Note: Lisa Mladinich delivered this eulogy to honor her father at his Mass of Christian burial at St. Christopher's Catholic Church in Tiverton, RI, Friday, January 20, 2012

Having lived his whole life in the Church, and having served for decades in this parish, there is nothing my father would like better than to see all of you here together. I believe, as many of you do, that it matters that we do this and that it's a help to his immortal soul. So, thank you.

Most of you know my dad very well and know everything I'm about to say. There won't be any surprises. There were no scandals, no mysteries, no falls from grace, because Robert Kirkwood was simply a good man. And I'm very proud to be his daughter.

He came from what most would consider humble beginnings. But those of us who knew his struggling, single mother, Irene, knew that his exemplary life sprang from strangely privileged roots. His mother was a titan of persevering faith, joi de vivre, and all the right kinds of ambitions. She taught her kids that faith and family were first, and that it was good to work hard, and to dream.

The second of three children, Robert Liston Kirkwood, was born May 26, 1931, in Fall River, Massachusetts. An intelligent kid, by the time he reached his teenage years, he had nevertheless had it with high school. But he read stacks of adventure novels, borrowed from the library every week and filled his imagination with sailing ships, explorers, and cowboys.

Longing to see the world, he dropped out of school and ran off to join the Navy. He was flatfooted, and he had to curl up his toes to pass the medical exam. The gangly boy recruit was molded with infinite care into a proper Navy seaman - one who ached with homesickness and wrote affectionate letters to his mother and sisters, and later, to his beautiful Barbara May.

Years passed, and he married his sweetheart, got his GED, produced two sons and four daughters, went to college, became an officer, and finally a jet pilot who distinguished himself in combat during the Viet Nam war.

He was decorated with the Navy's Silver Star and caught the attention of aviation historians when he downed a Russian Mig 17—not with the F-8 Crusader's guided missiles, but using only the guns mounted on the nose of his plane. (He never trusted the guided missal system - it was too complicated—and it did in fact fail.) He told us he was profoundly relieved when he saw the North Vietnamese pilot parachute free of the wreckage.

Dad was remarkable in many ways, perhaps especially in his contradictions. He had a typically careful and meticulous Scottish temperance where morals and money were concerned, but a perfectly lavish French temper. He was a perfect gentleman, and a worrywart, who planned contingencies and warned us of the many dangers in life.

Yet he was an energetic and enthusiastic adventure leader, packing up his wife and six children to hike, camp, sail, and explore—through the redwoods of California, the deserts of the South West, the mountains of Tennessee and Maine, the islands of New England, and beyond. We all carry in our hearts indelible images of some of the most beautiful places in the U.S.