Our father, Christopher William Tompkins, passed away peacefully on December 10th, 2025, at the age of 80.

Dad grew up in New Orleans, the oldest of six children. His accounts of childhood were what you’d expect from a post-war boomer baby—a good Catholic boy occupied with cowboy stories, Tarzan novels, and sports. He often relayed a childhood story of donning his white fringed cowboy gloves to meet his childhood bully at high noon, where he punched him in the nose and vanquished him for good. To me, this always sounded like a true Norman Rockwell upbringing.

But he also told stories of sneaking out of the house at night, paying a dollar to get into Preservation Hall in the French Quarter to watch jazz until the wee hours—an early hint of the creative path he would eventually follow. But at the time, he towed the family line, earnestly entering the University of Michigan, bound to become an aerospace engineer. He was not destined for engineering school—his grades slipped, likely from having too much fun—and then along came the draft for the Vietnam War. Rather than be drafted, Dad chose to enlist in the United States Marine Corps. As he put it, if he was going to have to go fight, he wanted to be prepared.

Dad became a flight navigator on C-130 planes and learned to navigate by using the night sky. As a boy, I was fascinated by his knowledge of the constellations. Along the way, he was introduced to the woman who would become his wife of 56 years. She told him on their first date at the age of 18 that she was going to marry him. Their romance continued until the very end. If there is a book for such legendary romances, our parents’ story is in there somewhere.

In 1970, Dad was given orders to deploy to Vietnam, but they were delayed by my imminent birth. By the time his deployment would have been rescheduled, the conflict was winding down. He always said I saved his life. After his service in the Marines, he resumed college, this time majoring in fine arts. He went on to earn an MFA from Louisiana State University. The arts became the major theme of his life.

Our mother was a Yankee, and after my sister was born, we packed our things and moved from Louisiana to be closer to her family in New Jersey. As they tell the story, they picked Norfolk, Virginia, by blindly finding a place in between. He became a master woodworker—skills he learned from his grandfather, whom he adored. After dabbling in the antique furniture business and opening a store called the Limner Shop, he landed a job as an art professor at Norfolk State University.

Dad’s accomplishments as an art professor were many—pushing the university to accept an MFA as a terminal degree, which led the way for him and other professors to gain tenured status; helping to establish the Governor’s School for the Arts (then called the “Magnet” school); authoring the NSU faculty handbook; directing the campus gallery; and establishing a curriculum in digital art, a medium he learned and taught as an early adopter and pioneer.

He was well respected as a local artist and exhibited his work numerous times throughout the area. His paintings, sculptures, and other works were sometimes based on playful themes, puns, and politics, but most of his paintings were of family and friends. His painting of his mother—probably one of his most successful works—was hailed by one critic, who noted how he captured so much of her personality through the simple perspective of her sitting in a rocking chair.

In Norfolk, our parents spent nearly half a century making friends and welcoming neighbors in their beloved Riverview neighborhood. They opened their home to all for their legendary Christmas parties and dinners. And Dad was a fine dancer. We’d often roll up the rugs at home to dance the jitterbug, and for a time, he and Mom could be found country dancing at the local honky-tonk. Later, when his thoughts were more difficult to convey due to cognitive decline, he would still grab Mom’s arm and dance her across the floor. This would happen spontaneously in the kitchen when the right song came over the radio and on any occasion where dancing was possible. Even the staff at his memory care facility remarked, “Your dad can dance!”

Dad was as wonderful a grandparent as he was a parent. He was a fixer of problems, a steady shoulder to cry on, and a rock for his children and his wife. No matter the situation, he brought patience, perspective, and a quiet sense that things would be okay. Each of his six grandchildren delighted in his storytime readings. “Dah,” as they called him, was as much a playmate as a grandfather. He was often rolling around on the floor playing with one of them or drawing them cartoons.

Dad was a voracious reader, a master puzzle solver, and about as creative as they come. Sadly, his last few years were marked by Alzheimer’s disease. However, the cruel and progressive decline of his sharp, witty, thoughtful mind did not lessen the gentle softness of the big kid underlying his personality. If there is a silver lining to his final years, it is that his family was still able to spend many joyful times with him. And he will remain with us in spirit.

He is survived by his wife, Helena Deborah; son Brendan (Jenn); daughter Nellie Lewis (David); siblings Jim, Bob, Betty, Peter, and Ann; and his six grandchildren, Nicholas, Claire, Bucky, Marie, Liam, and Finn.

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