Adam Lutzweiler

Adam Lewis Lutzweiler, Jr. was born on 12/4/1932 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to Rev. Adam Lewis and Margaret (Dallas) Lutzweiler. He was preceded to heaven by his parents, brother David Lutzweiler and sister, Ruth Gervase Hansen. He is survived by his brother, Jim (Shelly) Lutzweiler of Jamestown, North Carolina; sister, Esther (Bob) Erwin of Greenville, Texas; Son, Dirk Lutzweiler of Greenville, Texas; Daughters, Carrie Lutzweiler and Pam Reich of California. He is also survived by 6 grandchildren and 7 great-grandchildren, many nieces and nephews.

Adam, also better known as Skip (and "Bird") to his friends and Sonny to his family, graduated from Dixon High School in Dixon, Illinois in 1951 and joined the Marines where he served in Korea and was awarded a Good Conduct Medal and National Defense Service Medal.

Adam lived in Chicago after returning from the Marines and worked as a truck driver until he moved to California, was hired by Greyhound Bus Company and drove a route from California to El Paso, Texas routinely. He took the crew of the television series Lassie on one of his routes and they loved him! He became their regular driver and ended up in one of the scenes. He fell in love with El Paso and moved there after retiring from Greyhound where he started a successful home building business. He was always handy with tools so he got a book at the library on how to build a house and his second career began.

It was during the home building career that he met David and Diane Ballard, who became his second family. A move to Ruidoso, NM was next. David and Skip had a mutual interest in motorcycles, both are Veterans, and what he loved to do most, other than riding his Harley, was hanging out with all his friends in El Paso, Ruidoso and White Oaks, NM.

Skip loved the old hymns of Gospel music having grown up as a PK (Preacher's Kid) with parents who were musical evangelists. He loved Jesus and is now in heaven with those who have gone before and waiting for the day when all of us who love Jesus will be reunited with our loved ones.

The following was written by Skip's brother Jim:

I am 78 years old. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast today, and I can barely remember what I had for lunch 10 minutes ago. But I can remember 76 years ago like it was only a nanosecond ago, when I as a two year-old crawled up the stairs in our farm home and turned left at the top of the stairs to kiss my two brothers good night. One of them moved on ahead further upstairs just a few years ago. The other one joined him about two hours ago, as I type. My eyes fill with tears at the news that I knew was coming someday, but my heart fills with joy for having known them both as long as I had them. I have every expectation of crawling up some stairs again yet in the future and kissing them again.

Not only do I remember kissing them good night, I remember the red and black blanket that they were sleeping under. A blanket like it is pictured here below. When they left home, I slept under it for years. And then where it went, I have no idea. But I saw one at an estate sale several years ago and my heart leaked for joy. I asked the lady how much she wanted for it, and she said one dollar. I forked it over in sixty seconds fewer than a New York minute. I shudder to think what I would have paid for it. And now it goes with me wherever I go in my car to sleep under at a cold rest stop in case I get sleepy. And then I sleep the sleep of the just for a few hours, reminiscing sweetly before I pass out about the two brothers who doted on me as a kid.

The brother who just passed I knew by three names: First Sonny, then Adam, his given birth name, and lastly and mostly Skip. He knew me by two names: Jimmy, the pet name of my birth name, James; and “The Punk,” his favorite pet name for me. Nobody else that I remember ever called me that. I would rather hear that sound again now than to hear a private live concert by the Beatles singing “Imagine.” That is a hope that I imagine. The Beatles are welcome to their own vacuum.

I even have a second memory of Sonny, when I was two years old. I was in the kitchen and my mother told me to go out on the back step and call Sonny in for lunch. He was out in a field behind the house on a tractor and pulling a manure spreader. I went out and called. He saw me and came in for lunch. A couple years ago I asked him if he possibly remembered that occasion. He said that he did. And this is no BS.

The next memory of him that I have was in Dixon, Ilinois, where we moved when I was three years old. I was probably five at the time. I had seen a truck and a toy store that I wanted very badly. He bought it for me for Christmas and stored it in a box under his bed. Somehow, I saw that box and looked between the cracks where the flaps came together. I was overjoyed, but he discovered me snooping. I played with it for years and then like many toys from childhood, it disappeared. But I saw it again not long ago in an antique store. As I recall, it was $300. Many people would pay more than that for a memory as sweet as mine of this brother now gone.

On and on the memories fly fast and thick. I recall going to the train station in Rockford, Ilinois, to see him go off to the Korean war. It must’ve been an emotional parting for my parents in order for me to remember that so well. I remember a picture of him in uniform that he sent home to us. He looks so handsome. I used to take it to grade school with me to show the girls, as I was just a nerd and he was such a man.

I remember even better a red pagoda lamp that he sent home to my mother from Korea. She placed it in the front window of the parsonage of the church where our father was the pastor. In those days, a red light in a picture window sort of symbolized a whorehouse. Understandably, my Baptist father objected to the light. But he lost the argument for removing it.

When he returned from Korea, he would tell us some stories. One of them was about an initiation rite that he had to go through on his way to Korea. On the ship over the newbys add to kiss a sergeant’s hairy belly button with hot horseradish smeared on it. For that reason, the Marines held no attraction for me in those days.

Also, when he returned to America, he bought a beautiful yellow convertible. I think it was a Pontiac, but it might’ve been a Buick. Whatever it was, it was a beauty. I remember being in Rockford again, one day with my parents when my father’s car broke down. Skip had to come pick us up in his yellow convertible, and it was my fantasy for years thereafter to own one like it. I never did. But the fantasy was fun.

I remember well, one of his girlfriends, many of whom he had then and thereafter. Her name was Fawn Johnson. She was very pretty and I liked her. But for some reason, it didn’t work out. Years later, I asked him whatever became of her. He told me she married some fellow who made his fortune in manhole covers. I guess as long as you make a fortune, it doesn’t matter how you make it.

As it turned out, Skip also had several wives along the way. I met several of them. One of them must’ve really loved him because after he divorced her, she loaned him hundreds of thousands of dollars for his construction business. That doesn’t happen in divorce every day. In fact, it doesn’t even happen and happy marriages every day.

Another of his wives had a grandfather who is the one who was allegedly beaten to death with a baseball bat by Al Capone. And Skip had one other Al Capone connection. One of his jobs along the way was as a bartender. One of his customers was Al Capone’s brother. For this reason and many others, I used to ask him all kinds of questions about his life because I knew he had led an interesting life. Sometimes he would say, “Jimmy, you ask too many questions.”

In the last couple of years I developed a new appreciation of him to add to the existing appreciations. My mother had saved all of his letters from Korea. Among them I found several that were addressed to me or about me. I asked myself, “How many soldiers in war remember their adolescent kid brothers at home enough to write them letters?” Surely not many.

I spoke with Skip for the last time about 24 hours ago. My name did not show up on the telephone that he was receiving, and he didn’t answer. But he called the number back and asked who I was. I told him and we had a short chat. But he seemed a little sluggish and so I kept it short. I thought to myself that perhaps he was on his last leg and would be gone in a couple of months. I was prepared for that, but not quite prepared to hear it today. There is so much more I wanted to ask him. Now I have to wait for the resurrection. Just imagine.