Peter McFarland, 67, who died early in the morning of Oct. 16, embodied all the characteristics of what used to be referred to as a Renaissance man.
He was a rare combination of wit, whimsy, and righteous indignation. The first two he gave generously to his friends and family. The righteous indignation he aimed directly at all those social injustices that steamroll over what was once called ‘the little guy.’
Peter had been a soldier, owned a lumber company, was a textile designer, as well as an organic farmer and master gardener. These varying occupations led him from Connecticut to France to Vermont and finally, to Maine. That was when he knew he was finally home.
Peter was at heart an artist. He was a published poet and writer whose flights of imagination always found the perfect words to give them wings. He was an extraordinary artist, whose dark, intense images were shot through with humor, leading to one-man shows from Bangor to England.
All those accomplishments and talent took a back seat to the only thing that really mattered to him – his family. Peter had no time or taste for undeserved or artificially sweetened sentiment, but he saw the truth as gospel, so he couldn’t argue with being called beloved by his family: His adoring wife Peggy; children, Truax and wife Beth and son Conor, Alice and husband Sean Toohey, Angus and wife Helen, Ruth, Ellen, and youngest son Colin; and sisters, Suzanna, husband Philip Lasker and daughter Heidi MacDonald, and Lorna and husband Alan Wells.
Peter had been sick for a long time, and though his physical powers were diminishing rapidly, he refused to allow himself to die before making out his absentee ballot for the upcoming election. When that was done, he faced death bravely, with his family all around him.
