could also create ones that you did not have. His mind never stopped figuring things out.


Dad was a chess player. He played chess on a board at his weekly chess club. He also played chess in his life, always trying to make the best next move. He was discerning and thoughtful in everything.


Dad was an unusual man. He formed deep, meaningful friendships with other men. I learned that sitting at his bedside, for sure, but always knew that about him. All my life my dad had great friends. Friends he shared his life with. Friends that bore witness to his life and he theirs. His friends knew him; really knew him.


Dad took that same approach with us, as his children. Our relationship with him was never surface. From family dinners growing up to sitting next to him at a bar as an adult, we jumped right in the deep end. He knew everything about our lives, not because we poured our hearts out every chance we got, but because he asked. He was curious about us, about me, all of the time.


There were certainly times when this was less than ideal. Coming home after curfew and finding a post-it note on your bedroom door insisting on a ‘talk’ the next day was panic inducing. I learned to greet him with a meeting agenda for such occasions, just like he did with me. He taught me meaningful communication in those moments. He taught me how to take our ruptures and make repairs. I did not know it then, but those were the moments that made us strong, together.


Dad was organized and meticulous. He can tell you, down to the penny, how much money he has spent on McDonalds, for instance, over the last 20 years. In his garage, if you removed his saw, you would find an outline of said saw with the words ‘where is my saw?’


Dad’s career in water treatment meant that he managed people, a lot of people. He visited their plants, always treating those spaces as if he was visiting someone’s home. He gave his people the confidence and tools to excel under him. He did that for his kids too.


Dad was a black and white rule follower. When I turned 16 he handed me a printed copy of the city’s curfew ordinance. This was how our house was run. However, he broke the rules when it meant doing the right thing. He took care of people when they needed it.


Dad was a teacher, at his core. Because of him, I can rewire a lamp and set a toilet. He never hesitated to teach me any chance he got. Often teaching the ‘hard way’ before divulging that there is, indeed, an easy short cut to nearly everything.


Dad was a devoted partner to his love, Linda. He was the ‘man’ of the house but in that meant that his lady would never have to kneel in the bathroom to clean the tub. His love for Linda was echoed in everything. Gratefully, that love was greeted and reciprocated by her. 


Dad was loved as much as he loved.


Dad was a bourbon drinker, long before it was cool. He and I, no matter the time or the day, shared a bourbon every time we were together. Sitting at the Hamburger Inn on farmers’ market mornings or on our porch when he and Linda would bring lunch to the farmhouse; bourbon. It was about the only time that either of us drank at all, but it was our thing, always. A toast and a nip.


Dad loved music. When his first granddaughter was born he lived in California. Before cell phones, calls were intentional and well planned. On every call he would ask me, ‘are you playing music for that babe?’ Of course, the answer was yes.

In his final days, his kids, Kenny, my wife Jessie and I, played all of his favorite albums in the hope that he could hear them and be comforted. I know the words to every song. I hear his voice singing them in my head.


Dad left us in a whirlwind. Diagnosed with bladder cancer four years ago, he overcame. Then in June that same cancer had taken over his liver. The news was sudden and we scarcely could take it in before he was gone from us. He passed away on the 6th of July, as the sun was going down, listening to Chicago, Charlie Rich and The Lovin’ Spoonful. He was surrounded by his love, Linda, and his children.


Dad is survived by his fiancé, Linda Tudor, his children Frances-Jo Hamilton (Jessica Mathews), Kenneth Hamilton, his grandchildren Frances Marie Hamilton (James Spears), Serenity Hamilton, his great grandchild, Delilah Sage Hamilton, his sister, Sandra (Jon) Burnside, brother Dana (Terry) Walter, and Sister in Law, Donna Hamilton.


Dad was preceded in death by his son, Frank R. Hamilton III, his brother, Bob Hamilton and his parents, Frank R. Hamilton Sr. (Judy Hamilton), Mary Walter (William Walter). 


Memorial services will be held at the Hamilton Mathews Farmhouse in Delaware, Ohio at a date to be determined.


329, Papa.


To share a memory or send a condolence gift, please visit the Official Obituary of Frank R. Hamilton, Jr. hosted by Robinson Funeral Home Inc.

My dad can fix anything. This was my mantra from the time I was little. Whether it was a toy I loved or a broken heart, I thought my dad could fix anything. Of course, I thought that because he told me so. And, typically, he could fix nearly anything.


Dad was a problem solver. I was graced with this gene too. I am not sure if it is a gift or a curse. You can ask my wife about my problem solving and depending on the day, I suppose, that answer may vary. As an adult, I cherished this trait in him as I shared with him every life problem. Sometimes the best solution he had was to sit with me in those spaces.


Dad was a mathematician. He could figure out any math problem you might have. He could also create ones that you did not have. His mind never stopped figuring things out.


Dad was a chess player. He played chess on a board at his weekly chess club. He also played chess in his life, always trying to make the best next move. He was discerning and thoughtful in everything.


Dad was an unusual man. He formed deep, meaningful friendships with other men. I learned that sitting at his bedside, for sure, but always knew that about him. All my life my dad had great friends. Friends he shared his life with. Friends that bore witness to his life and he theirs. His friends knew him; really knew him.


Dad took that same approach with us, as his children. Our relationship with him was never surface. From family dinners growing up to sitting next to him at a bar as an adult, we jumped right in the deep end. He knew everything about our lives, not because we poured our hearts out every chance we got, but because he asked. He was curious about us, about me, all of the time.


There were certainly times when this was less than ideal. Coming home after curfew and finding a post-it note on your bedroom door insisting on a ‘talk’ the next day was panic inducing. I learned to greet him with a meeting agenda for such occasions, just like he did with me. He taught me meaningful communication in those moments. He taught me how to take our ruptures and make repairs. I did not know it then, but those were the moments that made us strong, together.


Dad was organized and meticulous. He can tell you, down to the penny, how much money he has spent on McDonalds, for instance, over the last 20 years. In his garage, if you removed his saw, you would find an outline of said saw with the words ‘where is my saw?’


Dad’s career in water treatment meant that he managed people, a lot of people. He visited their plants, always treating those spaces as if he was visiting someone’s home. He gave his people the confidence and tools to excel under him. He did that for his kids too.


Dad was a black and white rule follower. When I turned 16 he handed me a printed copy of the city’s curfew ordinance. This was how our house was run. However, he broke the rules when it meant doing the right thing. He took care of people when they needed it.


Dad was a teacher, at his core. Because of him, I can rewire a lamp and set a toilet. He never hesitated to teach me any chance he got. Often teaching the ‘hard way’ before divulging that there is, indeed, an easy short cut to nearly everything.


Dad was a devoted partner to his love, Linda. He was the ‘man’ of the house but in that meant that his lady would never have to kneel in the bathroom to clean the tub. His love for Linda was echoed in everything. Gratefully, that love was greeted and reciprocated by her. 


Dad was loved as much as he loved.


Dad was a bourbon drinker, long before it was cool. He and I, no matter the time or the day, shared a bourbon every time we were together. Sitting at the Hamburger Inn on farmers’ market mornings or on our porch when he and Linda would bring lunch to the farmhouse; bourbon. It was about the only time that either of us drank at all, but it was our thing, always. A toast and a nip.


Dad loved music. When his first granddaughter was born he lived in California. Before cell phones, calls were intentional and well planned. On every call he would ask me, ‘are you playing music for that babe?’ Of course, the answer was yes.

In his final days, his kids, Kenny, my wife Jessie and I, played all of his favorite albums in the hope that he could hear them and be comforted. I know the words to every song. I hear his voice singing them in my head.


Dad left us in a whirlwind. Diagnosed with bladder cancer four years ago, he overcame. Then in June that same cancer had taken over his liver. The news was sudden and we scarcely could take it in before he was gone from us. He passed away on the 6th of July, as the sun was going down, listening to Chicago, Charlie Rich and The Lovin’ Spoonful. He was surrounded by his love, Linda, and his children.


Dad is survived by his fiancé, Linda Tudor, his children Frances-Jo Hamilton (Jessica Mathews), Kenneth Hamilton, his grandchildren Frances Marie Hamilton (James Spears), Serenity Hamilton, his great grandchild, Delilah Sage Hamilton, his sister, Sandra (Jon) Burnside, brother Dana (Terry) Walter, and Sister in Law, Donna Hamilton.


Dad was preceded in death by his son, Frank R. Hamilton III, his brother, Bob Hamilton and his parents, Frank R. Hamilton Sr. (Judy Hamilton), Mary Walter (William Walter). 


Memorial services will be held at the Hamilton Mathews Farmhouse in Delaware, Ohio at a date to be determined.


329, Papa.


To share a memory or send a condolence gift, please visit the Official Obituary of Frank R. Hamilton, Jr. hosted by Robinson Funeral Home Inc.

Events

Event information can be found on the Official Obituary of Frank R. Hamilton, Jr..