James Hogan

They wanted me to write about my dad. Like there is any possible way to put the entire 62-year life of James Neal Hogan into words.
I know when he was born (Jim was born August 22nd, 1956 in North Tonawonda, New York to Ross and Kitty Hogan).
I know when he died (Jim died December 18th, 2018 in Topeka, Kansas survived by his wife, 3 daughters, and 2 small grandsons).

And we will celebrate his life on Sunday, December 23rd, 2018 at The Foundry 400 SW 33rd, Topeka, KS from 2-5pm.

But so much happened for him in between those dates. I've seen the pictures taken of his family when they all were young. Taken when my grandfather, Ross Hogan (who also survives my dad), was an engineer and my grandmother, Kitty Hogan (who precedes my father in death), was a nurse. There is a beautiful photo of my dad with his three older siblings, Kathleen (proceeds in death), Pat (survives), Ross (proceeds in death), and Jim with ages ranging from 8 or so to 3 or 4. They're sitting together, close. He grew up in Buffalo, New York. He was a reddish brown haired, freckle faced kid who had the orneriest grin ever. He would tell stories about the snowball fights. He talked about riding a small motorcycle through a tunnel (the start of his motorcycle love). He told stories about his family on the holidays. He talked about being young and having a neighbor boy forge his mother's signature once. And how he got caught and then was in trouble. But he told it in such a way that conveyed a mock bitterness that the other boy didn't do a better job.
He lost his brother when he was young. He never talked about it. And we, his daughters, never pushed him for the story. But it changed him.
He was an accomplished wrestler in high school and he followed that passion into college.

He graduated high school and moved to Ohio to attend Mount Union University. He lived in a house filled with other boys. He had a dog named Chico who was, according to my dad, very well trained. He later moved to Kansas to be near his sister and nephew. He graduated in 1990 from the University of Kansas with a bachelor's degree in Business. He would smile endearingly when he told the story about how I was a toddler at that graduation ceremony. And wearing a white dress and playing in the mud.

He met my mom at KU. She was selling her boat and he came by to look at it. He married her in a tiny chapel on the KU campus on May 23rd, 1987.
His first daughter, me, Katie, was born in 1988. His second, Tracy, was born in 1991. They moved to Topeka in 1991 and he stayed there until his death. His youngest, Becky, was born in 1996.
He loved motorcycles and dogs and cigars and ink pens and new sneakers and clocks or watches. He liked specific tangible items and often held onto specific, nostalgic pieces.

But outside of the hobbies, my dad loved us. My dad would play monster with us and growl at Tracy and I as he chased us around the house. He would always, always invite us in to watch a movie, with his super loud surround sound and giant TV. And he would always fall asleep and snore like freight train. But then he'd also always wake himself up and blame you for snoring (jokingly).
If we told him we were hungry, he would respond by saying "Well hello hungry, I'm dad." And likewise, if you asked him to make you a sandwich, he'd say "poof, you're a sandwich."
He brought his camera out to every occasion - orchestra concerts, birthday parties, holidays. There was always a rare tenderness and admiration on his face when he got us together, stepped back and took a picture. Which he quickly followed up by walking over and smacking one of us on the head for making whatever stupid face we were making.
My dad could be silly and dance while holding his pointer fingers in the air. And he was so proud when he learned what photo bombing was. And he was so often indirect when his "I love yous." He was, of course, direct too. At the end of every phone call or voicemail he said it. When we were leaving the house, for a short or long while, he said it.
But he also said it when he would share a slow dance at weddings.
Or when he sent flowers or cards.
Or when he called in the middle of the day and always told us what time it was like we couldn't tell on our phones.
Or when he'd send a GIF in our family text message thread.
Or when he'd randomly buy you something that you know he saw and thought would be perfect for you.
Or when he'd pat your head.
Or when he'd smack your head.
Or when he'd hold your hand.

He didn't have a ton of friends - his social circle was small. But those within it, he loved fiercely.

He loved his grandsons. Wally, now 3.5, would love to run down the hall and into his room. And my dad would be silly with him and tickle him. He'd tell me what a fun age he was at and how much fun he was to be around. He would hold Marlon (now 4 months) and look sweetly at his tiny face.

There's no way to even begin to encompass everything that my dad was, the good and the bad, in this brief space. But they say life is fragile. And as my dad aged, he could be fragile too. But I think they're wrong about life. Life is not fragile, but fierce. But life is fleeting.
And I, my sisters, my sons, and especially my mother, are so grateful for the time we were lucky to share with Jim Hogan.

In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be given to the Helping Hands Humane Society.

Dove Southeast Chapel, 2843 SE Minnesota Ave. is assisting the family.

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