I Am The Man I Am Today, Because…

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Monday, 12:36pm
Rancho Cucamonga, CA


My father passed away early in February, and because he’d lived such a long and amazing life, he’d outlived anyone in the local area who would have noticed an obituary in the newspaper.

So, I wrote this on Facebook. Nearly everyone who knows me, or my family, and is active in social media was able to see it. In many ways, Facebook has become the new “local newspaper” for things like this… and, because of the way your newsfeed works, these kinds of posts are actually seen by more folks than would normally see a published obit. Hundreds “liked” and responded to this post… so I’ve decided to keep it in the mix by publishing it here on the blog (where it will remain in the archives).

For everyone who sent condolences, thank you. I hope, however, that I have adequately explained just how much I appreciate that Pop was around for so long, with his mind intact and vibrant (despite his body slowly falling apart)… and that, at 95, I prefer to celebrate his long life rather than grieve over his passing. He was ready to go. We’d discussed it for years, he and I, and we were not afraid of the final moment.

Anyway, here’s the post. I’ve written tearful farewells to my mentor, Gary Halbert, and to Steve Jobs (who influenced so many of us) here on the blog, and Pop deserves to stand beside those men in the archives. I can only hope, when the time comes, someone takes the time to a little something for me…


I am the man I am today, because of the man who raised me. Pop’s life is one for the history books — born in the Industrial Age (and he mastered several difficult crafts), witnessed the birth of the Nuclear Age (while fighting the Hun in WWII), and actually grokked the snarling new Information Age even as a very old man. (We Skyped with each other weekly for years.)

He enjoyed his relatively quiet life — after surviving the Depression as a teen and the Battle of the Bulge (Hitler’s last surge) as a freaked-out 22-year-old infantryman, he was eager to limit the serious drama for awhile — and lived well as a happy working-class warrior… not counting the years he patiently endured the raucous and painfully awkward entry to adulthood of his youngest son (me).

Along the way, he never ceased doing the right thing, always. Even when it involved heavy sacrifice. He put his back into his work, and his heart into family life — his best friend was his brother-in-law, his favorite activities time with the relatives.

He never actually sat me down and said “do this, don’t do this”… which made the lessons difficult to decipher. But eventually, I realized it was the greatest way to impart real wisdom. Making me figure it out forced me to look outside myself, and compare how other’s behavior contrasted to what I saw in Pop. God knows I wouldn’t have listened to a lecture, anyway.

It’s god damned hard to live a life dedicated to being fair, to sharing the wealth, to actively support and fight for the success of other people. We all have a nasty little selfish sociopath hiding inside, and it takes effort to crush the little bugger.
But that’s how you become a bigger man. A better man. Someone who will help shoulder the burdens of life with you, in ways that help you grow.

One of the best tributes I’ve heard the past few days came from a pal of mine from the wild days of our youth. He reminded me how my parents made our house a sanctuary for everyone — nobody ever went hungry around Mom, and every kid (even the raw bastards-in-training) got a fair shake from the old man. So many of my friends had parents who refused to allow visitors, who loathed kids, who had little or no time for their own progeny… and our household showed a different way to do it. An inclusive, safe place where messes were tolerated (but cleaned up), mistakes were shrugged off as learning experiences, and the pleasures of company outweighed the occasional impositions of visitors.

It took me a loooooooong time to grow up. I had to bungle my way through my entire twenties and a few early years of my thirties before I had the epiphany that launched me into the biz world as a freelance copywriter.

And you don’t survive the kind of misadventures I went through on that path without some serious support from someone like Pop. He would have preferred I’d just pick a profession and get busy, but he held his tongue. He suspected I’d eventually get it together, and instinctively knew a little patience (no matter how much he had to grind his teeth) was going to pay off.

He and I talked and wrote to each other, faithfully, for decades. He taught me how to hit a short pitch shot (as well as an inside fastball), and I shared what I learned from Boomer culture about meditation, expanding your consciousness, and getting past hang-ups. He showed me how a man faces adversity, and I gave him a peek into entrepreneurship (which fascinated the hell out of him).

He worked hard, played hard, and never took his eye off the ball. His goal was to live a full life, and he did that. The last good day I had with him, when he was 95, we laughed until our bellies ached, and he beat me 4 out of 5 games at rummy. His body was falling apart, but his mind was as sharp as ever.

R.I.P., Pop. You’ll be missed terribly, but you continue to live in my heart, and my actions, every day.

Edwin Carlton, 1920-2016 

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  • Joseph Ratliff says:


    Your Pop sounds a lot like my Dad.

    Obviously, your Pop did a good job. My condolences.

    • John Carlton says:

      Thanks, Joseph. Those of who had great fathers had an advantage in life, I’m sure of it. Not helicopter parents, who didn’t let you do things out of fear… but folks who cared for you, provided the basics, and gave you room to grow.

      I think I settled in so easily with so many mentors along the way, because I was comfortable around older men I wanted to learn from. Very little learning curve on dealing with them. This is something I go out of my way to help other writers and entrepreneurs with, especially those who lacked a good role model…

  • AK Wilson says:

    Beautiful tribute…
    Your father was a blessed soul, and you are a testament to his life. Thank you for continually “showing up” for all of your readers–encouraging us, and helping us. You don’t have to, but you do; and though I am new here, I gotta say, I am thankful. Sincere condolences, and best wishes to you and your family…

  • Russell says:

    There are some lessons in there for a newer dad, thank you for sharing.

  • PJ Pires says:

    RIP JC’s Pops.

    And you and the late GH are THE big inspiration for me.

  • ken c says:

    Hi John, just saw this…my thoughts are with you, my condolences, it’s a damn shame losing someone close. Having a great dad is the best thing ever, glad to hear you had a close relationship; a good dad is a best friend.

    To celebrating a life well lived,


  • Danny Welsh says:

    I remembered reading your tribute to G Halbert years back and thinking ‘it’s not easy for one man to praise another so openly and honestly’ but that you did it well, with class and compassion. Now I know where some large part of who you became as a man originated. Very cool. Stay frosty!

  • Larry E says:

    Thanks for sharing that John.
    Truly sorry to hear about your Dad passing away he sounds like a huge influence in your life.

    I read this again today, and took away even more than the first time I read it.
    Best Regards,
    Larry E

  • Nannette says:

    Thank you so much for sharing about your father, John.
    You touched my heart with what you wrote.
    My father is going to turn 90 this year, and I hear that dreaded clock ticking. You gave me the idea to start playing gin rummy with him…something to do along with watching reruns of Monty Python! 🙂

    My deepest condolences for your loss, and my prayers for you and your family.


  • Martha says:


    My heart is heavy as I read your beautiful tribute to your Dad. You will continue to be in my thoughts and prayers as you live your best life, a tribute to your Dad and Mom.

    ‘Absolutely adore that he loved to Skype with you!

    My Daddy would’ve loved a computer and the Internet. He was still doing 150 pushups every day, up until the night he died. 1899 – 1993.


  • Will Edridge says:

    I love how raw and passionate your writing is.

    Thank you for sharing your story.

    I lost my dad a couple of years ago.

    Fortunately for him, he literally died of a drug-fueled sex heart attack… (alcohol).

    The old man did have a flair for the dramatic.

  • Jeremy says:

    What a wonderful memoriam piece … sorry to hear about your father, but it makes me happy to hear you laud him in such glowing terms!

  • Beautiful piece. I just came across this, so sorry for the late comment.

    My Dad passed several years ago. Like your Dad, he waited a long time for me to grow up.

    My biggest sadness is he never got to meet my wonderful wife and son. He’d have loved them.

    I miss him every day.

    Again, thanks for your writing.

  • Eddie P says:

    My condolences to you John. You are fortunate to have a father like that. My father died last year. However, he wasn’t a good father to us kids.

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