Jerry Sutler, Janet Dear, Steve Dear
Jerry Dale Stutler joined the Marine Corps right out of high school. He did two tours of duty in Vietnam. He was a drill instructor. He spent his entire career in the Marines. His doorbell played the “Marines’ Hymn.” On display in his living room was an autographed photo of R. Lee Ermey, the drill instructor in “Full Metal Jacket.”
Jerry had been an orphan in West Virginia. He told me of hating being given molasses sandwiches for his school lunch and of having to go to neighbors so he could eat breakfast.
When I was a teenager, I met and started dating Jerry’s daughter, Janet. At 18 I thought it a good idea to help block the doors of the IRS building near my college campus in protest of war taxes. (I still think so.) I was from a privileged suburb of DC, and frequently dined at the country clubs my parents had joined. I divided one summer between running the snack bar by the pool at Bethesda Country Club and interning at Ralph Nader’s office. In 1994 a huge photo of me and two friends once appeared on the front page of Jerry’s local newspaper in Jacksonville, NC. I was holding a sign protesting the F-15E bomber at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in nearby Goldsboro. The caption spun it that we were protesting “the use of the U.S. military to protect the American way of life.” Jerry had to have seen the photo, but he said nothing to me. I know wire service stories involving my work against the death penalty also appeared in his morning paper.
I might as well have been from another planet to my father-in-law.
The only thing Sgt. Major Stutler and I seemed to have in common was Janet Sue, his stepdaughter, my girlfriend since 1983 and wife of 30 years next month. (Janet’s father, Capt. Wayne Kidd, became one of the first US soldiers killed in Vietnam before she turned two.)
Yet all Jerry ever did was treat me with love and respect.
He always greeted me with a hearty hello. He filled our conversations with laughs. He always shook my hand or hugged me goodbye. He made his grandchildren laugh. He made everyone laugh. He was so proud of Janet, his quiet, sweet, ingenious daughter with a heart of gold.
“Yeah, buddy!” he’d say with a laugh.
He and I went to home games of his beloved Carolina Tar Heels football team. Out would come his drill instructor roar. Though we were in the stands way above the 20-yard line he would catch the attention of people seated over behind the goal post. He had fun.
He was only kind to me. My parents loved him. I wish he and my dad could have spent more time together. They always asked about each other.
Jerry seemed to be everybody’s friend. I remember Janet telling of seeing men whom he had trained in boot camp or who had served under him and when they came upon him in public they would enthusiastically greet him.
Messages in the guestbook from Marine Corps colonels and others testify to the respect and appreciation Jerry enjoyed from his colleagues.
In the ’80s “Jerry D.” once invited me to join him on a special ride in an amphibious landing vehicle at Camp Lejeune, the largest amphibious landing training base in the world. I demurred. But I kind of regret that decision. (YOLO)
All I ever knew of Jerry was that he was a beautiful human being who had overcome adversity to share his deep sense of joy with those around him. He was known all over his neighborhood for mowing people’s lawns, helping with kids, cars, and whatever was needed.
No, life was not all roses. Like thousands of others, his time in Vietnam left wounds in him. But he finally tended to those wounds and in the end seemed much better for doing so.
While recovering from a stroke he had in late 2015 he told Janet and others that the Corps was no longer a part of his life. Men wanted to talk with him about his time in the Marines. This man who exemplified the Marine values of honor, courage, and integrity politely refused.
“The Marine Corps taught me a lot though,” he later told me and Janet. “Some good and some bad, baby. When I went to boot camp, I didn’t know there were so many dang-gone mean people in the… world. They were loud and they would swear. They had some words that I’d never even heard of before. I said holy cow!”
Love is strong as death, Bishop Michael Curry reminded the world this weekend. For someone denied so much by the circumstances of his childhood, J.D. was a juggernaut of love.
“Don’t complain, just be glad. Be happy. Be happy and be glad,” he told us last summer.
I’m sure Jerry had his moments, but this humble man from West Virginia lived unselfishly, sacrificially, and in so doing redemptively. He did not speak this way. That’s what he showed me. His laughter, his kindness, his charisma – his joy – delivered help and healing for those around him.
Jerry Stutler brought a great spirit into this world.
I would not have wanted anyone else to be my father-in-law. I could not be more proud or grateful to have gotten to be his son-in-law.
Jerry’s passing leaves holes in the lives of Janet, her mom Joye, and their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.
And me, I will miss him all of my days.
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