My father told me he was Super Man. I was six years old. He walked me up the wood road to the top field of our farm in Esopus, New York to show me where he crashed landed on Earth. There was a clearing there, in the corner of the field, where the grass was pushed down by a rolling animal…or a meteorite. He lifted the leg of his jeans to show me the scar above his knee - an injury sustained in the crash - proof that he was not of this world. I placed my fingers on the raised skin of his scar and wondered what it felt like to be Super.

My father Francis Edward Wiest was born in the Bronx, NY on May 20, 1935.  He was adored by his late parents Francis and Elsie Wiest of West Park, NY and would often share fond memories of his late sisters Ellen Zanine and Annette Powers. He played ball in the 1950’s and would spend hunting season up in Esopus, NY with his cousins. His heart was always there in the woods. He became a long-time resident of Esopus, and you would have spotted him even in his eighties, driving his old pick up down the windy back roads, waving at the cars who passed him by.  

He loved his farm more than anything (except for pancakes and Dances With Wolves). He loved to walk thru the tall grass on the top field, loved to check on the pond, loved to share silence with the animals that he adored, and loved to nail “No Trespassing” signs to the trees, because my father was the epitome of “Get off my lawn”. 

Quiet, gentle, hilarious, and stubborn…he was so loved and will be greatly missed, especially by his daughters and their families Jen, Christopher, and Ellie Papataros and Michelle, Jeff, and Matthew Gibson. 

He may not have been Super Man, but Dad was definitely not of this world. Or maybe he was all of it. I know he was all of mine.