Jess Andrew Hamilton was born April 2, 1943 in Frogville, Oklahoma. He moved to Oklahoma City from Madill as a child and graduated from Capitol Hill High School. He is survived by his wife, Oveta of the home; sons, David, Darrell, and Daniel; stepchildren, Mike, Sandy, Vickie, Suzannne, and Shelley and fifteen grandchildren; and his brother Tommy, and two sisters, Linda and Pat. Jess was a wonderful person. He was more than that. He was a dad to those who had none, a friend to those who were friendless, and compassionate when compassion was no where to be found. He would do anything for a stranger and much more for a loved one. I miss him so much. After a six week recovery from a stroke, two days before he was scheduled to go home, he fell and hit his head and bled into his brain. He never regained conciousness after that night. He died August 20, 2004 at 3:05 a.m. I should have been there, but I went home. By the time they called me and I got to the hospital, he was gone. When I went into the hospital room, his lips were cold, but the rest of his body was still warm. He was pale. I should have been there.....Oh dear father and friend of mine, I am so sorry I left you. I am sorry you went to heaven with no one on earth near you. I think of you every day. I pray that God will let you visit me in my dreams. As unclear as my head is now, I am better than I was two weeks ago when you died. Please visit me soon, and I pray that I will always remember you. I can still smell you on your stuffed dog Snowball. The blanket you used while you were sick is next to my bed. I can still smell you there too. Mom misses you very much. Sometimes she cries, but most of the time she is numb and goes through the motions of life. I haven't seen Daniel. If he feels half of what I feel, he is lost too. The words of grief come, but they are meaningless. They can't describe the emptiness of your favorite chair. The emptiness of your house. The lonely silence in the absence of your thick raspy voice. Everyone at the hospital misses you too. The staff and nurses called and came to your bedside. Even they must have known you were a rare spirit of goodness and light. When we buried you, I wanted to run to the coffin and tell you to wake up. That this had all been a big mistake and you are not really dead. You are okay, but yet the coffin door still remained closed. I watched the grounds crew as they covered you with dirt: I had a dream a few days later that you were awake and walking around. In my dream you said that the cemetary grounds crew heard your heart beating and uncovered the dirt from you and now you are well and alive. When I woke up, I had the urgency to go and check your grave, but I didn't go. I cried the next day after your service because it was raining, and I imagined you out in a strange field of people dead and gone, alone, in the rain, in a box. Why did you have to go so soon? Oh God I miss you and would give anything to hear you tell me the secret ingredient of home made ice cream. One cup of flour. And at the end of your journey, you got a fifteen minute talk from a pastor you never knew, some flowers, your obituary in the Mustang News and me trying to say things as best as I could about a man I only knew a third of his life. It doesn't seem right. None of this seems right. I miss you, have I said that yet? I just miss you. Thank you for your kindness to me, your step-daughter since fifth grade. I will try to to carry that same kindness with me and pass it along as you have shown... 



So, I will always be waiting to see you in my dreams, with a cup of flour in hand and Snowball, the dog at my side, With More Love Than This Heart Can Hold, Your Daughter, Sandy