In memory of Bruce A. Luthanen, Michael Quinn lit a candle

Matt Luthanen - I remember this stage. I remember a lot of stages, really; a long succession of them stretching back through the years. I recall the stage in the old church building. A Christmas Carol set to sermon! Enchanting idea. And the shrunken, miserly Scrooge shall be personified by…Dad. But who will be the foil, the juxtaposition? The gigantic, booming, barrel-chested Ghost of Christmas Present will be played by…! (*me!) And so it came to pass that the actors were assembled onstage, and a problem immediately presented itself. Apparently even through the magic of theatre it is difficult to make someone who is 5’6 appear physically imposing and intimidating next to someone who is nearly a foot taller and double his weight. I was moved three stairs higher than dad and did my best to loom menacingly, which in retrospect resembled righteous constipation. It did NOT work. Points to Mike for giving me the opportunity to yell at Dad without repercussion, though. You see Dad and I shared a penchant for performance, starting back all the way in fourth grade when I learned how to play the trumpet. This would tragically become one of Dad’s greatest regrets. I would dutifully practice every day at home until what I began to think of as “the point of no return,” whereupon if Dad was forced to listen to an eighteenth round of Jimmy-crack-corn-and-I-don’t-care with all the tone and musicality of a farting goose, the consequences would be dire. The progress of the afternoon could be charted by the telltale rustling as Dad read the Record-Journal in the next room. Five minutes (turn page). Twenty-five minutes (epileptic rustling). Forty-five minutes (loss of control; paper is torn in half). Practice is now OVER. And the instrument is placed delicately back in the case, which is slid carefully and silently under the bed. This last step was of vast importance, as it would otherwise be hazardous to speculate where it might end up. Luckily, around that time I discovered my voice. I remember singing duets from The Messiah with him in a little boy contralto before my voice even started to change. I can still remember, nearly three decades later, the way our voices blended, rich and sweet together like honey. I drifted away briefly in middle school and rediscovered it again in high school as a sophomore, after giving in to his urging to join the community Easter cantata. With a breadth of knowledge and experience that in no way included testing vocal range or playing the piano, he proceeded of course to do both, watched dutifully by a familiar individual who had played the piano since she was 6. He then declared expansively, “Son, you are a baritone!” I wasn’t of course. I was a tenor. Just like him. It would have made things maybe a little easier. You can’t really compete against a different voice part. And of course we competed. We had to. “What songs are you singing right now? Where’s YOUR range at these days?” And still, when it came time to listen, the joy we felt at hearing the other was the same, like two mirrors set at an angle too close to ever do anything but reflect each other’s light. I will never tire of his voice; full and round as he was, rolling like thunder in the lower register yet with a piercing high clarity I can only aspire to. In singing we first met as equals. So many stages looking back and forth at each other through the years. After my men’s chorus concert at Christmas of 2017. That glowing smile surmounting his dark cloudy sweater like a big bald sunrise. The inevitable bear-hug that no matter how old I got, always cracked at least one vertebra and I could never quite reach all the way around him. His aftershave, lingering. The hand resting on my back with something approaching reverence as he murmured “What a legacy I have!” I remember senior year, the Conference Honors Choir. When he heard some dippy walk-on tenor had just snatched the only solo away from two dozen ranked and badged State Choir sopranos, he even pried Grandma out of home and over to school. Afterwards, it was noted that this was one of the only times where Grandma was actually speechless. I remember Godspell. The only scrawny kid on a stage full of talented grown-ups. I am my daughter’s age, watching him sing “All for the Best” in Vaudeville suspenders and a straw hat, complete with miniature banjo, and thinking my daddy was probably lower on the totem pole than God, but just by a little. My one solo line, singing about a city on a hill. I was the city; he was the hill. I remember big hands hefting me up onto his shoulder while I was singing. I remember, dazed by the spotlight and the exhilaration, feeling like I could see for miles from up there. But I remember no fear. Because that strong warm hand was on my back, and I would never fall. As I sorted through the innumerable memories we shared together over the last week, the city and the hill became the perfect metaphor for me. He was my foundation. And now we feel like that foundation is crumbling, the very earth falling apart around us as we stagger around and try to understand. But the foundation never moved. We are the only ones shaking and shaken by this calamity. And when it passes, what remains is the obvious. To the moon and back, he loved you three fiercely. And the potential and possibilities he saw in you were as vast as the starry sky. But you, you were his sun. For forty years he basked in the glow of your love, and there was never a day that he didn’t wonder at how lucky he was to have found you. He leaves us the amazing outpouring of love from family, from friends, from literally every corner of the country who have come to honor him and comfort us. You see the metaphor wasn’t complete. The storm has passed. The city stands. You are all our foundation.

During the past few days, I have relived many memories of my husband, Bruce Alan Luthanen Cheering on Matt in high school cross country meets – building a pitcher’s mound in our Perry backyard for Jon – driving both boys on early mornings as the three of them delivered the weighty Sunday and holiday editions of the Record-Journal in Meriden, CT. The world’s biggest 8-year-old, he loved Christmas with all the trimmings, the yellow Peep marshmallow chickens at Easter, fireworks on the 4th of July, traditional turkey dinners at Thanksgiving. He made deep and lasting friendships wherever we lived, whether Fairfield, OH; Elizabethtown, KY; Meriden, CT; or here in Perry. He took care of his family, and sang for his Lord wherever we were. Some of my favorite pieces he sang included, “I Can Only Imagine,” and “Mary, Did You Know?” He treasured his time with the Lake County Messiah Chorus. He loved the poem, “Heaven’s Grocery Store.” I can imagine Heaven’s Grocery Store’s aisles might have calls for a few clean-ups in the past few days. Somewhere Bruce and Tom Evans laugh hysterically as a Naugahyde couch bursts into flames. A Camaro zips past as he and brother Brian speed along the heavenly byways. Melanie Pierce welcomes another singer to help support the heavenly tenor section in the Lake County Messiah Chorus. Steven Evans presents him with another “Blinky, the three-eyed fish” magnet. On my husband’s Facebook page, he describes himself as “Nobody special.” Well, he was wrong. He is very special and I treasure our time together.

Jon Luthanen - I think I accurately portrayed Dad recently as a complex man. It is not often one runs across a powerlifting, road cycling, singing nuclear chemist. These things and many more encompassed my father. Pop had a tumultuous upbringing, dodging arrows in the form of long-term hospitalization due to asthma complications, to medication for this asthma delaying puberty and causing my dad to grow nearly a foot in his freshman year of college after this medication was removed from his prescriptions. At the time, he was picked on relentlessly for being short and pudgy. He had to survive the gauntlet of two brothers, a fearless 150 pound Samoyed named Romulus, and a father who was quick to loose his belt from his waist band and ask questions later. Dad developed a love for comic books, science fiction movies and TV shows, and also developed a questionably gross infatuation with Organic Chemistry in high school. These complexities of his being furthered and deepened in a college degree and career path that saw him move across several states and major organizations, many of which are represented in the audience here today. Along the way, he was able to marry an awesome wife, start a family, and grow a strong faith and community in several Baptist Churches. I have always attributed my ability to MacGyver my way through DIY home projects and my general handiness with tools to our childhood full of “voluntary” assistance on said projects growing up. Pop instilled a love for the gym to me early on, and was a major proponent of proper form over heavy weights, always. We were steadfast lifting partners from my middle school years on up through high school until I migrated to Central Indiana for college. Though my weightlifting ultimately became a means for producing on different athletic fields and now in my pursuits climbing mountains, I have never swayed from my gym memberships for very long. Dad’s love for long distance bicycling caught on in a few different ways for me, again with me adding my own spice – I now own and regularly test the limits of my first full suspension mountain bike, which Dad likely would scoff at as not being safe enough. He would be correct in this estimation, but I DO own a solid road bike for variety (*and have a good health care plan otherwise). The nerd that stands before you today was raised by a greater nerd, and my affinity for science fiction and cult classic horror movies started with Dad. And it’s taken awhile in adulthood to recognize this, but singing is my purest expression of joy. Literally, if I am singing, I am happy – my coworkers struggle with this as I have a generally optimistic attitude. I don’t think I would have found courage in my own voice if it weren’t for the example my father set from an early age. On a more serious note, my father and I clashed to put it lightly. This was a fact of our relationship from late middle school through at least the holiday season of 2018. Some have attributed this to our being so much alike in many ways, which usually drove me crazy, but I saw it in later years. One funny example of such a conflict was during a particularly leaf laden Fall when I was in high school. Dad had asked for my help in the backyard to rake up what would be some of the 40+ bags of leaves we annually remove from the property, which basically meant I had no choice. That said, I clearly was not toeing the line in leaf raking in the exact way that my father was, which made my approach inferior because it was not his way. Ever the flirt with danger, I continued to push this envelope until my father snatched the rake out of my hands, broke it across his knee, and threw it back in my direction. My first thought? Sweet! No more raking. My nearly immediate second thought? How can I make a joke out of this slightly ridiculous situation? I retrieved the broken handle and a large black Sharpie, promptly inscribed it with the title “The LAWN Enforcer” in large block lettering, and presented it to my father when cooler heads had prevailed. It remained a trophy of wit until it mysteriously vanished from my bookshelves while I was away at college. In recent years, and in a typically awkward Nuclear Chemist to Information Technology Support Specialist manner, my father and I were slowly coming to a better understanding of each other. Our relationship wasn’t perfect, and I don’t know if it was ever going to be, and that was alright – the fact that each of us was a work in progress, and that we recognized that fact in each other demonstrated vulnerability on both ends and communication was bettering all the way up through the end. In Dad’s passing, it was his wish for our family to reach out to a number of people who had impacted him over the years. In making these calls, many to people I had only ever heard of and not met personally, not a single person on the other end neglected mentioning MY Father’s major impact on THEM, many with stories I had not heard before. Relaying the news of his passing as one of his final requests seemed like a daunting and sad obligation to me at first, but it has, in actuality, been a great blessing as the process has been extremely cathartic for myself, my mother, and my brother. I wish I was able to queue some Scottish bagpipes. Over the rainbow bridge and upwards into the great unknown, it is tough for me to think of sending my father off in a different way: Dad, wherever you head, may you always Live Long & Prosper

Wow, sad to hear this! Grew up next door to the Luthanen family, lots of great memories! God Bless Bruce, I haven't seen you in years but frequently thought about you and your family....

Bruce has been a dear friend since 1st grade at Madison Ave. Elementary. We shared many views across a wide range of topics. He has always been a kind soul, and a person I always admired. I will dearly miss him until we all join up again. He is surely with God!

Bruce was one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. I’ve had the absolute pleasure of singing with him for many years, Handel’s Messiah. What an amazing voice. We are sending our love and prayers to Robin and the boys. We are out of town and won’t be able to make the service. God bless and keep you all.

I had the pleasure of working with Bruce when he was at Northeast Utilities. I always thought of him as kind and intelligent. The world needs more people like Bruce; he will be sorely missed.

What a great friend. Will miss you and the many breakfasts, that we shared over the years. You will be missed.. Gary and Carroll Dunn

Bruce, you made a difference in many people’s lives, and we from the Connecticut Yankee team want to thank you for making a difference with all of us who had the pleasure of knowing you - and working with you - back in the lab. To you, Bruce! Michael Quinn

We are so sorry to hear of Bruce’s passing and will be praying for you all. His smiling face will most definitely be missed at Perry First Baptist Church, and it always made us feel special that he made a point to say hello when we were home visiting. What an amazing guy who truly let the light of Jesus shine through him! Jason, Jennifer, Andrew, & Henry Allen

From colleague to friend to CY brother — we discovered we were more alike than we ever thought possible. He was a great friend, and was always up for a great conversation, be it technical, sports, trek or anything else. You will always be remembered as the great person you always strived to be. Rest well, brali. Busch and Joan.

Bruce was my college roommate as a junior and senior at Miami University. He was always smiling and laughing and just an overall very great guy. We kept in contact through Christmas cards for decades and all the news of our families. We are sorry for your loss Robin and family as you mourn Bruce's passing. Praise God for Bruce as a wonderful husband, father, grandfather, friend and his faith in Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior. He is now in the blessed presence of Christ. Love Bob and Candy Macy, Minot, ND.

Please accept our deepest condolences for your family's loss.