My Memories Of Dad

Christmas Traditions

2009-12-24T13:23:00.000-08:00

Today marks the second anniversary of dad’s last night on earth. Christmas Eve 2007 was a peaceful and almost joyful experience as his grandkids spent time with him, rubbing his head and feet, talking to him about school, friends, and reading to him from the Bible. Dad passed away shortly after midnight.

The traditions of our family on Christmas Eve were kept that evening as an honor during our vigil. We ate the family meal off the kitchen while dad lay in the hospital bed nearby.

Dad always took us downtown Seattle during the day to do our Christmas shopping for Mom. I particularly remember the suede coat with the mink collar. She was so happy and looked so beautiful.

Our traditions of Christmas included seafood on Christmas Eve; fried oysters – extra small for everyone but me. Mom always made fried shrimp with cocktail sauce for dipping. The appetizer was a fresh Dungeness crab cocktail. Greg and I each opened one present, sometimes from a cousin, but often a gift between the two of us.

Christmas morning was about eating a big breakfast and unwrapping presents; usually an overflowing gluttony of gifts. Each one was special. The looks on our faces and those of parents, or visiting grandparents are firmly ingrained in my memory (I hope!). I never met a Christmas morning I didn’t love.

Our tree varied over the years, but we have never had an artificial one. Many years were spent traipsing the mountains a day or two after Thanksgiving searching for the perfect one; Douglas Fir, Scotch Pine, Shasta, and Noble have all adorned our homes. Sometimes we encountered snow; sometimes rain. Dad and Mom made this a tradition that lasted even for them until a few years before Dad’s passing.

The afternoons were consumed with food, fun and football – the Hula Bowl (since replaced with the Hawaii Bowl). We visited with friends, the Starks, the Westpfahl’s, the Lee’s and the Smith’s. It was always a day full of stories and laughter.

Pool, board games, many times playing poker (I call this Casting for Lots, while more appropriate for Easter, it was a tradition of Thanksgiving and Christmas) became the afternoon entertainment. A Disney movie or pinnacle or bridge occurred occasionally as well. As often was the case, the genders separated to different parts of the home as the Christmas day dinner took shape. Usually it was turkey, but it was also interspersed with an occasional prime rib.

My immediate family traditions are similar today. Traditions often are embedded in our lives much like our values. When we are with my parents, we follow my childhood traditions, and when we are with Julie’s we follow hers. We go to the mountains for our tree when schedules allow, or a tree farm when they don’t – weather has never stopped us even when miserable.

We take days decorating the tree, and leave it up until the fire marshal implores us to “be safe.” It seems it never comes down until the day before curbside pickup.

We don’t have a set menu for Christmas Eve dinner but it is always a favorite food (yes – the list of my favorite foods are too long to include here J). Tonight it is spaghetti with Julie’s homemade sauce.

As I write this with tears in my eyes, I see my dad smiling and laughing at a story or joke. I love you and miss you.

-- Craig

Christmas Eve Memory

2008-12-23T14:32:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve marks the first anniversary of the last evening spent with Dad. I haven’t written in a very long time. Sometimes the words just don’t come to me – at least ones I want to share.

This is surprising. Most of the time they spill out – usually without regard to self-consequences.

When it comes to memories of my dad, most would seem insignificant or even boring.

On Christmas Eve, I will be clock watching, waiting for the minute hand to pass by that moment when we know dad passed away. The family as a whole will strive, much like last Christmas to proceed as normal. A dinner with family, wrapping the last of the gifts, getting the stockings hung by the chimney with care – all the while, my eyes darting and sometimes merely glancing at the clock.

I plan on sitting silently and praying, taking slow breaths trying to hold on to the moment as well as let it go. I feel guilty that I didn’t get up at midnight as planned. If I had, I would have been by his side just as Mom. I lay there in bed, ten after midnight, trying to pull myself to wakefulness before what I presumed would be long early Christmas morning. At twenty-six after I was springing to my feet, throwing on my scrubs to join my family in tears.

The children were roused from bed or the bathroom brushing their teeth, all of us surrounding Mom and Dad, touching and kissing good-bye. He was at peace but I was not there when I thought I should be.

Rather than our typical calls to family of “Merry Christmas” it was “Merry Christmas. I want you to know that Dad passed away just after midnight getting his wish to see Christmas.”

A year has passed and this is the memory which I dwell on most.

- Craig

The Smell of Old Shoes

2008-07-09T12:25:00.001-07:00

This might be an odd title, but appropriate for today’s blog entry. While in Wyoming, my brother and I played a number of tricks on each other – he, trying to sell my “work” laptop – I, the axe blade in his carry-on luggage…

But Greg wins! I unpacked my car trunk upon returning home and found a pair of dad’s old sneakers. They don’t really smell like old shoes. However, they do bring back memories of dad wearing these (or ones very similar) with white socks and walking shorts. The vision is vivid.

The shoes smell of memories.

- Craig

Estate

2008-07-04T21:39:00.000-07:00

Over a lifetime you create an estate. Sometimes the estate is big, sometimes small. Bill Gates lives in an estate or so they say. I think it is a mansion. His estate might not be that big in fact. Well maybe it is depending on the definition.

Merriam-Webster defines “estate” as the degree, quality, nature, and extent of one's interest in land or other property (1): possessions, property; especially : a person's property in land and tenements (2): the assets and liabilities left by a person at death. Other definitions of course include social standing or rank especially of a high order.

Many times people confuse “economic wealth” with “estate.” While I am guilty of similar association, I want "estate" to mean much more.

Sometimes the estate is also a legacy. The legacies of deeds or wealth, friendships, and love as well as property are all a part of one’s estate.

Today was the beginning of a two-day sale of Dad’s estate – not the family farm, but the many things collected over the years. It is only property. While memories exist – the camp stove, a tent or sleeping bag, a shirt or a tool – they are not “my dad.” Nor are they my dad’s estate.

His is estate is the legacy I mentioned earlier. Love and friendship are the most important, followed closely by his mentorship and respect for others.

It makes me think hard about the collections of legacy I will leave behind. I want my most important estate to be love and friendship as well. But I have this whole garage full of stuff to get rid of too.

- Craig

Road Trip

2008-06-27T09:51:00.001-07:00

My dad loved to go camping, fishing, hunting and hiking. I grew up in an outdoor family. We camped, fished, hunted and hiked with family, friends, and in Scouts.

Combine our joy of the outdoors with vacation, and the Edmonds family spent many days on “road trips.” We stuffed the cars with everything but the kitchen sink – although we did have plastic tubs for washing dishes. Occasionally we stayed in a motel or hotel but for the most part it was “drive, setup camp, eat, tell stories, sleep, get up, eat, break camp, and hit the road again.”

Packing the car to fit everything was an art. My dad taught me to use the nooks and crannies under seats or the gaps between odd sized luggage and boxes. Make sure you can easily get to the ice chest while you were driving to feed the young ones with snacks or to give dad a cold beer. We didn’t have air conditioning.

Rest stops included an occasional picnic area with an outhouse, but with kids, stops were frequently “behind that tree over there.”

Tomorrow I start the road trip to Wyoming. I am driving by myself, so the road trip is “different.” I will stop at gas stations, but at the same time, grab finger food, a water bottle refill, and hit the head… 15 minutes tops, then on my way. I can play the radio as loud as I want and even sing. Usually my singing is not allowed when the family is in the car.

- Craig

Savages

2008-06-16T20:33:00.001-07:00

Friday night Julie and I watched the 2007 movie “Savages.” A friend from work recommended and loaned it to me. He said it was based loosely on a portion of the writer’s life. He said “I think you can take it.”

A brother and sister deal very truthfully with the care of their aging father after he is diagnosed with dementia. The story begins with their father being evicted after his “common law” wife of 20 years passes.

There are not many similarities to my situation. I was never abused, and I was VERY close to my father. However, there were a couple of places which touched like a hot poker.

In one scene the brother says “we are not savages for doing this” as they leave their father in a nursing home. While dad was never in a nursing home I remember bringing up the discussion of “hospice.” How do you say “I love you” while proposing that you have given up the fight? Dad had not given up. It might have been a fronted positive attitude, or he may have truly believed he would beat the cancer. But there was either disappointment or anger, or frustration when I brought it up. He knew though I was insistent on him meeting with the hospice people. We (the family in general) simply wanted to ensure we cared for him the way he wanted.

It was also hard watching caregivers getting him ready for bed or handing diapers to the daughter before boarding the plane to take him “home.”

Dad never wanted to be in a hospital, let alone a nursing home. His home was designed around living there until he died. And, he did just that.

- Craig

Father's Day

2008-06-16T08:50:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Father’s Day – the first without Dad. I received a text from my brother indicating his sadness with this fact. It was tough for most of the day.

My kids were gone for the majority of the day, but Julie and I worked quietly in the yard. After a while, I went into the garage and worked on a project for the beach house. I needed to use some power tools. I did the same thing in August and September of last year after I found out dad had cancer. At that time, I built the top for a large round table for one of our decks – I still haven’t finished it, needing to put on legs and build the benches. Yesterday was a sign with the street number – but it will be completed today.

When Amanda got home from work, we went over to the in-laws. Chad went out on the boat all day with “papa” and Julie’s brothers. When they returned from the boat ride, we barbequed hamburgers and played bocce ball – much to everyone’s surprise (not!) – I was on the winning team (Mike). I know Dad liked bocce ball too – a game for all ages.

Mom called in the afternoon to wish me a “Happy Father’s Day”. She had been outside working all day, finishing yard work. She sounded great. Greg and I will join Mary and Ray in Wyoming late this month into the first week of July. It will be great to see everyone.

I hope all of you enjoyed your “day” too.

- Craig

Appreciation

2008-05-19T07:17:00.000-07:00

On Christmas Day 2007 my dad passed away. It is difficult to lose a loved one, whether it is your parent, a brother, a sister or a child. A family pet passing is also a great loss.

Katrina devastated New Orleans and the gulf coast August 29, 2005. Many people lost their lives. Many more people lost their homes and their livelihoods. Amanda spent a week the summer of 2006 rebuilding in a small town in Mississippi – Pass Christian.

Pass Christian Mississippi 2006

Myanmar was devastated by cyclone Nargis the first weekend of May. While by most accounts just fewer than 2000 people lost their lives in Katrina; Myanmar 134,000 lost their lives by recent accounts. “"I knew I'd lost my family," says Myanmar fisherman – the headline of a recent article stated.

Myanmar, Cyclone Nargis, 2008

The recent earthquake in China also killed as many as 50,000 people. The news of schools collapsing on children bothers me tremendously. Do we value our children so little that schools would be “cost effective” or in other words, poorly designed and cheaply built? The videos of parents standing by the demolished schools waiting to see or hear of a child surviving is heartbreaking – especially when you remember China’s policy of “one child” families. They lost their only child.

Sichuan Province China Earthquake, 2008

People have lost everything. I have lost nothing in comparison.

While I have lost family pets, aunts, uncles, grandparents and my father – and shed many tears – I am still blessed. I have a whole new appreciation for what God has given me – and what He hasn’t taken away.

- Craig

Favorite Joke

2008-04-28T20:31:00.002-07:00

I have lots of "favorite" jokes. I am not exactly sure what "joke" was Dad's favorite, but I remember him telling this one (and I can remember him chuckling vividly as he said the punch line):

A guy meets a hooker in a bar. She says, “This is your lucky night. I’ve got a special game for you. I’ll do absolutely anything you want for $300, as long as you can say it in three words.” The guy replies, “Hey, why not?” He pull his wallet out of his pocket, and one at a time lays three hundred-dollar bills on the bar, and says, slowly: “Paint…my…house.”

-Craig

Once in a Lifetime

2008-04-23T14:14:00.000-07:00

“There exists snippets … etched into the fabric of time .... scripted by a power with perfect timing … that know no bounds, … to be remembered and cherished ...”

While I use this quote from the “Golden Buddha” by Clive Cussler and Craig Dirgio (The Berkley Group by arrangement with Sandecker, RLLLP, 2003) without permission, I do so with great respect for both the author and the content.

These particular words speak to me. They remind me of my father – a once in a lifetime person.

The question begs to be asked. What are the once in a lifetime events we experience? We might remember our first kiss or our first true love. I don’t remember either of these. I don’t recall my first dog Butch – other than by name and breed.

I do remember snippets of my wedding day or particular vacations. I would say many are even etched and scripted.

I remember the birth of my children and the first time my father held them in the hospital. I can feel the joy dad felt when each of them was born, a granddaughter, a grandson, and three more granddaughters. Each held a special place and he talked proudly about all of their achievements.

The difficult portion of the quote is “with perfect timing.” Are these memories of events perfectly timed? I think so. I believe each of the events in our lives occur for a reason, and are perfectly timed. Whether we like it or not, we get what we need when we need it – scripted by a higher power.

Dad said he would make it to Christmas and he did – etched into the fabric of time, scripted by a power with perfect timing, to be remembered and cherished.

- Craig

Names

2008-04-05T13:51:00.000-07:00

When I was working on Dad’s obituary and eulogy I got to thinking about middle names. Dad’s middle name is Sanford. His twin brother’s middle name was Manford – after Grandpa Edmonds – Manford Wayne. Dad was the oldest so you might think he would have Manford as his middle name… instead he got the rhyming first name to Grandpas’ middle.

I know Dad really liked his middle name. His signature always included his middle initial. My signature includes mine as well. Alexander (defender or helper of mankind) is a long middle name. Chad (warrior's town) has the same middle name as me. Julie (youth) and I liked the name Brandon, but Brandon Edmonds seems like too many “Ns” and your tongue tends to stick to the top of your mouth when you have too many Ns and several syllables.

Amanda’s middle name is my mother-in-law’s maiden name – Dupree. I say “Do-Pray” after the French pronunciation, but everyone else says “Do-Pree.” I like both. Amanda means “lovable, worthy to be loved.” Ain't that the truth!

Sometimes people combine long first names with short middle names or vice versa. A lot of thought goes into names. Some are hand-me-downs or have family meaning. People always buy baby books to find the “true meaning” of a name. Mine means “from the Crag” – it reminds me of the title of a Sci-Fi thriller – “From the Black Lagoon”.

Many people want their names to mean “love,” “strength,” or “gift of God.” Sanford means “negotiator.” How true of my dad!

I hate it when people combine two halves of two different names. Yes they are unique, and they can sound beautiful, but they are always hard to spell. You know what I mean.

- from the Crag

Concrete

2008-03-30T21:05:00.000-07:00

I became an expert pouring concrete. While I can’t make my living at it, I’ve poured a lot.

I remember helping build forms for the foundation of the cabin. This was my first exposure… digging, nailing, leveling… all of the skills of carpentry and child slavery. It was early ’62. I was five.

Packing to remove air as you pour.

I’ve poured what seemed like miles of concrete around the edges of the lawn. Dad said it would keep the grass out of the flower beds and make it easier to mow and edge – most of which benefited everyone but him. Mom weeded with Greg and I helped. Dad mowed occasionally, so the benefit truly was a lesson for the boys.

At my home in Kent I learned to poured exposed aggregate – my father in-law taught me that – 3/8ths plus or minus, gently floated between the leveled forms I had built – a walkway from the front through an arbor covered arch to the deck I built.

The slab for the shed in Seatac, the curbing under the chain link fencing Dad taught me to stretch between cemented metal poles.

I expanded the width of my current driveway with Dad’s help one day when we poured the slab for the dog kennel Jake used for about a week. We just couldn’t see fit to leave him alone outside. That was eleven years ago.

I have a newer walkway poured with forms to look like a stone pathway. It also runs through an arbor gate.

Dad taught me so many life skills. I miss him.

- Craig

Closing Doors

2008-03-16T17:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my brother and I fought – physically. Those of you who know us may find that hard to believe. Usually the fight started with something small. Playing one-on-one football in our side yard resulted in an extra shove or two – more than once.

Greg kicked me in the crotch and the chase was on. He was a fast fellow and he was pulling away toward the upper driveway, but my leap onto the rock wall short cut several feet. Greg swung open the screen door deftly passed through the main entry and slammed the door closed – just as I crashed into it, my right foot going cleanly into the hollow wood door. I would be in serious trouble with Dad. Not so much for fighting, but definitely for the outcome – the purchase of a new door. (I liked the looks of the new one better anyway).

When God called my dad he closed the door on his physical life. It closed a door for all us and of our physical relationship with Dad. Easter reminds me that closing a door opens another.

In a movie yesterday, a woman spoke of losing her mother as a small girl. In the movie she recalled how her dad walked her outside and pointed to the stars in the sky. He said something profound and fitting both for Easter and for the passing of my dad. “Whenever God closes a door, he opens a window to heaven.”

- Craig

In Her Shoes

2008-02-28T17:56:00.000-08:00

“In Her Shoes” (2005) starring Cameron Diaz, Toni Collette and Shirley MacLaine is a story of sisters who each find their own way in life through differing avenues. They “come together” after reuniting with their estranged grandmother. One interesting scene has the sisters recalling memories of their mother – with grandma. While they shared a single memory their views of the memory were quite different.

When they got a dog, why their parents fought, how their mother died… all from two different sides of the same coin.

I have learned this in writing the blog too. Ham versus Meatloaf; how old we were when one event or another happened… Dad said “remember when you put the truck into the ditch when you and Clay were cutting firewood?” Although I didn’t say it I thought - “No. I remember putting it in the ditch when I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to do…” It was a totally different dent when Clay and I were cutting firewood…J

Telling stories the weekend of Dad’s service I learned all of us – Jack, Rod, Greg, Julie, Amanda, Chad, and myself – and many others – all saw things a little differently. I am not sure we gained consensus on who’s perspective or memory was the correct version.

The really cool thing is that we – collectively – the whole family has found their way – found each other, reconnected after years, through the sharing of memories. While the reason we were together was not “a good thing” the time we spent together was special.

- Craig

Pride

2008-01-31T16:45:00.000-08:00

I know my father was proud of both Greg and I. I don’t recall him saying it to us much directly, but everyone has told us “Your dad was so proud of his boys.” It is certainly good to know that – and is a lessoned learned – tell your children you are proud of them. Tell others you are proud of your children – especially if your kids can overhear.

Amanda had called to tell Julie and I she had passed the West B test (sp?) which was a requirement for entry into the school of education. She also said she was working on some scholarship applications (something I hope she gets!). She is continuing to do much better in college than I did – which makes me so proud.

Chad is an excellent student too, but two things I am most proud of right now is his faith and belief in God. Chad felt it was important to read Bible scripture to Dad on Christmas Eve just before he passed away. He sensed the importance of this to my father. It was an extremely difficult thing to do – as many if not most of us don’t read the Bible enough, let alone to some else – it is almost like “witnessing.” I am a poor witness to my faith and beliefs. Chad also had the courage to stand before 400 people and read scripture at Dad’s service. It was also extremely difficult to do and yet he did it with a professionalism Dad can certainly take pride in.

Dad was a speaker too. He joined Toastmasters when I was young in order to hone his skills. He would practice each of his speeches and as a pre-adolescent I would critique and count “ums,” and “ers.” I believe this was one skill my dad thought was important to his career.

I had a dream the night before last. There were three of us at the table, but my focus was on Dad. The conversation centered on Amanda passing the test and applying for scholarships and Chad reading scripture at the service. I expressed my pride and said “you would be proud of them too.”

The conversation continued for a while longer (although I do not recall what we were talking about) and Dad had a big smile, gave a “humph” and laugh. He said “well you know that is not going to happen.” I wish I could remember what we were talking about at the time.

The curiosity of the situation was this. I was confused in my dream. Was I talking to Dad? I recall knowing at the time, the events we were discussing had occurred after he had passed away. Could I have been linked directly to Dad – now – through this dream?

Dad looked like the Dad I want to remember and for that, I am eternally grateful.

- Craig

First Encounters - Part II

2008-01-26T12:50:00.001-08:00

(Reference Posting from yesterday, January 25, 2008)

I attended kindergarten at a church in the Renton highlands. In the early sixties, most school districts did not have kindergarten. In kindergarten I made friends with a boy named Jonathon. I bugged my mom for days to have Jonathon come over to our house to play. She discussed it with his father who said “No.” After a couple more tries Mom and Jonathon’s dad were able to agree on meeting at our church. Mom and Jonathon’s dad talked while Jonathon and I played. It just wasn’t proper for Jonathon to be at a white boy’s house – even in the northwest! I never saw Jonathon after that year.

Mr. Taylor lived at the end of our street in the SeaTac area of south Seattle. He had a little house. We loved to go there for Halloween because he gave out the “nickel” candy bars.

When he drove by and we were outside he would wave. He had a great smile! (I could write a whole blog just on that – some day I will). Sometimes he would sit in his car and we would chat – but he would never get out of the ’65 Chrysler New Yorker. It started out as light blue and he painted a couple of times – ending up a beautiful dark, almost navy blue.

Dad asked Greg and I to go mow his lawn. It was mostly grass gone to seed. The first time I asked him he said that would be wonderful – how much do I want? We said “nothing – people do these types of things for neighbors.” After the mowing he would bring us a “giant” bottle of pop – probably about 20 oz. size. Usually it was Sprite even though I preferred 7-Up, I didn’t complain. He would sit on the steps and tell us his story (this would be several interesting blogs).

Soon the four of us became good friends, Mr. Taylor driving by slowing, stopping occasionally to chat. I remember a time when we were standing by the car and Mr. Taylor handed Dad a half gallon bottle of Gallo Burgundy – maybe the start of Dad’s love of wine (jug kind anyway!).

Dad asked Mr. Taylor if he would have Thanksgiving Dinner with us. It would be just the neighbors. He replied politely “it would not be proper for a black man to enter a white man’s house.” Dad of course said “bunk” or some other polite response. We wanted him for Thanksgiving and none of us cared what others thought. Mr. Taylor however refused. He was scared of what people might do to him. After all he was 89 at the time and could hardly defend himself and his property. It was in the early to mid-seventies (before I graduated in ’75).

That Christmas Mom fixed a basket for Mr. Taylor for the men to take to him for Christmas. I remember it included oranges, some nuts and a wrapped pair of black gloves – the kind which are partly knitted with leather on the back and palms.

Dad, Greg, and I took it up to his house – wrapped in cellophane. This was the first time we went in – he offered. We stood there and told him to unwrap it. His smile was beautiful and you could sense the pure joy and appreciation he felt. Dad asked him if he liked the gloves and Mr. Taylor responded, “Only a person who did not like gloves wouldn’t like these.”

I graduated and moved on, never really seeing much of Mr. Taylor before he passed away, but I will always remember him and the mutual respect we all showed as neighbors.

- Craig

First Encounters - Part I

2008-01-25T21:07:00.000-08:00

Last Monday was the National Holiday celebration of Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday.

Blogger Side Note: Chad celebrated his sixteenth birthday on the same day. We didn’t get to the DMV for his written driver’s test last week, and they were closed on Saturday for the holiday since they were closed on Monday anyway. Chad passed the written exam on Wednesday and is scheduled for the driving portion of the test on the 6th of Feb.

On to the blog…

Last Friday evening Julie and I attend the MLK celebration at Emerald Ridge High School. Chad was a part of the vocal support in a student written “performance art.” At first I thought “why am I here?” Before long though I knew I had made a good decision to attend. By the end, the emotions which flow up and done daily now had gotten the better of me. My voice cracked as I told the young man acting the role of Dr. King that he “was amazing.” I told his Grandparents who were standing with him (as well as a sister I believe, and other family members) with beaming smiles, “you should be very proud of this young man – he sounded just like Dr. King – he will go far.” My eyes were welled up.

One thing I noted in a number of quotes attributed to Dr. King was a similarity to Dad’s personal philosophies.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. quotes:

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

“The good neighbor looks beyond the external accidents and discerns those inner
qualities that make all men human and, therefore, brothers.”

“Rarely do we find men who willingly engage in hard, solid thinking. There is an almost
universal quest for easy answers and half-baked solutions. Nothing pains some people
more than having to think.”

“The function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically.
Intelligence plus character - that is the goal of true education.”

“The art of acceptance is the art of making someone who has just done you a small favor
wish that he might have done you a greater one.”

“We must use time creatively.”

All of these quotes were visibly displayed in Dad’s foundational beliefs.

Dad once told me “I never saw a black man until I joined the Air Force.” During the early fifties I am sure our black servicemen were not treated well. Dad never discussed this history directly, but rather espoused the ideal of treating everyone equally – with value.

-Craig

Minister's Message

2008-01-23T11:01:00.000-08:00

Hi Craig,
Here's the message for your Dad's memorial service on January 12, 2008. Let me know if there's anything else I or the church can do to help your family.
Rev. Susan

Scripture verses: Psalm 121; Isaiah 40: 3-8, 28-31; and John 14:1-6.

We gather in this place today for a service of memory and anticipation. We remember the life of Duane Sanford Edmonds and the promises of God. We have today a heartfelt sense of great loss. Duane's family has lost a loving husband, father, grandfather, brother, brother-in-law and uncle. The community has lost a leader whose competence and willingness could always be depended upon in every good enterprise. A vast circle of friends has lost a true and unselfish friend whose personality was joyful with understanding and sympathy. First United Methodist Church, Powell, has lost not only a loyal member but also a talented and faithful worker who gave himself wholeheartedly to Christian service. Many of us are better because he was with us. We thank God for Duane and we bless his memory. God has spoken to us through his life and character. Today we wish to listen to what God speaks to us through Duane's death.

The first verse of John 14 tells us, "Let not your hearts be troubled...." And that's difficult advice to follow on a day like this. Behind it is the same kind of faith that lets us take comfort from praying, "Our Father," for if we have a heavenly father, we don't need to have a troubled heart. Loving fathers mend broken hearts.

Behind the advice of Jesus' words as recorded by John are other words of advice. Christ has invited us, for example, with the words, "Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." More importantly, however, are two messages that appear to contradict each other. Often, when we gather on occasions like this, we pray to God asking that strength be given not to grieve like those who have no hope. On the other hand, Jesus taught us in his sermon on the mount: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

You feel the tension, don't you? This very sad day is also a very glad day! The only way to get through it is to grieve and to sing. The only way to get through as a Christian is to grieve as a Christian.....a hope-filled, life-expecting Christian.

Let me pause for a moment here to mention the effects Duane may have had on our lives. Any of us who were a part of Duane's life were well aware of Duane's attitude for life. He put it on all his e-mail correspondence: "Anyone can make a difference, everyone should try." We knew his deepest values were his love of his family, his honesty, his integrity, and his service to others. We knew he tried to make every day a good day. We knew he was a powerhouse of energy, enthusiasm, and optimism. We knew we could depend on him. We seldom hesitated to ask for his help, because of his willingness to say, "Yes." We knew that in any conversation with him.....he would be genuinely interested and concerned about you. And Duane's willingness to help others, I believe, stemmed from his love of God and the basic tenets of the Christian faith.

This very sad day IS a very glad day. I say it by faith, but Duane can say it now, from experience...direct experience with the Heavenly Father who makes this time untroubled.

It is, of course, the death of Jesus that makes the death of Duane bearable. We know what happened for God's own Son. We know that the funeral for Jesus was not the last event. Even as we call that Friday "Good" on which Jesus was buried, we call today a "glad day" for Duane. Glad, because it's not his last day. Glad, because Easter is God's answer to our sadness. Glad, because God has promised to do for Duane, and for all who believe, what he did for his only Son, Jesus.

This is why we do not mourn like those who have no hpe. We've been told a few things about what's next. We've been told that we, like Jesus, get a brand new body, fit to live eternally; a vigorous, healthy, painless, eternally young spiritual body.

The prophet Isaiah reminds us how temporary our earthly bodies are...."they're like grass and flowers...but God's word, God's promises are forever. God doesn't become weak or tired....God gives power and strength....and those who wait for the Lord will renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary."

Jesus tells us in John's gospel that there are many rooms in his Father's house. There's a place for everyone who believes. We know, too, that Jesus is "the way, the truth, and the life" because he tells us so. We also know that without Jesus no one can go to the Father. I believe Duane knew these truths as well. I believe Duane loved God and God loved him. Duane is God's child, and now he returns to God.

The psalmist perhaps says it best: "The Lord is your protector, and he won't go to sleep or let you stumble....the Lord will protect you now and always....wherever you go."

Let me close with one long question, filled with sadness, filled with joy, linking us all together as family:

If God could make Duane; if God could let him be safely born here in Powell; if God could make him a brother; if God could bring into his life a woman, Jo Ann, to love him for almost 52 years; if God could make him a father of the two sons gathered here today, and grandfather of more; if God used Duane's time to inspire us and instruct us in the church and community in so many ways; if God could do all that, and much more, then don't we have reason to believe that God will accomplish even more?

This is a sad day because Duane's work is done, the memories are beautiful, and we will all miss him. This is also a glad day, because we'll miss him only for a while. Then, we who believe in Jesus Christ as our Savior, will join him in that eternal home in heaven, join him in peace and joy.

May the peace of God which passes all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Amen.

From: Susan
To: Edmonds, Craig
Subject: Re: Your Message

Hi Craig,
Yes, I'll be glad to get a copy of the message to you. Would you like it e-mailed and/or snail-mailed? Let me know. I won't be able to get around to it until after Monday, but I will get it to you.
Susan A-T

Eulogy - I

2008-01-17T18:48:00.000-08:00

On behalf of Duane’s family and friends I would like to thank you for being here to celebrate his life.

Duane Sanford Edmonds was born August 21st, 1931, the oldest of identical twins.

It is his death which brings us together today. The death of a great man, our Dad, our husband, our relative and our friend. But it's not of death that I want to talk about today. While good men die, their contributions do not. I have chosen to talk about living and giving.

God is here with us today, and while God is not here to take away our pain and suffering, He is here to fill us with His presence.

We are gathered here in the presence of Dad’s family and his friends and God to say that here was a life that demands notice. A life that exemplified kindness. A life that illustrated the Golden Rule, “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” A life that inspired emulation. A life that provided light for others' lives. He was living proof of just how fine (good) a person can be.

"A successful man," observed Albert Einstein, "is he who receives a great deal from his fellowmen, usually incomparably more than corresponds to his service to them. The value of a man, however, should be seen in what he gives and not in what he is able to receive."

The Apostle Paul in his letter to the Romans declared, "Every man must give an account of himself to God." Today I give this account before God, his family and his friends.

In one word, Dad was a man who gave.

He gave us encouragement. I've never known a decision so heavy, a deadline so pressing; a crisis so confusing that Dad could not put a spring in my step – sometimes because of a swat. He had a way of putting things in perspective that made the situation bearable, if not actually beneficial. As his sons, my brother and I know this because we had many such times.

Someone has said that a good way to judge a man is to see which he would take if given a choice—a light load or a strong back. Through no choice of his own, Dad's situation required a strong back. He grew up during the depression. He lost his father as a young man. He lost his mother, a brother and his sister. And along the way, through his own experience and heartaches, he developed a soft shoulder and an encouraging handshake.

A friend (Raven) he met at while in treatments in Phoenix, said “every day when I would ask him ‘How ya doin' today Duane?’ he would always reply "WELL I'VE NEVER HAD A BAD DAY AND THATS NOT GOING TO START NOW.”

As a Christian I have always envisioned "mission" work as being something you do "overseas." Many if not most of us cannot go on such a mission. Seldom do we see the mission right outside these doors - in our neighborhood, and our community. My father did. He made his mission this community and this state.

He gave us time. He attended meetings just to offer emotional support when we needed it. When any organization needed someone to step in – he always volunteered; Boy Scouts, Boys and Girls Club, school district levy elections (in WA), where to put the community pool, assisting with candidates running for election, fundraising for numerous organizations, for scholarships for kids, Bingo, the American Legion, the school board as member and president, and the state board of education as member and chairman, the National Association of School Board Education, the Northwest College Foundation, the Korean War Veterans Memorial, driving the church van to get people to services, and many other committees.

He phoned us at home to ask about our sick parents or children or spouses; he mowed our lawns or dropped off trout, elk or deer, and an occasional onion or hot pepper or two. He stopped by our homes to visit; at our places of work or on the streets to chat. He always took a few minutes or a few hours to become a sounding board for plans and decisions. Dad helped us get our computers up and running or helped us with our taxes.

He never once asked us to devote time and energy to something where he did not make an equal, if not greater, commitment. Dad had great personal values and then upheld them in every situation—without compromise even when they might cost him.

He led. A short statement, but very long on meaning. Although there are many definitions of leadership, Dad led in such a way that he exemplified leadership rather than defined it. And as other leaders do by definition, he inspired. Nothing was quite as embarrassing as watching him do something you assured him could not be done. We all wanted to work as he worked – and sometimes that was hard to do. I often wanted to take a break but he wanted to keep going until the job was done. It was simply his nature.

Dad was a storyteller. Whether it was a story of Jack Crandall, Rex Posten, or Ike Dishpan driving stage coach to Yellowstone, and discovering gold – or the many stories and antics of his youth – and believe me – there were many; or about his service to his nation – of which he was so proud; or the stories of others he recalled so clearly. All were interesting and entertaining – and he reminded me at Thanksgiving, even with his brain racked with cancer, that his memory was better than some of you here today – and he did it with a smile.

He gave us laughter and he loved to laugh. He liked to tell jokes, but he loved to send them in email even more. He never forwarded an email which did not touch him, from the funny stories, to the emotional, heartfelt ones.

He trusted others and he himself could be trusted. Until the day of his death, he never broke a promise when it was within his control to keep it.

Adlai Stevenson once commented about a man and his contribution: "It is not the years in a life that counts; it's the life in the years." Dad lived.

Dad did what had to been done. He did what others could not.

Yes, my Dad, Duane, gave us encouragement, time, laughter and stories. Only the time is gone. The encouragement, laughter and stories will remain.

As a dedicated Christian, his eternal home is with God. When God finally got to see our dad on Christmas Day, God said – “This is my finest creation. This is how I wanted you to live your life.” We will miss him.

My family asks that each of you continue his work – by smiling at someone who needs a smile, by laughing, by listening to someone who needs to heard, by hugging someone who needs a hug, by living, by doing what you can do.

Anyone can make a difference. Everyone should try.

-Craig

Christmas Day Passage

2007-12-29T20:20:00.000-08:00

Duane Sanford Edmonds died at home December 25, 2007 after a short, courageous battle with cancer. He was born August 21, 1931, to Manford Wayne Edmonds and Lillian Vesta Carlson Edmonds. The eldest of identical twins, Duane grew up on a farm just outside Powell and attended Powell schools. Duane married Jo Ann Elizabeth Graham of Powell January 28, 1956.

(The Edmonds family wishes to express our deepest gratitude for the many wishes, thoughts and prayers sent our way during our dad’s illness.

He passed away peacefully early this Christmas morning (12:26 AM). Dad was not in pain. His grandchildren sat with him most all of Christmas Eve, rubbing his arms and feet, and scratching his head which he so enjoyed. They fed him ice chips, pipettes of water and Gatorade and told him stories of their recent accomplishments of school. Chad got to read him passages from the Bible, which he felt were important for Grandpa to hear, and he whispered, “You are saved.”

Mom took over the vigil at 11:30 PM as the grandkids readied themselves for bed and stayed by his side, reassuring him that many family members and friends were waiting for him as he passed to God’s hands.

Dad wanted so much for his own Christmas present to see and hear his grandchildren. He received his wish.

Today our family celebrated Christmas traditions as we always have, and we continue to be thankful for the many years we shared with Dad. Christmas will always hold a special place for this family.

With love and peace to you and your families this holiday season,

Jo Ann, Craig, Greg, Julie, Ana, Amanda, Chad, Meagan, Jackie, Rachel)

His father, mother, brother Dwight Manford Edmonds, and sister Janet Elaine Burnett Hale preceded Duane in death.

He is survived by his wife Jo Ann Edmonds of Powell, his brother; Alonzo John (Jack) Edmonds of Gillette (Dorothy Roper Edmonds); sons Craig Edmonds (Julie) of Puyallup, Washington, and Gregory Edmonds (Ana) of Phoenix, Arizona; grandchildren Amanda and Chad Edmonds (Craig), Megan, Jacqueline and Rachel Edmonds (Gregory); his sister in-law Myrna Dearcorn Edmonds of Crandall; and many nieces and nephews, all of whom he loved dearly.

The list of Duane's memberships, associations, contributions, accomplishments and awards is very long. Among those that were precious to him is the Future Farmer of America "Degree of American Farmer" he earned in 1951 shortly before enlisting in the service. Assigned to the United States Air Force Strategic Air Command, he proudly served his country at home and oversees during the Korean Conflict.

Duane attended Northwest College in Powell before transferring to the University of Wyoming where he earned degrees in chemistry and mathematics. Upon graduation, he moved to the Seattle, Wash., area where he raised his family and worked 30 years as an engineer for the Boeing Company. He was a member of design teams for the Space Shuttle, Lunar Rover and the Boeing Supersonic Transport. He retired in 1989 as the Director of Sales and Marketing for the Commercial Airplane Division.

Duane followed through on his dream to retire to the Edmonds' family homestead in Powell where he became a civic leader, volunteering many hours to education as a mentor, fundraiser, president and member of the Park County School District #1. He was also chairman and member of the Wyoming State Board of Education, and member of the National Association of School Board Education (NASBE). Duane served on the Board of Cooperative Education Services (BOCES) and the Northwest College Foundation. He was an active member of the Powell Rotary. Duane was the Worshipful Master of Absorakee Lodge of Masons.

Recently, Wyoming Gov. Dave Freudenthal issued a governor's proclamation honoring Duane for his service to education and Wyoming's youth.

Duane "walked the talk" of service to others. He led by example and was quick to roll up his sleeves and pitch in to solve a problem or get the job done. He loved working the concession stands and calling bingo for the American Legion. He was also their treasurer.

One of his greatest pleasures was speaking to students about the importance of education and judging local science fairs and forensics tournaments. Duane was an avid, lifelong supporter of the Boy Scouts of America and many other youth causes.

We are reminded of Duane's e-mail tagline, "Anyone can make a difference. Everyone should try!" His family, friends and community will miss him greatly.

A Celebration of Life Service for Duane will be held January 12, 2008, 2 PM at the Northwest College Nelson Auditorium, 231 W 6th St., Powell Wyoming 82435.

To honor their wishes, the family requests memorial contributions to the Absorakee Masonic Lodge #30, Powell Valley Hospice (777 Avenue H) or the Powell Schools Foundation (160 N. Evarts).

- Craig

Christmas

2007-12-21T09:23:00.000-08:00

Craig, Amanda, Chad and Julie - 2005

"Christmas Time is Here Again" is an old Beach Boys song I really like. While this Christmas has been stressful for the family as a whole, I thought I would just say - we are trying to make it as normal as possible.

Julie, Amanda, Chad and I will be leaving tomorrow for Powell. We are driving a truckload of presents and should arrive Sunday afternoon. I'll be picking up Greg, Ana, Megan, Jackie, and Rachel at the Cody airport on Monday...

I know Mom is glad we are coming! Dad is hanging on for Christmas! We are all thankful for the time we will share together.

We are wishing you all a very Merry Christmas... and here are some pictures of our families over the years - doing what we like to do this time of year!

"With every Christmas card I write

May your days be merry and bright

And may all your Christmasses be white..."

(White Christmas)

- Craig

Christmas 1963

Christmas 2004

Duane and Jo Ann's Christmas Tree - 2003

Mom, Myrna, Rod, Eleanor, and Brandi

Tree Hunting 2003

Amanda, Chad - Christmas Tree Hunting 2005

Craig, Deep Snow 2005

Jackie, Susi, and Megan - 2003

The Love of Many

2007-12-14T18:57:00.000-08:00

To Dad:

_________________

Life does not accommodate you; it shatters you. Every seed destroys its container, or else there would be no fruition.
Florida Scott-Maxwell

A thankful person is thankful under all circumstances. A complaining soul complains even in paradise.
Baha'u'llah

…when one’s heart is breaking about losing a special loved one it’s pretty darn tough to manage those emotions, so I understand your mother’s concern. It’s important to remember to breathe and take the time you need to say exactly what you want in honor of your father. Courage and strength will come.

I send love,
Laurel

_________________

Thanks for the update. We have been wondering how things were going for Duane. I'm sure he enjoyed the short trips to the atrium and to see the mountains from the window. Your folks have a beautiful home and some good views. We surprised them several years ago and stopped by for a short visit on our way to Michigan.

We will continue to keep you all in our prayers and thoughts.
- Bob & Jan

_________________

I continue to pray for both your mother and father whom I haven’t known for very long. I was on a committee with your father a few years ago and was in a couple of meetings that he led. I admire him for his leadership skills. He is a great man – which I am sure you know. I told him about my admiration and made him cry, just a couple of weeks ago. I watched both my parents suffer through illnesses (and later die) so my prayers are also with you and your brother and your families at this time.
- Deb

_________________

My dear hearts, it is the small pleasures that are woven into the tapestry of our life that keep it strong. You are such an amazing family. I can just see your Dad's face saying he wanted it to last. His voice rings in my ears, and love for you all lives in my heart.

This comes with pure hugs and blessings for all of you.
- Cinda

_________________

When I visited yesterday, the washer and dryer were working full speed. It's so hard to see your Dad this way when even during the brief years I have known him, he was always been so vital and full of energy. But.....true to form, at the beginning of our visit, he asked how my husband was. (He, too, is battling cancer.) Your Mom seems to be pretty strong…

- Susan

_________________

He is a very special man who I feel privileged to know and have worked with. I wish I was closer so that I could stop in and see him. We had some great discussions regarding the world's problems during my year in Powell. My thoughts and prayers are continually with your family. Your dad and mom are two very special people!

PS: I enjoy reading your Blog and learning more about your family.

Jerry

_________________

I think of Duane quite often and miss visiting with him at Envita. He and your mother are both very wonderful people and I love them both dearly! Please let him and her know that I said Hi and LOVE them both.

He is a very strong man, and every day when i would ask him "How ya doin' today?" he would always reply "WELL I'VE NEVER HAD A BAD DAY AND THATS NOT GOING TO START NOW." - Raven

_________________

Duane and I went to Aerial Photo School together in Denver in 1952. After Graduation he went one way I went another. I was in Photo Mapping Squadron at West Palm Beach, Florida and was in another squadron in the same photo group.

We had a lot of good times together when we were in Denver. I remember especially the forth of July during the summer of 1952 when we hitchhiked from Denver to Powell. Duane went home and another buddy hitchhiked on to Great Falls, Mt. for the weekend.

My sister and here husband drove us back to Powell and we rode back to Denver in Duane's Plymouth.

I always wanted to see Duane again and we got in touch a couple of years ago by e-mail. I do have pictures of us from Denver if you think you would like them. He probably has the same ones.

Duane's Friend for Ever

Harvey

_________________

Please tell your dad and mom they are in our hearts and prayers and we wish you all a Merry Christmas. In spite of your family's situation, take comfort the Good Lord loves you all.

- Cork & Loretta

_________________

The report today is encouraging and uplifting. Duane, it’s wonderful you could view the surroundings of your home and the glorious countryside from a different perspective than your bed. I’ve always been so envious of that magnificent view of Heart Mountain from your front windows.

I’ve just spent time reading the blogs and responses. Since I’m not very “geeky” when it comes to such matters, this method of communication is new to me. The comments about, and written by, my classmates are of great interest to me. After I married George in June, 1952, I left Powell and came home only for brief visits. Those visits were spent primarily with family so my contact with my classmates, who had also moved on to other places, were limited. Reading about your early family days, and theirs, is most interesting. Jim related some stories which I either didn’t know about or had completely forgotten. This is wonderful history of the ‘49ers and I hope it brings a smile to your lips and a twinkle to your eye.

You are in my thoughts and prayers!

- Dolores

_________________

Thanks for the recent report. I am also so glad you contacted the Powell Tribune about the governor's proclamation since we had not been aware of it. … I went … to see Duane personally and offer congratulations. … I also met Greg there that day and was able to tell him how much your dad has meant to all of us, as well as the schools and community. Sincerely, -

- Dave

_________________

Our prayers are with your Dad. I know it has to be very hard on your Mother too. Again thanks for the Info.

- John

_________________

I tried a couple of times to call, but got just the voice mail. I'll try again. Our prayers are for all of you and keep us in touch. I hesitate to tell your Dad about Earl, and perhaps that is something you can share with him.

- John

_________________

We wish we were closer so we could come and see him more often. He has a wonderful family looking after him and that has to be such a great comfort to him. We love Duane like a father. We are SO glad that you all were able to come over to the Ranch for their Anniversary. It was a great time and we enjoyed meeting all of you.

Our prayers and thoughts are with you constantly.

Take Care and give your Dad a big hug from both of us.

God Bless,

- Scott & Becky

_________________

We feel so badly for Duane. Can he have company, even for a short period, or best if we don't come? Merlin was a school classmate and they had good memories of FFA and other things that they had recently reminisced about. We had heard that he couldn't have company so we've stayed away, but continue to think about him and keep him in our prayer. At least tell him, "hello" from us.

Love,

- Merlin and Elaine

_________________

You are very fortunate to have such a great man in your life.

- Richard

_________________

Both Bailey and I wish to express our deepest sympathy and condolences to the whole family on the situation with Duane. I had been in communication with Duane on a regular basis up until the time he returned to WY where I think I only heard maybe once since he returned home from Arizona. I was a close friend and a poker buddy with Duane for many years and even worked for Duane before he retired. I (we) often remember all of the wonderful times we had both here in 'Seattle' and even more the couple of times we visited in Powell. I will express later a couple of the great stories we had when Duane prepared one of his fabulous 'Pitch-fork' BBQ's when we last visited him in WY. Again, please know that we both hold you ALL in our thoughts and prayers.

- John and Bailey

Old Photos I

2007-12-13T19:38:00.000-08:00

I've always wished I could have taken more pictures, but these were all taken with a $1.98 baby brownie and it cost money to have Lucier's develop them and print them. Now I have about 15,000 photos on my hard drive'; I never fail to be amazed at the miracles of modern technology.

Of course I was always just a tad jealous of Dwight since Elaine liked him better than me, and I had an intense crush on her all through high school only to have her go to the senior prom with Jim Garvin. I was just sort of a little nerd two years younger than she was so I didn't have a chance. Go figure!

I know Jim Elder took tons of pictures in high school since he had the wondrous Argus C3 which cost $30 in those days, but I've never been able to get him to see if he could come up with some of them.

We all did love that blue DeSoto. It made all of us feel a bit bigger and taller when we had a chance to ride in it. One time Dwight took me and Elaine up to the Cody bb game with Powell, and he took me clear to Penrose when we got back to Powell; you were both always generous with yourselves and your car.

Do you remember that the pictures taken in Cody were when you and I went to pay an official visit to the Cody FFA chapter on behalf of the state FFA? Keep working on your story. I'm anxious to read it.

Stay hopeful, cheerful, and prayerful.

- Dwight Blood

Priorities

2007-12-12T09:43:00.000-08:00

Note from the blogger: Dad is no longer able to use a computer to get to the blog. I have been reading them to him when I am in Wyoming, but when I am not, probably no one does. I will however keep writing to the blog. Please send me emails of stories you have about Dad. My brother or I will read them to him, or keep them for posterity.

For those who have sent emails, or commented on the blog – I have read everyone of them to him. I did not change a word – and he laughed, and he cried. Dad has many wonderful friends and family – and as he has tried to tell me – a better memory than most of them
:-)

Thanks - Craig

On to the blog!

I hate it when some one tells me what my priorities are. It might be a managerial thing – it might be a parental thing. I don’t like my kids telling me “this is the way it is” anymore than my parents. When it comes to my boss I simply have to “eat it” with the words “works for me” – even if it doesn’t.

I don’t want someone working for me whose Number #1 priority is “work.” Invariably I can’t keep up with them and then I spend a lot of time “managing” them. It just sounds like “work” to me.

My top five priorities are my belief in and service to God, my wife and children, my other friends and family, my own health and well-being, and my country. While this is the order I always want them to be they are frequently scrambled toward “wife and kids first, family, God…, etc.” I think this happens a lot – to a lot of people.

Greg read a book once titled “I Am Third” by Gale Sayers (autobiography) in which Mr. Sayers introduced us to Brian Piccolo of “Brian’s Song” fame. In this book, Gale Sayers places God first, his family and friends second, and himself third. This was a reminder to me about where my priorities lay.

As readers of the blog know, I learned a lot from my father. Pertinent examples were general construction, vehicle maintenance, and of course my values. I learned to build decks, frame, roof, change the oil and brakes on cars etc. because of my dad’s priorities – not mine.

When I was little, Dad would get me up on Saturday to “work.” Work started about 8 o’clock. This means we got up earlier. Mom would fix us breakfast and I would tag along with Dad until lunch – which was about 2 o’clock. When my brother got old enough he tagged along too. When we got older work still started at 8, but we were responsible for getting up early enough for breakfast - else we waited until lunch. There were several mornings I worked while hungry. But I learned quickly another valuable lesson. These Saturdays, and Sunday's after church were when we learned everything we needed to know, and you can read some of that in previous blogs.

But today, I want to tell you the story of priorities. When I was in junior high, my friends had organized a flag football game for 10 AM Saturday at the high school football practice field. I wanted to play, and asked Dad if I could. He said “no, you have to work.”

I whined a little bit, and tried my keen negotiation skills – also learned from my dad…

“What if I work until just before ten, play flag football for a while, then come back and work until 4 PM rather than 2?”

“No. Work is from 8 till 2.” “But Dad,…” my pleading quickly cut short by his interruption: “You don’t tell your boss when you work – your boss tells you when you work. After you work, then you can do whatever you want.”

I could see I would not win this argument. I didn’t get to play flag football that day and I can’t tell what “work” was either. I do know though, I learned a variation on the adage “work before play” plus how to repair the lawn mower or some other valuable skill.

Thanks for the lesson Dad!

- Craig

Man vs. Wild

2007-12-06T13:52:00.000-08:00

“Man vs. Wild” is a Discovery Channel program where a man, “Bear Grylls” and his film crew battle some element of the wild. A couple of weeks ago, my dad, Chad and I watched “Iceland.” In one episode “Sahara” Bear gutted a dead camel and crawled inside for shelter from the elements of the desert.

Dad is a great supporter of Boy Scouts of America. As an Eagle Scout I fancied myself as a “Bear Grylls.” Several of the older members of my troop were adept at “surviving” the wild. I have not eaten Sheep eyeballs or bugs. I have eaten Skunk Cabbage roots, raw meat, dandelions, numerous berries, slept in snow caves, boiled water more than 10 feet from a fire (flint and steel to start it), and spent rather cold nights under piles of fir branches and needles.

One time while elk hunting with Dad, Earl Patterson, and Darrell (I can’t remember his last name), I left camp before dawn with my survival backpack, ammo and 30-06. Within ten minutes I came across a single set of elk tracks and blood drops. Following them for the next several hours during a light snow I found myself in the middle of an entire herd, bedded down for the day. This was amazing! There were more than thirty I could count.

I stood still as they watched me turn slowly, looking for the “bleeder.” There was only one animal I could not see fully – the rest were cows. The herd rose quietly and began walking uphill. I was tired, hungry and it was now after lunchtime. I started to follow my tracks back the way I came and quickly discovered my trail had been snowed over.

However, I kept my bearings and headed straight toward the logging road due North. I slid down steep slopes toward frozen creeks, climbing over huge fallen trees only to climb the steep slope on the other side. Each time I thought I had to be close to the road, but then there was another ravine. I kept heading straight knowing that road was there. Finally, while climbing up a slope, I could go no further. I was exhausted. I lay there in the snow only to fall asleep.

When I awoke it was dark and I was covered by a couple of inches of snow. I could have died. Alarmed, I turned and scrambled up – only to find I was two feet from the edge of the logging road. I had found myself. While walking back toward camp, Dad, Earl and Darrell were in the truck heading my way.

I know Dad was definitely worried that day. We didn’t speak much about it after that. Somehow he probably knew I would end up “on my feet.”

Dad tells of a story where he shot an elk late in the day. It was snowing hard and he was cold. He was too far from camp. His only option was to gut the elk, and crawl inside. He claims to have spent the night in the hollowed out torso of a bull elk.

Man vs. Wild.

- Craig

Lessons from Dad - Part II

2007-12-05T09:29:00.000-08:00

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but sometimes only a thousand words can paint the picture. Here are 699 words painting the picture of my dad.

My father was an avid “Scouter.” My brother and I are Eagle Scouts. Dad continued to volunteer for the Chief Seattle Council of the Boy Scouts of America long after my brother and I stopped active participation. He attended the monthly Roundtable meetings and served as a District Commissioner. At some point in the late seventies he received the Silver Beaver and District Awards of Merit. Both of these awards honor local service to the Scouting community.

Most everything you want to know about my father’s values can be easily summarized in the Scout Oath and Law.

THE BOY SCOUT OATH:
On my honor I will do my best
To do my duty to God and my country
and to obey the Scout Law;
To help other people at all times;
To keep myself physically strong,
mentally awake, and morally straight.

I want the reader to let these words sink in. “My duty to God and country” – honoring each life, active participation in church, serving as called in the community, state, and nation. Dad is a Korean War veteran.

“To help other people at all times” – All times, not some of the time or most of the time – but “at all times.”

“To keep myself physically strong” – Dad loves and enjoys the outdoors as much as anyone. While he no longer hunts or fishes it remains on his list of “things to do” and always will.

“Mentally awake, and morally straight” – Dad is aware of everything going on around him – with his family, in the community, the state, the nation and the world. I have never known my dad to be anything other than morally straight because he follows the Scout Law.

THE BOY SCOUT LAW:
Trustworthy
A Scout tells the truth. He keeps his promises. Honesty is part of his code of conduct. People can depend on him.
Loyal
A Scout is true to his family, Scout leaders, friends, school, and nation.
Helpful
A Scout is concerned about other people. He does things willingly for others without pay or reward.
Friendly
A Scout is a friend to all. He is a brother to other Scouts. He seeks to understand others. He respects those with ideas and customs other than his own.
Courteous
A Scout is polite to everyone regardless of age or position. He knows good manners make it easier for people to get along together.
Kind
A Scout understands there is strength in being gentle. He treats others as he wants to be treated. He does not hurt or kill harmless things without reason.
Obedient
A Scout follows the rules of his family, school, and troop. He obeys the laws of his community and country. If he thinks these rules and laws are unfair, he tries to have them changed in an orderly manner rather than disobey them.
Cheerful
A Scout looks for the bright side of things. He cheerfully does tasks that come his way. He tries to make others happy.
Thrifty
A Scout works to pay his way and to help others. He saves for unforeseen needs. He protects and conserves natural resources. He carefully uses time and property.
Brave
A Scout can face danger even if he is afraid. He has the courage to stand for what he thinks is right even if others laugh at or threaten him.
Clean
A Scout keeps his body and mind fit and clean. He goes around with those who believe in living by these same ideals. He helps keep his home and community clean.
Reverent
A Scout is reverent toward God. He is faithful in his religious duties. He respects the beliefs of others.

And – don’t forget the Scout Motto and Slogan:

THE BOY SCOUT MOTTO: Be Prepared.

THE BOY SCOUT SLOGAN: Do a Good Turn Daily.

This is my Dad. This is what makes him who he is. These values are so ingrained in him he never has to think “how he will live.” He simply does and acts in a manner which espouses these values.

- Craig

Lessons from Dad - Part I

2007-12-04T08:34:00.000-08:00

Here are some things I have learned from Dad. They are not in any particular order.

Don’t Underestimate Anyone’s Value. Dad always says “Anyone can make a difference. Everyone should try.” Even small actions can have enormous impact.

Take the Initiative. There is no better way to gain a reputation as a person who makes things happen, then to be a person who makes things happen. My Dad is such a man.

Make the Most of First Impressions. Be confident and gracious. Shake hands firmly, smile, and listen actively. Dress appropriately and make eye contact. Dress for the position you want – not the one you have. However I don’t recommend wearing a suit to farm like Eddie Albert did in “Green Acres.”

Delegate – Especially when others talents in a particular area are stronger than yours. This also goes to the adage “many hands make light work.” With Dad being a manager (knowing how to delegate), I found I worked a lot.

Make a Habit of Saving. No one owes you a pension or retirement pay. Social Security was designed to be a supplement not the answer for Retirement.

Set a Higher Standard. Whatever you do, do it to the best of your ability. The worst thing we can do for others is lowering the standard because some people cannot meet it. It implies someone is not capable of growing. Work toward raising them up to the higher standard and they will achieve. At a minimum provide the tools and environment they need to succeed.

Have a Winning Attitude. Attitude is important. It is something you control and something you can chose – negative or positive. I choose to be positive, and so does my dad.

Realize Learning can be Costly. Education is expensive, but ignorance costs much more. Recognize you will pay the price, either for education or ignorance. Education is one thing no one can ever take away from you.

Give your kids a vision for their future – encourage them! Your words are the most powerful force in their lives. Praise your children in front of others. Let them know you are proud of them. I need to do this much more often. I have not been good at this in the past.

Commitment. When you make a commitment keep it. While this is not always possible because things do come up – try your hardest to keep your promise. My dad schedules his personal time around his commitment to others.

You Hit What You Aim For. If you are aiming for nothing, you’ll hit nothing. Set your goals high. Dream big. Even if you fall short, you will have achieved more than most.

-Craig

Brothers

2007-12-03T15:05:00.000-08:00

“Brothers will be brothers” as much as “boys will be boys.” Duane and Dwight fit the adage as well as Greg and I. Sometimes brothers are the best of friends and at others the worst of enemies. Many times their relationship exists between the extremes. Generally there is a lot of “one-upmanship.”

Grandma Vesta told stories – lots of stories about the twins.

One story revolved around the time a vacuum cleaner salesman came to the door. The very young twin boys were left to their own devices – climbing to the top of the stairs where the day’s eggs were stored. Over the next few minutes they enjoyed throwing six dozen eggs to the bottom of the stairs. I never found out if there was a contest involved or who won.

Another time Great Grandma (the socialite she and her sister were) had some of the church society out to the house one Sunday afternoon. The twins were told strictly not to get their church clothes dirty while they were outside playing. As the guests arrived, they laughed and commented on how cute the twins were. Much to Great Grandma’s embarrassment and to the delight of Powell’s high society, the twins had stripped naked, folded their clothes neatly and were playing in a mud puddle - obeying their stern warning.

These were two of my favorites.

Dad says they received a daily “swat.” Grandpa Manford said something to the effect “either you did something to deserve it, or you will.” Dad agrees that usually a daily swat was deserved. I am sure these two stories illustrate the need for corporal punishment, but it also seems to show that it doesn’t always take root either.

My brother and I got swats too (reference: Laughter is the Best Medicine, posted Friday August 17, 2007). As brothers would be brothers we often found ourselves trying to avoid the swats by blaming someone else – particularly a sibling. Sometimes a smart older sibling will set up the younger one – knowing they would get the blame. There was always something enjoyable about watching your brother get in trouble – and then receive the swat!

Janet Smith reminded me of a time when we lived in Renton. Greg and I shared a room making the 3rd bedroom available as a “play room.” As she recalls it I was 5 or 6, fully capable of reading and writing. This means Greg was 2 or 3.

I had “hatched” a plan to get my younger brother in trouble. I used the word hatched because of the adage “the best laid plans…” sounds like something “hatched.”

I wrote his name with crayons on the walls of the play room. When Mom noticed, I said “Gregory did it” not fully comprehending he could neither read nor write. While I give myself credit for “hatching” the idea, it was not until much later I learned to fully think out the consequences of a plan.

I am sure I got a swat from Dad.

- Craig

Food

2007-12-02T19:41:00.000-08:00

I like to watch the Food Network. I don't really care for Emeril Live!, but I enjoy Rachel Ray and Giada. I even fancy myself as a pretty good cook - a Chef wannabe.

I will eat pretty much anything, and try others. I am not a big fish fan. Sushi - raw seafood - is not on my list unless I am hungry. I love meat although I could easily go vegetarian - lacto-ova versus vegan. Julie said "no."

Mom says I used to like Mac 'n Cheese. Actually I loved it! But after a while you can only eat so much. Seldom do I eat the plate of beans and cornbread - but I bought 50 pounds of dried beans last week in Wyoming. Julie makes her own refried beans because a lot of the canned stuff has so much fat and salt - lard is a no-no at my house. Some if not most of the dried beans will be donated to the local Hispanic Mission to feed migrant farm workers in the spring.

Mom says we quit eating Mac 'n Cheese when one evening Dad said "yuck!" I don't remember that - but I guess it is another of the many valuable lessons I have learned from Dad.

I don't eat peanut butter because it seems peanut butter and jelly sandwiches is all I ever got for lunch - Welch's Grape Jelly to be specific. Dad loves peanut butter on his toast. So does my son Chad who taught Dad to put it on his waffles with a little maple syrup.

Lunch at Great Grandparents

Clockwise - Left to Right: Great Grandma, Mom, Uncle Jack, Great Grandpa,

Grandma Vesta's head, Grandma Irma, Aunt Martha and ME!

There are times when I felt too sick to eat - but it is a rarity. I simply love food. Dad does too. Since the Friday after Thanksgiving Dad hasn't eaten much. He says he isn't hungry. In fact - other than some Ensure he hadn't eaten anything for a week. I guess he wasn't a big fan of the mashed broccoli and tofu casserole he ate on his pH diet. I ate it, but it didn't look that good.

Food smells good, but there isn't much taste. Today he ate! He ate a couple bites of scrambled eggs, a couple of toast, a bite of a muffin and drank his juice for breakfast. For dinner he ate his pudding, and about a quarter of his sandwich and another juice. He told Greg he just wasn't hungry.

Thanks for the lesson on the Mac 'n Cheese Dad - and keep eating!

- Craig

Honors

2007-11-30T07:57:00.000-08:00

Today is my mother's 74th Birthday. And, while this blog is about my memories of Dad - I just wanted to give a shout out to Mom - Happy Birthday! - You've made the Internet! Mom, Jackie(aunt), Norma (sister), and Donna (cousin) have a "girls lunch out" for Mom's Birthday. My Uncle John and my cousin John(ny) are staying with Dad. Have Fun!

Now - on to the blog.

Dad has received many honors and recognition over his lifetime. This week members of the Wyoming State Board of Education presented him with the Governor's Proclamation of November 16, 2007, honoring Dad's "life work."

http://governor.wy.gov/proclamations/duane-edmonds.html

I want to point out a couple of items of note. While my father has spent many hours related to "education" and "helping young people" this was not his life's work. I have thought about this a lot. His career was as an engineer, manager, executive. His life's work was helping people.

This shows through in the Proclamation, but I wanted to express it directly. Dad willing helps everyone and anyone.

As I stated earlier Dad has received many honors, awards, and recognition of thanks or a job well-done. Many are stacked or stored, and some may have been discarded for all I know.

I have never seen his high school or college diplomas. While they are important - and Dad is a strong believer in education - one award my Dad is proud of and he kept it for many many years. While it is not displayed on a wall, it is one he took the time to scan into his computer - to digitally capture for posterity. It is his Future Farmers of America "Degree of American Farmer" awarded on October 9, 1951.

One award I believe however is Dad's favorite. While I cannot remember exactly when he received it - he kept it for many many years also. The engraved plaque is proudly displayed on the wall of the atrium and is textually redisplayed here:

"World's Greatest Dad"

Craig Gregory

April 3, 1957 October 14, 1959

- Craig

'73 Ford F250

2007-11-27T14:49:00.000-08:00

Last week while I was at Dad's, he wanted Mom and I to drop the pickup off to be repaired. He hit a deer on July 3rd and while the grill was damaged pretty good, the bumper was only slightly bent. There was no other body damage.

However - as we prepared to leave, the truck wouldn't start. No click, no slow turn - nada. Dad taught me a lot about cars. This would be easy. The truck had been sitting for weeks - at least since before he went to Phoenix for treatments. The battery was dead.

I popped the hood. Sure enough, the battery was corroded, the negative cable was smashed and coming through the insulation. I tried to jump it, but nothing. The battery was more than dead.

I ran to the hardware store (Linton's Big R) and picked up a new battery. $71 with tax.

Nada.

It had to be the negative cable - probably shorting out. I took it off and headed the auto parts store - I needed weather stripping and Big R didn't have what I wanted. $15.

Nada.

The positive cable was trashed as well, but this time I got smart and bypassed the cable jumping directly to the solenoid. It didn't work either. The solenoid was shot. Back to the auto parts store. Cable $9. Solenoid $19. I have now spent $114.

Nada.

Call the towing company and billed the insurance. We towed it to the dealership and told them what I had tried. On Friday after Thanksgiving they called and said it was fixed.

It needed a new battery and battery cables - total with labor - $168. "What? I already replaced those!" "Oh yeah," said the dealership, "the ones you replaced were for the trailer towing package back to the camper - not the starter. It is on the other side of the engine compartment."

Sorry Dad - a new battery costs 71 bucks - but this truck is gonna be like new since I spent nearly $300!

- Craig

It Happened Again!!!

2007-11-21T08:23:00.000-08:00

Today is Wednesday November 21st. I have been in Wyoming for a few days visiting Dad (and Mom) and have brought the whole family. It has been cold the last couple of days and we had snow in the flatlands. I imagine my Aunt Myrna has had snow "measured in feet" up in the mountains.

Monday however was a beautiful day. It was in the forties meaning it was perfect for working outside. Dad wanted some gnarly log rounds split and stacked for firewood (reference: "Cutting Wood," posted August 26, 2007). We rented a power log splitter - something I don't ever remember having as a kid. I used one once when Julie and I lived in Kent... If I cut my own wood I would own one of these - so much easier than a splitting maul and wedge!

Chad, Julie, and Mom all helped while Amanda made lunch for everyone. At one point a particularly tough log won the battle, snapping a pin on the hydraulic cylinder. I ran into Linton's Big R and got a tractor pin to replace it. Yea! We were back to work.

But the pin snapped again. This time it did not shear cleanly so it did not fall out. I had purchased one a little longer than the original. I rummaged in the garage for a metal chisel and a big hammer. I hit the chisel several times and the pin started to bend. Then it happened. I hit my hand – actually my thumb knuckle closest to the hand – full force. I threw the hammer and proceeded to dance around using choice words from my extended vocabulary (reference: “Hammers and Nails,” posted November 15, 2007).

Dad said “I’ll bet that hurt.” No kidding.

- Craig

Hammers and Nails

2007-11-15T09:02:00.000-08:00

Dad taught me to nail. Nailing the old fashion way – with a hammer – as opposed to those fancy air-compression nail guns – a person learns the hard way. You bend nails. Nails shoot out of the board – sometimes they hit you – some times it is inconvenient. You might have to climb down the ladder, or out from under a deck to get another nail. Sometimes you hit a thumb. Actually that occurs more than once. I hit the side of my hand once. That hurt too.

Dad taught me to hold the nails in my mouth. He didn’t specifically say to hold extra nails in your mouth, but when I was young I didn’t have a carpenter’s belt. Reaching into your jeans to pull out nails became problematic.

After a while you get pretty good. I couldn’t make a living nailing like a good roofer or a framer but I don’t bend many in the overall scheme of things – maybe one in 50. I can drive a ten-penny in 3 or 4 hits including the starter tap. Toe-nailing is easy after the first few hundred tries.

Dad was patient. He was frustrated, but he watched, he coached, he demonstrated and he let me learn – the hard way – as a slave.

I worked on the cabin from the foundation to the roof. I helped expand the deck, build a roof over the top. I helped build the shed and I roofed – 3 tab after 3 tab.

By the time I was 12 or 14, I was fairly independent with a hammer and nails. Dad helped me build the 3 decks at my current home, our shed, and the tower and swing set for Amanda and Chad. He helped me take it apart as well – and now my niece Amber and her friends enjoy it.

One time I cut a hole in the wall of our house – framed it for French doors, and installed them. When Julie saw the hole in the wall she asked if I had ever done this before. I said "nope." But, I learned this from my dad. Thanks for the gift Dad!

- Craig

Sick Leave

2007-11-13T09:57:00.000-08:00

Many companies provide a benefit called “Sick Leave.” Sometimes it is combined with another benefit labeled “Vacation” creating the newly termed benefit “Personal Days.” Mathematically, Sick Leave + Vacation > Personal Days. Companies which recombine the benefits in themselves have created a benefit for the company.

There was a time when Sick Leave accrued forever. Now companies limit the accrual to 10 days after which accrual stops until an employee takes a sick day.

When Dad and I worked at Boeing, the benefit was unlimited. Accrual never stopped. You received 10 days per year, and if you did not take a “Sick Day” it rolled over into following years. Rolled over Sick Leave was divided into two categories – reserved and unreserved. When you left the company – regardless of circumstance you were given your reserved Sick Leave and if you retired you also received a portion of your unreserved sick time. I don’t think this benefit exists any more – but it was nice when we had it.

Some times I take a “mental illness” day and charge it to Sick Leave. Mental Illness is a confirmed sickness so I think this is okay. However, if a person calls in and says “I am not feeling well” I don’t interpret that as being sick. Am I wrong about that? There are lots of days I come to work “not feeling well.”

One philosophy of managers is to say “if you are not feeling well, stay home – we don’t want you to get everyone sick.” I think, if you are sick, stay home – if you are not feeling well – come in – 4 hours of productivity is better than none… If someone gets sick because of that – they will stay home… Maybe it is not a good philosophy on my part, but I have noted over the many years of management many of the same people “don’t feel well” until their Sick Leave is used up – then they seem to “feel fine” or come into work “sick.” I have also seen many people who never get sick – and generally that in itself is a sickness so I make them take a mental illness day.

My Dad claims he only took one day of Sick Leave in 30 years at Boeing. He had a big “unreserved” and “reserved” check to show for it. Mom, Greg and I all know though that Dad actually took two days of Sick Leave. It had almost no impact on the checks he received upon retirement. This means he went to work “Sick” if for no other reason than being “Mentally Ill” for not taking Sick Leave.

I wonder how many people he infected going to work sick. How do you spell Bubonic Plague?

- Craig

Playing “Army”

2007-11-07T10:11:00.000-08:00

Dad watched several “war” shows when I was a kid. “Combat!” was probably his favorite. Years later I watched “The Rat Patrol.”

Greg got an “army” outfit when he was three or four. It consisted of a plastic World War II style helmet, a rubber knife and a green plastic canteen and belt. He wore the helmet cocked to one side like one of the characters on the show. Greg wouldn’t go anywhere without his helmet and canteen – including to the Bon Marche shopping with Mom. I am sure he embarrassed the hell out of Mom, but when push comes to shove a mother sometimes lives with the embarrassment of her children.

Our backyard was mostly grass, but as with any good farmer, he carved out a nice sunny area for a vegetable garden. I mostly only remember the rectangular shape and the location, but I also remember we grew a lot of different things.

Our “army” adventures traversed the neighborhood. As with most boys when we didn’t have a toy gun we used a stick. Rocks made great grenades when pine cones were not available – plus there was little doubt when the grenade struck the target – usually with crying and running home as the key indicator. Greg showed promise as a baseball player when he skillfully placed one grenade between Randy B’s eyes and the blood poured from his nose.

As often happens with boys, we did not keep good track of “our stuff.” Moms know that even adult “boys” can’t find what they are looking for – half or more of the time. Our army gear was frequently scattered about the yard.

One day Leo Montague, my dad’s friend and boss at Boeing at the time, was looking for a new International pickup. Dad dragged his two young boys with Leo to car dealers looking for the right deal.

That summer day was particularly hot. Cars generally did not come with air conditioning beyond a good crank window and the hot air blowing on our faces was little relief from the trudging from dealership to dealership.

Fortunately early that Saturday morning, Greg had thought to grab his canteen. While I don’t recall the exact search tactics he used – a crisscross grid pattern or “where were you when you last had it?” (Also known as the Mother Shortcut – Moms usually know where you left something because they’ve bugged you to pick it up). But Greg found his green plastic canteen lying in our vegetable garden, quickly filling it up with the outdoor faucet before we left on our adventure.

The kid was obviously smarter than he looked because the canteen of water was a lifesaver that day. We strolled the hot parking lots of cars, all four of us drinking sips, quenching our parched throats. We toughed out the desert heat of North Africa – rationing our water supply to the last drop – until the small banana slug made it to the canteen opening. We looked at each other with shock, knowing full well we all had consumed from the canteen. I don’t recall who won the prize that day, I am sure my brother does.

- Craig

Crossing the Bar

2007-11-01T22:28:00.000-07:00

My brother reminded me of (via a comment to August 21, 2007 posting: Birthdays) a special event I remember as “Crossing the Bar.” While I have gone to great pains to carefully title this posting, some people may believe it is related to “21st” birthdays. This simply is not so. Such a posting would have been titled “Waking Up Under the Bar,” or “The Birthday I Can’t Remember.” This story does contain “puking” as Greg aptly stated – however it does not include “porcelain gods,” bathtubs, cold showers or bathroom floors – all of which relate to the “other” stories.

For my twelfth birthday I wanted to go salmon fishing. My dad would leave on an adventure and return with huge fish. In western Washington, the trout we caught would be considered bait for the salmon. On a side note, the minimum “keeper” size for salmon is about the size of a good-size trout in Wyoming. Some times you need to stretch the salmon to meet the 20 inch minimum. This is accomplished with a small wooden club to flatten the salmon, gaining that extra quarter to one-half inch. (Dad taught me that I think!)

The big day arrived in 1969 when I got my gift – to fish for the big one. This particular day my dad, Chuck W., Gail B., and I went to Illwaco. West Port where we generally left for salmon was solidly booked. Illwaco is much further south, on the north shore of the mouth of the Columbia River. The confluence of a river and an ocean creates a maelstrom of water (big words even for me!). The pushing of two bodies of water can create huge swells. This occurs at the “bar” – the point where silt from the river is deposited into the ocean, creating a shallow area and turbulent waters – particularly at high tide.

The day was gloomy but not raining. The four of us and two others, plus the captain and deck hand filled out the forty foot fishing boat. While I had been fishing for many years (about ten by this time) I was a little unprepared for this day.

My dad taught me to bet on fishing – first, most, and biggest… We bet a quarter on each – 75 cents were at risk! I had to perform!

Salmon fishing is a circle – least that day was. Watch the deck hand bait the hook, let the line out, puke, sleep, reel in a fish, watch the deck hand bait the hook, let the line out, puke…

Fishing was particularly bad that day. Only four fish were caught on the entire boat. I netted $2.25. Every fish landed – were landed by me. I overcame severe seasickness, 7-UP, beer, sleep, huge swells, WD-40 and anise on the bait… everything, and we never crossed the bar.

- Craig

Topless

2007-10-26T10:16:00.000-07:00

(Reprinted here with permission from Jim E.)

Duane was dating one of the Samsel girls, who was in nurses training in Billings. Her roommate came down to Powell for the weekend, or her sister was going back to Billings with her. Cannot remember the girl details. So Duane talked me into taking the girls to Billings topless, via Yellowstone and Beartooth Pass. The car topless, that is. And with Duane and one of the girls enjoying the sun and scenery from the rumble seat.

The night before we left, I decided to replace the dried-up and cracked original steering wheel with a big beautiful wheel from a Buick Roadmaster. The splines fit fine, but the hub was thicker. I could barely get the post nut started. No time to trim the wheel hub on the lathe, but shucks, the splines were plenty tight.

With a late start (women!) and too many stops along the trip up the North Fork (men— telling women where we had shot an elk or skied or caught a fish!), dusk was dusking before we even started up the pass. So we put up the top, closed the rumble seat, and squeezed the four of us into the front seat. There was no "back seat" in a 1937 Buick Roadster. And the front seat was narrow. Nicely narrow, if shared with soft young nurses. And of course no room to steer with both hands. But we made it safely up and over and down the Beartooth pass—rather rapidly because there was a Sunday night curfew for student nurses—and began to pull out of the Deaconess parking lot, headed for a coffee and pie and thence to Powell.

As we pulled out, the steering wheel came off in my hands. Got stopped safely. Decided we wanted a more brightly lit place to work on the project, so I clamped a pair of vice grips on the steering post, used that to steer, gave the wheel to Duane, and started driving downtown to find a well-lit gas station, preferably one with a good brass hammer we could borrow.

As we drove along, people started honking, blinking lights, pointing, and laughing. I looked over at Duane. He was leaning out the window with the steering wheel, pretending to steer and sometimes waving it. I wonder what he would have said to a cop, had we met one?

And just out of curiosity, Duane, didn't your Chevy coupe have a rumble seat?

- Jim

There’s No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

2007-10-22T20:10:00.000-07:00

The adage holds true most of the time. What I have found is the statement is rather “light.” Lunch is “not free,” and is usually quite expensive.

When dad bought the property at May Creek Estates near Gold Bar, Washington he planned to build a mountain getaway for his family. Today the area is primary single family homes rather than weekend retreats.

I haven’t driven by there for many years. I imagine the cabin is still there, but it could just have easily been replaced with something else. Someday when I am heading east of the mountains I will swing through.

I have mentioned in earlier writings on the “frugalness” of my father (reference: “Saturday Morning Haircuts,” “I Remember…” [Cleaning Wally Weiger’s chicken coop just to get the fertilizer] or [Making our own lawn fertilizer by buying the ingredients at Burdic Feed in Kent]).

If I have learned anything from my father, it can be boiled down to a few things: “Stuff is expensive,” and “Measure once, measure again, think about it, remark the board, measure one more time and then cut – wood is expensive!" (Apparently so is fertilizer).

In the interest of saving a buck or two, my dad got this “wild hair” in the very early sixties. I am not sure what the advertisement said “Free Wood” or “Very Nearly Free Wood (BYOS)." BYOS means “bring your own slaves.”

I had mentioned earlier about the “green movement.” My dad had the opportunity to “recycle” a cabin as the basis for ours… simply tear apart this cabin – scavenge the wood, using small laborers related to you – Hint: you can even teach them to “pull a nail or two.”

I don’t recall how long we worked tearing down that cabin, but dad had solicited friends to help – maybe I should say “former friends.” We probably paid more for the wood then if we had bought new at a lumber yard. We spent hours, and I remember at least one day it poured buckets – no free lunch!

In the end we built a wonderful cabin, and used some recycled boards from that original one. For some time you could see the difference between the wood “purchased through the ad” and that purchased at the lumber yard… And I learned to pull nails.

- Craig

Church

2007-10-17T09:45:00.000-07:00

We attended the First Methodist Church of Renton. When the church merged with the Evangelical United Brethren Church in 1967, we became the “First United Methodist Church of Renton.”

Church was a family. We dressed up in our “Sunday best,” Dad in a suit and tie, Mom in a dress. It was never acceptable to wear jeans, shorts, or for that matter, anything you might wear to the beach. We have gotten away from that, and I like it. Some people’s “Sunday best” is a clean pair of jeans. Beach wear is still in appropriate however.

We went to church regularly. The only acceptable reasons to skip were around our cabin or vacations. Weekends were focused on building and with the drive up after work on Friday we generally skipped church on Sunday in order to make headway. Later we used Scout outings, or the occasional ski days. For the most part we were regular irregular attendees. I continue that role even to this day – even the excuses are the same with one addition – Seahawks games – when we have tickets of course.

We met many of our close friends at church, and while we have moved, grown, married, and moved again, we still send Christmas cards and in some cases such as Dad and Mom – vacation together.

I remember many of their names, the Lee’s, Stark’s, Westpfahl’s, Abrahamson’s, Holm’s and Wieman’s (sic).

I remember Steve, Karen, and Sandra; Sue, Carol, and Lesa; Carol and Linda; Tim and Tom; Nancy and her sister; Larry and his… Also Sandi and Matt from youth group!

Church was a safe place. When I was in Kindergarten, I had a friend from class I wanted to have over at the house to play. His name was Jonathon. We would meet at the Church to play in the sand while his father and my Mom chatted. You see, it was 1962, and it simply wouldn’t be right for a black boy to be at a white boy’s house – and his father certainly couldn’t come over. I never understood why at the time.

Church is where my Dad and Mom first taught me about volunteering. Mom counted money on Monday mornings in the church office with lady’s from church – Mary I specifically remember. In the summer we hung out in the church exploring or outside playing.

Dad would sign us up to be ushers. The head usher would get the sanctuary ready before service so we always arrived early when Dad was the head usher. We carefully placed the offering plates at the front pew (we kept them in a closet during the week), filled up the baptismal font (never knew if someone would be baptized), straightened the hymnals, the attendance sheets, sharpened pencils and replaced if necessary and stood at the doors – and ushered people to the pew of their choice. I still usher today, and have tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to get Chad to usher too.

Being Methodists meant lots of food. Fellowship hours were always full – and the opportunity to be the family servers was an honor. There were never empty signup slots for any jobs – at least not that I remember.

We had potlucks – and still do at Sumner. At Renton it seemed like once a month we had a Church Dinner. Everyone was there because church was the family.

Dad also gave lots of presentations at work over the years – he would practice his toastmaster speeches at home. I wanted to emulate his comfort of speaking in front of audiences. Church was the perfect place. It was where I first spoke in front of a couple hundred people. I read Bible Verses and made announcements about youth activities.

Like I said before, church was a safe place – here I could even sing with very few people cringing or plugging their ears.

- Craig

Snowshoes and Toboggans

2007-10-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

My dad and I built snowshoes. I only used them a few of times, but I saw them in my garage today. They have to be 38 years old. We had a pattern someone in Scouts had given the troop, and jig. They are made from gray PVC pipe and green nylon rope. I think we bought the leather toe slips at the Army / Navy surplus store on 2nd Avenue just north of Michigan in south Seattle. That was one of my favorite stores!

We drilled the holes, and gently heated the PVC with Dad’s torch, bending around the jig. The pattern included the weave of the nylon rope. I even loaned them to someone once (although I can’t remember who) – they said they worked great except the shoes needed the crampons – the person slipped and slid - but the snowshoes are very light. They were impressed however that we made them!

My brother wanted a toboggan – not a snow sled but a big, wooden toboggan. Dad and Mom bought it for him for Christmas one year. We used to lash it onto the red ’64 Dodge Dart wagon and head for the hills – usually Stevens Pass because it was close to the cabin. The Dart had studded snow tires. One time when there wasn’t much snow, Dad tied a rope to the back of the wagon, and dragged us behind the car on logging roads. Today, common sense tells me it wasn’t a good idea, but Greg and I had fun!

The toboggan was a six-seater made with alternating natural wood – honey oak, and walnut in color. The very thin pad was green, with yellow nylon rope handles woven down each side lengthwise, were your only chance at “safety.”

It might have been the second or third run on the first day, but we finally figured out how to steer. The toboggan pilot (coxswain in rowing, driver in NASCAR) would yell the steering commands. The majority of the participants on a toboggan are idiots. They cannot see where they are going, and they put their trust in a person with no “piloting experience.”

Don S., a close family friend from church, and our neighbor was the pilot on that run…

“Lean to the left!” Everyone one hung on and leaned. The toboggan started it’s “oil supertanker turn.”

“Lean to the right!” Don had a slight panic to his voice, but everyone arched to the right, and the toboggan came upright and started a very slow turn to the right.

We were slaloming just like on skis! However, the actual toboggan run was not that long, and long slow turns were not optimum.

“JUMP!” came the anxious shout as the toboggan smashed into a tree. No injuries to the toboggan or otherwise!

- Craig

I Remember...

2007-10-09T09:08:00.000-07:00

Going to Children’s Shoe Land for shoes
Your favorite store was Sears in Renton, followed closely by McLendon’s
Elk hunting with a Cow tag and not getting anything
Deer hunting with a Doe tag and not getting anything
Pheasants, geese and ducks
Making shot gun shells
My first bicycle and showing you Mom had taught me to ride – I stopped by running into the Oldsmobile because I hadn’t learned to use the brakes
Teasing Vern and Ronnie Hall, Mike Moss, Randy Butterfield, Geoff, Paul and Janice Broomhead
Learning to put new pads on drum brakes
Changing the oil
Mowing the lawn
Building the cabin
Cleaning Wally Weger’s chicken coop just to get the fertilizer
Making our own lawn fertilizer by buying the ingredients at Burdic Feed in Kent
The 50 miler
Numerous Scout Camps – Brinkley, Omache, Shepard, Parsons
Wetting the bed
Pulling the box spring handle off, and promptly stepping on the tacks
Cutting Christmas trees
Driving the boat – towing a trailer
Building the fiberglass cover for our deck in SeaTac – and expanding the deck
Chain link fencing
Pouring concrete – cabin foundation; slab for my current dog kennel (not used); curbs around the grass and under the fences; widening my driveway – all under your guidance
Growing potatoes, tomatoes, rhubarb, zucchini, and pumpkins
Creating the rock garden landscape so I didn’t have to mow as much
Making a bedroom for Greg downstairs – moving the door to the garage to the workshop
Insulating, wiring, dry walling, framing, roofing, siding, painting
Working on my car in Pullman after school got out one summer – you had to get the parts in Seattle
Our rabbits
Turtles
Geronimo getting his ear clipped by the barbed-wire fence chasing a pheasant
Not coming back for breakfast after trailing elk, eventually falling asleep in the snow – how worried you, Earl, and Darrell were when I didn’t make it back when it got dark either
Our family train ride to Missoula
Camping and fishing up the North Fork
When you learned to downhill ski again with your two boys
The family reunion for your 50th wedding anniversary
Our trip to the East coast with Grandma Vesta
Disneyland, Tijuana
Getting the dry-heaves at Norma & John’s in Hanford

(To be continued…)

- Craig

$15 – New Tires

2007-10-06T08:48:00.000-07:00

Back in the early sixties, my father bought a new used car. It was a 1950 Oldsmobile – faded light blue and in reasonably good working order. He paid a lot in those days – 50 bucks. We had a single car garage, with a single car driveway – which was probably pretty fancy then. Dad had to park his work car on the street.

I have driven by the old house on occasion, but the last time was probably ten years ago. Instead of parking on the street those occupants parked on what used to be the front lawn. The old white split rail fence was long gone, and there were only remnants of the three Douglas fir trees in the corner of the yard.

We had an old blue Renault to compliment the new old Oldsmobile. The Renault had two features I remember – beyond the similarity to a modified VW bug – red interior and an unshielded fan attached to the dashboard for air conditioning. Dad – did you put that in? I would stick my fingers in the blades while it was on – but the soft rubber fan blades prevented a catastrophe. No one in their right mind would have put something like that in their car today – but in those days everyone – even small children had common sense – only soft rubber blades should be used on fans without a guard – or any other safety feature for that matter.

The Renault was the first car I drove – riding in my father’s lap down the long straight road. Today they call it Union Ave. Our address was 13225 SE 238th PL – now I don’t know what it is, but 238th is now SE 3rd PL. I would sit on Dad’s lap and steer the car toward home, listening to him complain gas prices had jumped from 22.9 cents a gallon to 24.9! If you do the math – that is significant.

The Oldsmobile probably got 12 miles to the gallon, and Dad worked in downtown Renton – a good 5 miles away – may be more “as the crow flies.” At some point Mom convinced Dad she needed a station wagon. We bought the red ’64 Dodge Dart mentioned in Parallel Parking. We had three cars and only two legal drivers. One had to go – the “gas hog.”

I don’t know what Dad advertised the car for - $25? Hell – he paid 50 dollars for it and put four new tires on it – but no takers. Everyone could tell where gas prices were going, and having a big blue Oldsmobile didn’t make sense (although I wish I had it now). This might have even been an early sign of the “Green Revolution.”

Finally Dad buckled to a young girl buying her first car - $15 – New Tires.

- Craig

All That Jazz

2007-10-05T16:56:00.000-07:00

I have always loved music. Not all kinds – but definitely most. Some things I don’t call music – early “rap” for instance is not really music. Hip Hop can be music but I don’t like a lot of it. “White and Nerdy” by Weird Al Yankovic is my favorite – is that Hip Hop? I also like “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas.

Most of my young adult years consisted of Rock – Tom Petty, Styx, REO Speed Wagon, Benatar, Doobie Brothers, Elton John, Deep Purple, Nugent, The Cars, Knack, Stray Cats, and many more. Sometime there was the occasional country rock band like Charlie Daniels, Marshall Tucker, or Lynyrd Skynrd. Oldies include Elvis, Beach Boys, Louis Armstrong, and Frank Sinatra.

I even have light stuff like Little River Band, Mammas and the Pappas, Peter, Paul and Mary. There is really only one band I hate: The Rolling Stones. I have one vinyl – and yes, it is pretty good – but the majority I just don’t like.

Pink Floyd, Blue Oyster Cult, Bob Marley, Moody Blues, McCartney and Wings, Lennon are all in my collection. Did I mention Enya or Norah Jones?

One time when we still lived in Renton (we moved when I was 9) I made the comment “I like Jazz!” Dad said “You don’t even know what Jazz is.” “Yes I do!” I ran through some of my parents’ favorites like Benny Goodman (with his licorice stick) or Glenn Miller. I couldn’t decide which one to reply with – so I chose my favorite: The Beatles.

Dad said “that’s not Jazz.” It was to me!

- Craig

Making Puppies

2007-10-02T10:43:00.000-07:00

(Craig with Buck and Smokey)

When I was three, Grandpa Kenny sent us a purebred English Bulldog puppy (as opposed to the Old English Bulldog breed like my brother’s dog Susi).

(Rachel with Susi)

Smokey was white with some brown patches. She was not considered a show dog, although I don’t know the specifics of her “defects.” While some people considered Smokey ugly with the wrinkled face and huge pug-like nose, she was quite beautiful. The fact Bulldog tongues are generally sticking out doesn’t hurt either. With Bulldogs, the eyes truly are windows to their souls.

One time the milk man looked through the screen door with Smokey looking back. He said “My, what an ugly dog you are,” in a patronizing sort of way. She went through a closed screen door and nipped at his leg. She knew exactly what he said and I think she also knew retribution was sweet. His eyes were very large when the door came open!

Smokey snored. She snored loud for hours a day when she got older. Grandpa Kenny raised purebred Boston Terriers and English Bulldogs. I remember “Taffy” was Smokey’s mom.

(Craig with Taffy)

I think her registered name was Angel’s Taffy. The Boston Terrier bitch was “Lady.” I don’t think I ever knew her registered name, but I remember she bit me on the cheek after I kept head butting in the rear end.

Grandpa Kenny brought out a litter of pups one time for Dad to sell. He sold them all. I am not sure of the amounts, but I remember the conversation Dad had with Grandpa Kenny to the effect that Dad had sold them too cheaply. Apparently the prices in a very small town in Wyoming (because of the simple economic equation of Supply and Demand) were much lower than the national average. All of the puppies sold but Grandpa didn’t send any more.

Smokey had a corkscrew tail. This was probably one of the defects. It almost looked like a hairy pigtail, thicker, and mostly internal. It didn’t stick out more than an inch.

I don’t think Smokey ever wanted to be a mother. She did however get knocked up by a lab or so we think. The puppies were cute, but essentially worthless in the market. Smokey used to run to the back of our property which abutted an undeveloped area. I remember Dad or Mom saying Smokey was trying to lose them… a litter of puppies CAN BE ANNOYING to the mom.

Smokey also farted - bad sometimes. She’d pass gas - waking her from a deep sleep. She would make this “Scooby Doo” type sound of surprise, and she would mosey quickly to another area of the room.

- Craig

Learning to Cuss

2007-09-29T09:58:00.000-07:00

Two young brothers age 6 and 4 are talking one night in their bedroom. The older brother says “You know, I think we are old enough to cuss.” The four year old says “I think you are right,” nodding his head in approval. The older brother says “tomorrow at breakfast I am going to say ‘Hell,’ and you should say ‘Ass.’” The younger brother agreed with enthusiasm.

The next morning the two brothers came to the breakfast table. The mother asked the older one what he wanted for breakfast. He replied, “Aw, Hell Mom, I think I’ll have Cheerios.” WHACK! He flies out of his chair, tumbles across the kitchen floor, gets up, and runs upstairs crying his eyes out with his mother in hot pursuit, slapping his rear with every step. You could hear the wailing all the way to the kitchen.

In a matter of seconds, the mother returned and said to the younger brother, “And, exactly what do YOU want for breakfast?” The younger brother being a little sharper than his brother "I don't know," he blubbers, “but you can bet your FAT ASS I not gonna ask for Cheerios!”

The story isn’t true as far as I know. I received this joke in an email. But the story is strikingly similar to one which occurred when my brother and I were exactly the same age – six and four.

On Friday nights, Dad and Mom played bridge with Denny and Janet. I am not sure it was every Friday night, but at least it was once a month. One night we would be at their house, and every other time we would all be at our house. It was a great, cheap evening of entertainment with friends – family. It was regular – you could count on that evening being roughly the same every week.

I was a smart young lad. I learned to read and write (even in cursive) before first grade. And, I know many of you won’t believe this, but at the time I felt pretty “high on myself.” At six my ego was rather big.

The first day of first grade I rode the bus home, sitting directly in front of two third-graders. One of them tapped me on the shoulder and asked what grade I was in. “First.” “Can you read?” I replied, “of course!”

“What is this word?” as he unfolded a scrap of paper. "F#&ker.” “What? Say it louder.” “F#&KER.” They both laughed and I knew I had been had. I didn’t know exactly what I said, but all the kids around me were laughing – and I knew it was bad.

One Friday night, right after dinner, Dad said “you have to go to bed, and you can’t get up once I close the door.” He continued, “go to the bathroom and get ready for bed. You can’t have any water, or get up to go to the bathroom once you are in bed. Someone is coming over.”

Greg and I, being the obedient – yet somewhat curious, mischievous imps we are – proceeded to get ready for bed. We certainly weren’t tired – it was only 7 o’clock.

Lights were out and we were in our bunk beds. Our bedroom wall abutted the couch in the living room, 3 feet from the front door. Greg and I discussed who could possibly be coming over. It couldn’t be Denny, Janet, Kurt and Kathryn. We knew them. We would have gotten to stay up and play! It had to be someone else and we had to find out who it was!

The door bell rang, and we heard Dad answer the door. WHO IS IT? What could we do to find out? We knew we couldn’t get out of bed – but – maybe, just maybe, we could get one of us out to see who it was. I shouted “Daaaad, I have to go to the baaathroooom.” “No, I told you had to stay in bed,” came Dad’s reply.

I told Greg I didn’t know if this would work, but he should ask for some water. “Daaaad, can I have some waaaterrr?” “I said NO, you have already gone to the bathroom, and you have already had water. You need to stay in bed and be quiet.”

Greg said to me he didn’t think there was anything we could do. But – being the older brother, I knew different. I knew I could get that door open. I told my four year old brother, “Dad will let us get up if you yell F#&KER.” “Really?” “Yep,” I said with the confidence of an older brother.

“F#&KER!!!” Greg yelled.

My father isn’t the tallest man in the world, but when the door slammed open, I saw the silhouette of “The Hulk” – a monster of a man – green eyes piercing the darkness like lasers. Greg and I disagree over who got spanked – whether it was me, him or both of us. I only remember three distinct things: the light never came on; we were both crying, and we never found out who came over that night.

- Craig

Cowboy Boots

2007-09-25T11:47:00.000-07:00

Even today my feet are like tree roots. They are narrow and pointed. Cowboy boots fit best, and while some may disagree, they are not suitable for “all occasions.” For instance I can’t wear them to the beach with a swimsuit or shorts. It might work well for some, but hanging out at the seashore, or around the pool on a lounge chair with the little umbrella drinks doesn’t make sense when half your calves are covered by boots. I don’t know which is worse – the cowboy boots or shorts and sandals with black socks. You are welcome to your opinion, but mine is “one is very bad and the other is worse.”

Plus cowboy boots are simply expensive. You need several pairs. “Shit kickers” are required for mucking stalls, or mowing the lawn. Shiny black patent-leather boots are the only kind you can wear with a tuxedo or suit. Generally a good boot in brown smooth leather is necessary for the swanky casual look – bar hopping and dates with the cowgirls. It is important to have a suede look when you are wearing a sport coat.

A man should never buy cowboy boots in red, pink or white unless they are “James Brown” or wearing a flamboyant jumpsuit. Navy blue can work with the right attire.

For years my dad wanted to wear cowboy boots to work. It really didn’t fit with Boeing’s Seattle style, but might have worked well in Wichita. Dad wore the classic “wingtips.” Some people think my father’s “gait” was due to having polio as a child, but I know it was wearing wingtips all those years.

At some point either the dress code relaxed, or Dad just “set the style,” but Dad started wearing cowboy boots to work. He looked good in them. When only your boss is wearing cowboy boots it sets a certain tone. I have never really wanted find out the true meaning of “put my boot where the sun don’t shine.”

At Dad’s retirement party several of the speakers mentioned the cowboy boots. I told this story (roughly – and not a true story, but it was perfect for a retirement party):

“When Boeing relaxed the dress code, my father stopped on the way home and bought a new pair of cowboy boots. He proudly wore them into the house that day, and he asked my mother if she noticed anything different. She politely replied ‘no.’ So he marched to the bedroom and stripped off all of his clothing except the cowboy boots. He said to my mom ‘notice anything different?’ ‘No, it’s still hanging there,’ she replied. ‘Jo – I am pointing at my new cowboy boots!’ ‘Oh – too bad you didn’t buy a cowboy hat.’”

Dad – do you remember how hard Grandma Vesta was laughing? I have never seen her laugh so hard!

- Craig

Moustaches

2007-09-23T13:18:00.000-07:00

My father and I have moustaches – at least my father had one once. I have had a moustache since I could really grow one in my college days. I also have had a couple of beards – full and goatees. I keep thinking I will shave my moustache off permanently now that it is “blonder” than my occasionally touched up colored hair.

I have only shaved my moustache three times since I have been married – which is within a week of 25 years. The first time I shaved it was in our very first years of marriage. When asked how she liked it, Julie responded “I married a man, not a boy. Maybe I am just used to having it.” I grew it back immediately.

The second time I shaved it off, I got a cat. Julie had been to the local second hand store looking for the final touches of our Halloween costumes when she spied a box of “free” kittens. She dragged me back to the store where we picked out Willie. But the Halloween party would be an all-nighter, so we dropped Willie off with Mom. It was a great test for future babysitting duties. Julie and I were clowns and with the face paint it only made sense to shave the moustache. I grew it back immediately after the previous comment.

When Amanda was 5 months old I shaved it for Halloween again. When I picked her up after work - she cried. Obviously she didn't recognized me. I have never shaved it since – about 19 years.

I don’t know the year Dad had his moustache, but I know I was young – probably 4 or so. Dad was working in Huntsville while Mom, Greg and I lived in Renton. He didn’t get to come home often and usually didn’t stay long.

One time he showed up with a moustache and he was going to be here for a while. Mom said something to the effect – “you’re not sleeping in my bed until you shave that off.” One morning at breakfast Dad had shaved his moustache. I laughed quietly but Dad noticed and asked “what are you laughing at?” “Nothing.” I didn’t know the details, but I knew Mom had won.

- Craig

Parallel Parking

2007-09-18T14:32:00.000-07:00

My father used to take me to downtown Kent to practice parallel parking. It is typically one of the hardest “driving test” requirements. Many people fail this part of the test – and I wasn’t going to be one of them.

Saturdays were usually the day of choice. Dad could take me - and traffic was usually light. Why is it that most mothers want fathers or an older brother to teach driving? Do kids really make mothers that nervous?

I don’t know if dad was ever really nervous with our driving. It just seems that fathers take their children parallel parking, on their first freeway “merge.” The problem with this line of thinking is the father or older brother is usually the one to show the “learner” how fast the car really goes, how to spot the cops with their noses sticking out from behind the trees up ahead, and what to say when you get pulled over. Sometimes I will let out a "shriek" and jam my foot to the floor. I might even say “what the hell are you thinking?!” When either or both of my kids go “What? WHAT!!?” (with panic in their voices). I say “oh – did I say that out loud? I was thinking about what your mother might do right then… just keep driving – you are doing fine.” I get varied responses between Amanda and Chad – everything from “don’t do that you scared the crap out of me” to “a-hole!” No kidding – I got the exact reaction I was looking for. It was exactly the point of me doing it. It keeps their awareness level high – shock therapy. One of the lessons a father might teach their kids is how their mothers might react the first time Mom is in the passenger seat.

I have taken lots of rides with my children behind the wheel. We start off slow. I hand them the keys, or flip them to them. At this point I say “think about what you are about to do.” They look at me for a second, and I follow up with “that’s your first lesson, tomorrow we can go sit in the car.” I try not to laugh, and then I let them off the hook.

I grew up near SeaTac airport. At one time, the city of Kent was a valley community isolated by the farm lands of vegetables, flowers and the occasional Boeing Aerospace center. Really! Mostly the valley was small family owned farms – and yes, Boeing had a fairly large plant on the way to Kent from our house. Of course over time, the valley filled with light industrial, warehouses and distribution centers sparsely interspersed with the occasional lunchtime only deli, quickie mart or gas station.

Kent was the target for parallel parking. Over the course of several Saturdays and the rare Sunday afternoon – combined with my father’s patience – I became an expert in parallel parking. I still couldn’t drive a stick worth crap (the Capri), but I could squeeze the station wagon into space only a VW bug would tackle – at least that’s the way I would like to remember it.

I took my driving test in the red ’64 Dodge Dart station wagon. It had the push button transmission on the left side of the steering wheel. Push “D” or “R” to move; “P” to park and it had a slide lever you pulled down to lock the buttons. It also had “1,” “2,” and “N”. I have them on my Acura as well plus 3, 4, and 5, but I have relabeled them with the maximum downshift speed at which I can use those gears “62” and “88” have replace the “2” and “3” from the old transmissions. I never have found a need to re-label “fourth” to 105. It seems like I never have to downshift to pass at that speed.

But the old red Dart was reliable and easy to drive. I took my test at the “Renton DMV” located on the backside of Highlands Elementary on Edmonds Ave. The first part of the drive consisted of backing around a corner keeping the car within 12 or 18 inches from the curb – passed! No sweat!

“Pull around to the back side of the facility and we will parallel park” barked the DMV “officer” intent on failing his third student of day. I honestly think they enjoy seeing "tears." Cool – I thought I would have to hunt for a spot! Nope! They have one all set up!

“What’s that?” I said to myself… I hope I don’t have to park there!

Much to my horror there were no cars – just four 4-foot high fluorescent orange tubes on stands! “Ready?” the officer questioned. “Yup.” This was easily twice as big as the “bug sized” spots my father had taught me with in Kent.

My first attempt was “curbed.” Out of the corner of the eye I see him write something on the clipboard. He said “wanna try again?” “Hell yes!" was the reply.

I hit the curb again, and he jotted quickly on the clipboard again “How many points did you take off?” I asked. He said “four points each time you missed – eight total.”

"What?" “Wanna try again?” he asked. “Nope.”

Failed parallel parking, but passed with an 82.

- Craig

Stampede

2007-09-12T07:23:00.000-07:00

For several years, our family visited the Galacs in Calgary. Thelma is my mom’s cousin. Willie worked for the oil company up there for years. Uncle Willie and Aunt Thelma raised two wonderful daughters Marga and Cinda while in Calgary.

The Calgary Stampede is an amazing event spanning just under two weeks every July. If you have never been, you should consider going. The pageantry of the west comes alive with shows from the North American Natives, cowboys, rides, concerts, rodeos, and my all time favorite, Chuck Wagon races. I have never taken the kids or the wife, but I still have it on my list of to-dos.

The thrills and excitement we shared influenced friends to attend with us. The Lee Family and the Stark Family went with us. We had great times because our parents were all close, and the kids got along as well (reference “Pea Shooters,” August 25, 2007).

Driving to and from Calgary is a two, long-day trip directly, but we extended the adventure to include Lake Louise and Banff. The Canadian Rockies are some of the most spectacular you will ever see, and the drive up to Jasper runs right along the Columbia Glacier ice-field. The Columbia Glacier is the only place in the world where the melting run off feeds three different oceans! You can walk right out on it from the highway or take a tour “trak” ride in a sno-cat to get further up the glacier.

Outside of Yellowstone the highways of Revelstoke to Banff, and up to Jasper have the most free-roaming animals I have ever seen. Bears, elk, and moose were abundant on those trips. We never seemed to be in a hurry. It was probably the most relaxing vacations my father had.

We all learned to set up and break camp. We took lots of pictures of the animals and learned to appreciate the beauties of the wild. I have never been to Alaska but having seen this area of the world I have never felt I missed out on what I have envisioned Alaska to be.

Dad brought this to his family and friends. We enjoyed the closeness of friends and family; the wonders of nature. Fortunately for us, the Galac family was there to take us all in. I have included a picture from either our first or second trip to Calgary – maybe one of you know which one it was. Even without the picture I remembered the hats and boots. Willie didn’t have a boy until later in life, so I imagine Greg and I were his surrogate sons.

- Craig

Hawaii

2007-09-11T07:25:00.000-07:00

I have only been to Hawaii once. My parents have been there several times, but unlike the “rich kids” whose parents took them – mine never did. No – I am not upset by that as they have offered to take us. I really don’t think most parents took their high school students to Hawaii. Parents were usually planning “college money” or they were on their “second honeymoon.” Most parents don’t want their teenage daughters wearing what daughters wear – on a beach in Hawaii… And, you certainly can’t take teenage boys – you’d never leave the beach to see the other sights.

Mom and Dad’s first Hawaiian vacation was probably marvelous. I really don’t remember any thing about it except Greg and I got our first Hawaiian shirts – I own about 10 now – and if it is only 7, then Julie and the kids have gift ideas for Christmas and Birthdays. I love the style and the comfort, plus while I am writing this blog I am in Hollywood Florida at a 4-star beach hotel… everyone wears Hawaiian style shirts so I tell them mine are “Jamaican.”

Grandma Vesta came to stay with us while Mom and Dad were in Hawaii. I think we were pretty good. At least she didn’t get stitches like some of our babysitters (I can see another blog coming!).

I have to say one thing about that first trip. Many couples purchase matching “wear” while they are touring the islands. Mom and Dad had good taste! I love the colors and the pattern! I wonder what ever happened to those outfits as I never saw them after they returned home.

Mom and Dad went to Hawaii with Ray and Mary a couple of times too. They are great long term friends. I think they have fun with each other and the pictures seem to indicate as much. Making reed baskets, tours to the beach, the submarine ride, the sailboat to Lanai (pronounced LA-nigh-EE). I guess I never pronounced the islands correctly because people kept correcting me on my trip. They said “Hey HOWL-EE, its MO-LA-KI-EE! (As opposed to MO-LA-KI). Whenever I look at some of the fish names, and the cities I want to say “can I by a consonant?”

I know my parents had fun with Ray and Mary they always came home friends – plus my hard-drive is full of pictures of that yellow and blue fish…

- Craig

Yogi or Booboo?

2007-09-09T19:58:00.000-07:00

Bears have always been an important part of our family’s lives. All of our travels to and from Wyoming passed through Yellowstone. There we visited with Ranger Smith – the real Ranger Smith – not the one from the cartoon.

In the 60’s we saw lots of bears in Yellowstone. When we stayed at the cabins the bears came to check out the garbage cans at night. We saw them along the roads – cars pulled over; windows rolled down – people feeding them!

The last bears I saw in the wild were in Yellowstone less than a decade ago between Mammoth and Cooke City on the NE Entrance Road. It was a black bear sow with a cub in the tree. Even with the danger I joined the crowd walking down the side of the road – looking down the slope to catch a glimpse.

We tried all kinds of things to protect us from Grizzly when fishing up North Fork. Mothballs must work because I have never been eaten. Cowbells scare everything including the fish. Fortunately I have never crossed paths with a bear in the woods, black or otherwise.

The one time when the family came face to face with a bear, we were on our way back from the Calgary Stampede and our visit with the Galac clan. We stopped along the Kelowna – Revelstoke – Banff highway at a picnic rest stop. The wooden picnic tables were located down the hill from the parking area, and the outhouses were further down.

Greg had trotted off to the outhouse while food came out to the picnic table. Several cars were enjoying the weather and eating outdoors. Before Greg had gotten back from the outhouse, Yogi came up the trail to check on the picnic baskets…

People scrambled up the hill for the cars. Yogi was sniffing around the picnic tables when Greg came bopping up the trail for lunch. We started screaming for Greg to get to the car. He could hear us all yelling at him as he came toward the picnic tables – and Yogi… no one was at the table and he became confused. I don’t think he even saw the bear. It was between him and the car.

My memories have failed – was it the screams of the people or a little boy crying? The bear hung a right and headed down the hill from where he came. No picnic basket for you today Booboo!

- Craig

Blogger Note

2007-09-07T05:18:00.000-07:00

I am not sure how many people read this blog. Some people tell me they read it every day. Others let it build up and read several in a single day. I know it doesn’t take long to read, and certainly takes longer to write – but not really that long. My pastor years ago said the Bible is not so daunting if you read a little every day. There are several cliché stories – a journey of a thousand miles begins with a step. How do you eat an elephant? – One bite at a time…

If I took a few minutes everyday to read a few verses, reading the whole Bible would still be a feat unto itself. I am impressed by those who have done it, and those that are committed to doing it.

I have heard back from many people about this blog. Some people I see frequently, and some I haven’t seen for years. Some people I send Christmas cards to every year and then every few years there is the phone call. I have heard from people via email, the phone, and through comments to these stories. Ideas for stories have been generated, and this blog has triggered memories of their own childhood, a friend, a sibling or their parent. Several of Dad’s friends have called or written. I have had wonderful conversations via all of the media above.

Memories and experiences are not always pleasant. Fortunately I only have happy or “non-denominational” memories.

This has been a wonderful experience for me. Blogging has gotten me to remember. I hope it has for you too. Keep the comments, emails and phone calls coming, and I will keep writing.

“People say, oh I could never do that! But when you meet cancer patients you understand the bravery and sprit those people show each and every day. Their struggles motivate and inspire you to test the limits of your endurance and to cross that finish line. You’ll be surprised by what you can do.”
- John Kellenyi, Eight-time marathoner and leading fundraiser with The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s Team In Training.

“Our greatest prejudice is against death. It spans age, gender and race. We spend immeasurable amounts of energy fighting an event that will eventually triumph. Though it is noble not to give in easily, the most alive people I’ve ever met are those who embrace their death. They love, laugh and live more fully.”
- Andy Webster, Hospice Chaplain in Plymouth, Michigan.

- Craig

Completeness of Life

2007-09-06T05:25:00.000-07:00

There have been many books written discussing how one knows when their life is complete. There really isn’t a “checklist.” You can’t itemize and tick down the list saying “this counts – 9999 to go!” Completeness of a person’s life is very subjective. What makes one person’s life complete is much different than for another person.

“He swam the English Channel!” “He climbed Mt Everest.” “He holds the world record for…” - whatever. Yes, these can be great accomplishments, and yes, these can be admired.

I believe there are other measures much more valuable. “He touches people’s lives.” “He is loved by everyone.” “He helps people.”

Someone I admire very much sent me an email a couple of weeks ago as a response to this blog. He said “read through all of it. I enjoyed everything. Those memories are incredible – you’re looking at the mundane, everyday moments and creating a wonderful tapestry of your Dad. I even began to reminisce about those little moments I shared with my Dad, merely by reading yours.” Kevin did not get the opportunity to spend as many years with his father as I have with mine. My father did not get to spend as many years with his father either.

But it is not about the amount of time you spend with your father. It is clearly about the quality. If you spend enough time with someone – whether your father or someone else – you learn things. Sometimes it can be something simple – like tying your shoe. Sometimes it is bigger and more complex. You learn to see the world through another person’s eyes.

Dad has always been a hard worker. I can’t say I always worked hard, but he definitely instilled a strong work ethic in his boys – both of us.

My dad has “caring eyes.” As a youngster on the wrong end of a swat you might not have thought so, but he is extremely caring. Take care of people. Take care of your family, your friends, old people, and children. Help people you don’t know. Help them in anyway you can.

My dad’s email tag line is “Anyone can make a difference. Everyone should try.” How perfect is that?! The year 2000 movie “Pay It Forward” is a perfect example of how a simple “act” can change lives.

Dad has spent countless hours volunteering for many charities and organizations. The list is long. I won’t list them because I will certainly leave out an important one. He helps anyone and everyone who asks. This means commitment. We talked about this last week. He has to give up some of these volunteer efforts – not because they aren’t rewarding or deserving, but simply because they are commitments – and when you volunteer for something, it means you need to “follow through.” People count on your word when you accept an opportunity to help others.

I volunteer. Not nearly enough. Sometimes I feel guilty that I have more to offer, but I hold back. I don’t want the “commitment” or mostly the “guilty feeling” when you can’t meet the commitment.

Kevin wrote further “I said this to a buddy of mine two months ago… This guy and I are college friends who are wheeling and dealing with youngsters (I have 2 boys, Sean [4] and Adam [1]) – and we were talking about fatherhood and how we were affected by our own fathers. Thought you might like it…”

I liked it – a lot. I hope it spurs discussion. Thanks KDoc!

“A father’s life becomes complete when his kids strive to bestow on others what their Dad bestowed on them.”

No – it doesn’t mean a father’s life is over. There is always more to do. It simply means “completeness of life.” Success. Fulfilled.

“Anyone can make a difference. Everyone should try.”

- Craig

Swimming

2007-09-05T06:45:00.000-07:00

When we lived in Renton Greg and I learned to swim. We took swimming lessons for several years. My first swimming lessons were at the Aqua Barn. It was a “bubble covered” pool at a “riding stable” along the Maple Valley Highway leading out of downtown Renton. We went here with the Cub Scouts one time after my mother gave me a crew cut. This time she had nicked me pretty good on top – like a reverse Mohawk. She said it was because I wouldn’t sit still – and the odd lump I had on my head. Talk about giving your kid a “complex.”

At some point we started talking lessons at Liberty Park Pool in downtown Renton. Today the pool is a skateboard park, and has been that way for many years.

When we moved to SeaTac we started taking lessons at the Highline pool.

My brother completed the Boy Scout “mile swim” badge – “Brinkley” style. Camp Brinkley was the scout camp we went to for several summers. I never even tried the mile swim because of the floating “peat.” If you could imagine water with Canadian “Peat Moss” floating in it you will know what I mean. It was bad enough having peat moss clinging to you when you got out – a shower will solve that – but knowing there were snapping turtles… Ouch!

I don’t know where my father learned to swim, but I know he made the mistake of leaving this picture laying around… Puerto Rico 1954. I think I know what mom saw in dad!

- Craig

Halloween

2007-09-04T06:46:00.000-07:00

“All Hallows Eve” was a special night for the kids. My friend Mark S. would take a pillow case. Long after everyone else had quit, Mark continued. I never saw a kid with so much candy.

When you are young you really don’t have any idea about “Trick or Treat.” Some parents bring their one-year-olds dressed in pajamas with ears. Are they a teddy bear or a rabbit? I know the candy went to their father.

My dad liked Heath Bars. I hated them. Fortunately I don’t ever recall getting Heath Bars for Halloween. We did get Butterfingers. My mother liked those and Almond Joys. I wasn’t a fan of Almond Joys or Mounds, so mom got those. I don’t think dad ever raided our candy, but I am pretty sure mom did. I know Julie and I raided our kids' when they forgot they still had some left – usually by Thanksgiving.

When you got a little older, your mom would make or buy your costume. Regardless, it seems you got a new costume every year. You never wore the same one twice. It is almost like a bridesmaid’s dress. Some one picks it out, and you wear it once. There are not a lot of places to wear a bridesmaid’s dress after the wedding, and unless you had a Batman or Superman costume, there really wasn’t a place to wear your costume after Halloween.

When my daughter was little, she wore her dance costume from the recital held the previous spring. If we were really lucky – Chad could wear it a couple of years later – like the Tigger costume when Amanda’s dance recital song was “The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers” from Winnie the Pooh.

Most frequently Chad got to wear his youngest uncle’s hand-me-down costumes. The “Hobo Clown” was a favorite.

In 1962 when I was five, and my brother Greg had just turned three, my mother made our costumes. A simple sheet with holes cut out for eyes and we were “ghosts.” But Greg was afraid of ghosts. He insisted on being a happy ghost. Mom got out her bright red lipstick, and Greg became a “happy ghost” or a “clown ghost.” SCARY!

Dad would pull one of mom’s nylon’s over his head and dragged us around the neighborhood. He looked like a mugger.

- Craig

Twins

2007-09-03T19:10:00.000-07:00

In the 1988 movie “Twins” starring Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger, twin brothers, Julius and Vincent search for their long lost mother. The twins were a by product of an experiment to produce the perfect child (Schwarzenegger). Arnold got the looks, the body, and brains, while Danny got everything leftover. The tagline for the movie was “only their mother can tell them apart.”

My father and his twin brother Dwight were far from perfect children. Grandma Vesta told all of her grandchildren numerous stories of the antics of her twin boys. Jack and Janet, their younger siblings, contributed to those stories as well. I am sure dad has captured many in writing maybe even some the kids have never heard.

But this blog is not about all of those stories. Today I want to recall one specific story that my dad may not remember, and my cousins may never have heard.

Some studies indicate an uncanny closeness between identical twins. Dad and Uncle Dwight were identical in many many ways. These studies document eerie closeness in twins separated from birth and raised by different parents miles apart. The twins have similar interests; do about the same in school, etc.

At one point in their youth, besides Dad wearing glasses, the only distinctive difference most people could discern was the variation in their voices. Now that is identical!

Dad and Dwight were not raised apart by different parents miles apart. But later in life they did live a few thousand miles apart. Dad lived in Seattle and Dwight lived in Kitchener Ontario.

One summer Dwight and Myrna stop by for a few days on their way to Alaska. They arrived late one afternoon. It might have been a Friday, but dad was at work. He came home, wearing his suit, and went through his normal routine (reference “Wait Until Your Father Gets Home,” 8-10-07). Dwight, Myrna and Dad engaged in small talk “how was your drive?” while my father emptied his suit pockets of keys, change, wallet, glasses, pens, his Boeing badge etc. Mom was in the kitchen starting on dinner.

Dad said “why don’t you fix yourself a drink and read the newspaper while I change my clothes.” Uncle Dwight had some come back like “I’ll wait on the drink since I am a guest,” or some such. Myrna joined my mother asking what she could do to help.

Dwight grabbed the paper, picked up the glasses on the fireplace and waited for his drink. A few minutes later my father came out, asking what Uncle Dwight wanted to drink. After a few minutes in the kitchen dad brought out the drinks. He went to the fireplace mantel to retrieve his glasses so he could read the newspaper with Dwight. But his glasses were not there.

“Dwight, you have my glasses. I need them to read.”
“These are my glasses.”
“No. I just got them 3 weeks ago. Those are my glasses.”
“These are my glasses. I just got them a few weeks ago. I know my glasses.”
“I just set them on the fireplace mantel when I came home from work.”
“If these are not my glasses, where are mine? These look exactly like mine.”

“Dwight, yours are in the bedroom” Myrna said from the kitchen.

I don’t recall whether the glasses were “exactly the same,” but for all intents and purposes they were. They both had bought new glasses, the same prescription, same frames (or very nearly), had eye exams – three weeks earlier, 2500 miles apart.

Creepy!

- Craig

Solo - Running on Empty

2007-08-31T05:04:00.000-07:00

I didn’t have to worry about the plane exploding. I was “running on empty.” I don’t think an exploding plane would have stopped “Clem.” He was mad.

From the opposite corner of the field his neighbor came running. “Clem, wait! This could be exactly what you need! You can sue him,” he shouted. At this point I was “break necking” – watching the activity between these two men as they formulated a plan for retirement. As it turns out, Clem was 3 years behind on his mortgage and was in foreclosure.

The neighbor had two phones to avoid long distance charges. One phone was tied to Thurston county, and the other to Kitsap county… I landed on “the line”. He went to call the sheriff.

I don’t think he even made it to the phone before the Sheriff had arrived. He followed the silence of the plane which had just flown slowly over the top of him just moments earlier – the lone car on a backwoods stretch of two lane blacktop. The shadow of the plane blocked out the sunshine glimmering off his morning doughnuts. A second later, the plane arced to the left into a stand of trees.

I swear it was only five to ten minutes after the plane plowed Clem’s strawberry field, an armed Sheriff was walking into the field. Clem obviously enjoyed attention, but not the kind brought by the law and he settled down. The Sherriff started the process of contacting my parents and Seattle Flight Service – they were expecting to hear from me as I completed legs of my flight.

My flight instructor periodically would call Seattle Flight Service to status my position while on his way to Yakima. He was told I had been to Auburn, and had left Bellingham. “This is the flight instructor for N11758 – could I get a status on his location?” “We don’t have a flight plan for that plane,” came the response from SFS. “I know he had a flight plan. I was there when he filed it this morning.” “One moment.” “Ah, flight instructor? That plane went down south of Bremerton International.”

I am sure John had this sinking feeling. John was a devoted Christian man, and we talked frequently about our individual beliefs. Jesus saved John. Jesus saved me. John was actually next on the scene.

My parents arrived to pick me up. I know we talked about that day several times over the next weeks. It was mostly business. The deductible was…, there is discussion over who paid how much because what was signed ($250) and what the current contract showed ($500). Dad and the flight club split the difference, and I would be allowed to fly again (under certain restrictions for a while). I am sure the phone call from the Sheriff switchboard was scary. They didn’t have much information other than the plane had crashed, and an address. I am not sure they even told my parents I was unhurt, protected by three simple words. “God help me.”

My dad had to be strong for my mother because I am sure she was a wreck the whole two plus hours of drive time. He was genuinely loving and concerned. He didn’t scold. I am sure he was scared, but he had to pretend he was doing well to help my mother deal with the fact their son could have died in a single moment that morning (statement adapted from Anne Lamott – Traveling Mercies).

The Federal Aviation Administration defined it as “pilot error.” No kidding. Four hours of fuel had turned into two-point-five. I could have “topped off” twice, and I wasn’t watching the gas gauge. I was “running on empty.”

- Craig

Solo – Strawberry Fields

2007-08-30T07:52:00.000-07:00

When you are in a plane dropping from the sky without a running engine, you really don’t care “why.” Your survival instincts kick in. Survival for me was “a miracle.” “God help me.” “I will do anything you want.” I remember both of these sentences vividly.

The trees parted over a two lane road below. At 9:30 AM on a holiday, I was fortunate. There were no cars to be seen on a long straight stretch. I don’t remember the name of the road. I knew I would never make the Bremerton airport. I had to touch down.

All landings are performed at idle. The main reason for landing at idle is for the ability to “add power” at the last moment in case of trouble. I had to do this once at Boeing Field when I got hit by a crosswind. “Student Pilot, going ‘round.” I was probably only fifty feet above the ground with my wings tilted vertical, pushing on the rudder, shifting the stick and hitting power. “Student Pilot, we didn’t think you were going to make it. Going around granted. Call on base,” came the shaky voice from the tower.

A secondary reason for landing on idle is for the very reason I was in now. No power and I’m going down. As I neared the road, I passed slowly over a single car heading in the same direction as me. It was at that moment I saw power lines on both sides of the road. I was probably at about 500 feet, but I wasn’t taking notes on my altitude. I was still descending. I saw a field to the left of the trees along the road. Just as I was approaching the tops of the trees, I saw my opening. God answered my prayers and I began a beautiful left hand turn between two sets of trees. I was at the north end of a field stretching for nearly a half mile.

The field was divided nicely in half by a barbed wire fence. In the south pasture was a herd of cattle. I needed to stop before the fence. Cattle don’t move fast, and besides, they were mesmerized by the unidentified flying object dropping like a rock into the “Strawberry Fields” to the north… their mouths agape much like my children’s when they visited Central Park.

It was a perfect landing. The soil was soft with the new spring planting of strawberries. I gently plowed the middle of the poor farmer’s field as I lightly touched down. The rear wheels of the tricycle landing gear sinking into the soft soil slowed me down quickly and I nosed the front gear down, but it collapsed.

It was like being in a slow motion movie. Dirt began spraying the windshield as the nose of the plane and the misplaced prop dug deeper. The windshield shattered. The agonizing slowness of the plane arching vertical and then crashing to its back took forever.

I found myself hanging upside down in the plane. It was dead. It had stopped. I was alive! Wait! Shit! I have to get out of the plane before it explodes! I grabbed the seatbelt release and dropped the 18 inches solidly onto my head. Reaching for the door, I pushed. It opened and I crawled out onto the wing. I didn’t see smoke or smell gas. I began kicking the side of the plane. “F#&@! F#&@! F#&@!,” I shouted and kicked until my right foot hurt.

It was only then that I noticed “Clem” (I don’t recall his name) running toward me from the far side of the “Strawberry Field.” He had a shotgun and was yelling “you F’ER – I am going to kill you! You guys keep doing this to me!" (as if a plane crashes into his field everyday). "I have to make it this year or I am going to lose everything!”

(to be continued)

- Craig

Going Solo – Part I

2007-08-29T05:07:00.000-07:00

I really struggled on what to title today’s blog. “Strawberry Fields” after the song by the Beatles came to mind. A few years ago my immediate family went on an East Coast trip. During a leisurely evening stroll to see Central Park, we came upon “Strawberry Fields.” We took a family picture by the sign, and proceeded to a sidewalk embedded memorial to John Lennon. There were lit candles, and a dozen or so people sitting around smoking dope. They paid no attention to us even with my kids’ mouths more than slightly agape. None of this has anything to do with today’s blog except “Strawberry Fields.”

Another song also came to mind as the title of this hastily written blog. “Running on Empty” was a song by Jackson Browne. Although I have “run on empty” many times, I have only run out of gas once (that I recall). I learned my lesson that one time. Now I watch the gas gauge closely.

Memorial Day 1975 “was a day that will live in infamy” – maybe not for the world or the United States, but for my parents and me.

The day started off normal. I had to be at the airport about 4:30 AM. My flight instructor and I filed my flight plan: BFI (Boeing Field International) to Auburn, Bellingham, Olympia and back to Boeing. I planned on completing my solo cross-country flight that day. My instructor, John Richardson who worked with my father at Boeing, was taking another student to Yakima for his “instrument rating.” You have to wear a hood and can only see the “instruments.”

I am shortening this story, and adding details not contained in “Air Scare,” published in Campus Life Magazine in the summer of ’75.

I left Bellingham after a hearty breakfast. Heading south toward Olympia at about 7500 feet altitude I was traveling in and out of cotton balls of clouds, trying to piece together the trail to the next airport.

I passed over Bremerton International. It looked small from that height. My gut told me I needed to drop lower. Although I had worn the hood, I was many hours from an “instrument rating.” I called into Seattle Flight Service and informed them of the weather – broken clouds at 5000 feet. I began my decent to 3500 where I had an unobstructed view of the ground.

Within moments, my engine sputtered and died. Shit. I set my flaps at 30 percent and began a glide path for 70 mph, and started a turn for Bremerton. I had just passed it!

I turned the key and pulled the engine to idle, setting the choke in one smooth motion. The engine started. I began calling on the radio “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.” “This is November One One Seven Five Eight. I am going down.” There was no answer. I tuned the dial to Bremerton just as the engine died again. “Mayday, Mayday Mayday. This is November One One Seven Five Eight. I am going down.” I said aloud “God help me.”

(to be continued)

-Craig

Dead Duck Walking

2007-08-28T05:10:00.000-07:00

"John Kerry went duck hunting and he's doing that to fulfill his campaign pledge to hunt down the ducks and kill them wherever they are. Kerry did pretty well; he came back with four ducks and three Purple Hearts."
—David Letterman

“I went hunting with Dick Cheney and all I got was this bloody T-shirt.”
—T-shirt Slogan

This is not the title of a new movie. It is not about "shooting fish in a barrel" either. But hunting ducks can sometimes be just that easy....

I learned to shoot shotguns fairly young. I remember going to the Renton Gun Club to practice. Years later we joined the Boeing club. There we competed in “turkey shoots.” Five shooters, twenty-five shells – five from each position. The high score got a frozen turkey. I don’t think we ever won a turkey, but often we hit an average of eighteen. Twenty-one was usually the winner.

I still own the 16 gauge model 12 Winchester I used to shoot. Not that long ago I sold the re-loader and all of the dies. My brother had a 20 gauge. Shooting a 20 is harder than a 16 or a 12 gauge. The shot spread is smaller at the same distance from the barrel than from a 16 or 12 gauge. Hitting 18 “pigeons” with a 20 gauge is harder than hitting 18 with the larger gauges (16 or 12).

Geronimo was our hunting lab. I have several stories I can do on this dog. But, today’s story is about one specific duck hunting trip.

We were hunting in the public pot holes north of George, Washington, and southwest of Ephrata. This trip we spent the night in the back of the pickup. We had a custom made height canopy from Bob’s of Issaquah. Dad had asked Bob to build it a little higher because he had to “stand up to put his pants on.”

The first day was beautiful – not a cloud in the sky and 20 degrees. Duck hunting is pretty crappy when there are no clouds. Ducks can fly way out of range. If we humped the brush, maybe Geronimo could scare up a pheasant or two, but ducks were pretty much out of the question. But wait! Is it a bird? No, it's de plane!

No – IT'S A DUCK! It had to be at least a hundred yards out, flying away from us over the frozen pond. Greg raised his gun, and I said “that’s way too far out.” BOOM! The duck crumpled in mid-air and fell into the reeds on the far side of the pond. I have to give my brother credit – it was “one helluva nice shot.”

Dad was over a hill or two and saw none of what happened next. Greg and I moved around the pond. We could hear the duck rustling in the reeds. I told my brother I would walk out on the ice and flush it toward him. “If it flies, then shoot.”

With the gracefulness of a clodhopper I moved through the reeds, flushing the bird toward Greg. BOOM!

“Did you get it?” I yelled. “I think so,” Greg replied.

When I got to Greg, I saw a twenty foot streak of blood across the ice – starting three feet from him. “What the hell happened?” “The duck came walking out…” (Scary - huh?)

I probably called my brother an idiot. It was not a nice thing to say, but I meant it. When a bird is walking toward you, simply grab it by the neck and wring it… I can’t fault my brother – he probably never learned that from dad.

I picked up the duck, and there was a "fifty-cent piece sized hole" right through the middle of the breast. You could see cleanly through it. There wouldn’t be enough meat to make de-feathering and cleaning the bird worth the time. I said “wait until dad sees this.” “Does he have to?” Greg said.

“Yup,” I said with a huge grin.

- Craig

Sheds

2007-08-27T06:40:00.000-07:00

I have absolutely no idea what year we built the shed at our house in SeaTac. We positioned it where the rabbit hutch had been. The shed was huge. Building the shed utilized most of the skills I had learned from my father while working on the cabin.

We build a form for the concrete slab, erected the walls, doors, and a light entering fiberglass roof (just like the outhouse at the cabin!). Inside were shelves and hooks. The ceiling was at least ten feet high. I actually think the shed was bigger than my room!

Dad and I put a skylight into the shed I have in Puyallup. I had the pleasure of shingling that roof as well. It leaks.

The entire family went to Wyoming in the summer of 2006 to celebrate Mom & Dad’s 50th wedding anniversary. A great time was had by all. Fishing, horseback riding, bocce ball and shed building…

Dad had bought a metal shed at a charity auction. He built a wooden base for the shed, but waited for his boys to “put it up.” I don’t know about you all as readers of this blog, but putting up a metal shed in 105 degree heat is not my idea of fun. Greg and I may dispute this to some extent, but my son will have claimed to do most of the work. If nothing else, he will claim he read the instructions. As such, Chad says the shed was completed in half the time it would have taken if Greg, Dad and I been left to our own devices.

So I have been a party to building three sheds. I look forward to helping Chad and Amanda build theirs some day using the skills I learned from my father.

- Craig

Cutting Wood

2007-08-26T12:16:00.000-07:00

Our home was heated by oil, and sometimes, the sweat off the backs of children. I am not saying my brother and I were slaves. Everyone outside our immediate family might have thought so. I don’t think they had child protective serves back them or one of the neighbors might have called.

Like most kids we liked getting up early on Saturday and Sunday morning to head somewhere to work all day cutting, splitting and stacking wood – no – we really did! It meant spending time with dad and being away from most other people. Our neighbor Chuck came often too.

With ours and Chuck’s, we had two full size pickups to use. Our routine was to fill both pickups on Saturday, and both on Sunday… for a few weeks straight. The goal was to have 5 to 7 cords of wood for the winter burn. I got to learn how to cut, split, and stack wood (twice - once into the truck and once when we got home), sharpen the saw, replace the chains. Some of my best lessons in driving were turning around or backing in deeply wooded areas so my brother and I wouldn’t have to “hump the logs” clear to the truck.

We also got good at “tossing rounds” in a “chain gang” line. It was a game of watch where you were throwing, and watch what is being thrown at you. The were lots of "near misses." Mostly we laughed about it. Some times "choice" words were emitted from young kids' mouths.

With the wood split and stacked neatly, and the added “side racks” we could get about a cord and a quarter to the top of the cab, sometimes more. “Remember to add air to the tires to accommodate the extra weight!”

It was the rare occasion where some one got hurt while we were cutting wood - mostly smashed hands or fingers, a dropped tree round on a foot. I learned never to use a chainsaw to clear brush because of “kick back.” That happened a few times. One time several stitches were required in a leg, and I saw a pair of glasses get cut neatly in half at the bridge of the nose – but there were no lasting scars – except maybe the leg.

When I was in college my roommate Clay and I cut wood to make extra money. Our other roommate’s father, Evan, let us cut wood on land he owned near Newcastle. It was called Cougar Mountain, and for years it was wilderness near the city. Today that area is all housing and golf courses. Clay and I had fun taking down huge alders – almost imaging we were true lumberjacks trying to lay it down between standing trees with precision. By the end of the day we were exhausted, so when we delivered the wood (green and split) the price became “eighty dollars dumped” or “one twenty stacked around back.” I think only one person wanted it stacked, but by the time they were through they wished they had paid the extra forty.

When I got married, Dad, Mom, Julie and I would go cut wood. We usually only went a couple of weekends, and my truck was a mid-size. We also changed our routine. We didn’t split on site, but simply loaded as many rounds as possible and dumped them in the driveway. We made a couple of trips per day to get "rounds." We then split, and stacked once rather than twice. One time we got really nice maple and the splitting maul just bounced off the rounds. I ended up renting a gas powered splitter… in just a few hours I was done!

I don’t burn much any more, and I haven’t cut wood in years. The memories I have of those days, and all of the things I learned remain dear.

- Craig

Pea Shooters

2007-08-25T08:51:00.000-07:00

While we lived in Renton, my parents joined the local Methodist Church. They developed many close, life long friends. And, although they maintained friendships from high school and their hometown, our family’s life centered on the families of the church.

We also grew up camping. I still own the giant 200 pound canvas tent we toted around in the red ’64 Dodge Dart station wagon, and later, the Chrysler. We had all of the camping gear you could imagine. We stuffed the car and tied more to the luggage rack on top. Sometimes when I think back on this, I wonder if people thought we were the Joads in the “Grapes of Wrath” – taking everything we owned. Only we had a nice red car and the Joads had the junkie truck.

One year when I was eight or ten we decided to go camping in the Okanogan with friends from church. It was a particularly northwest winter-like summer. It rained the whole week. But the tent was comfortable and dry except where we boys touched the sides. I was told more than once to “don’t do that or the tent will leak.”

When we weren’t around the camp fire, we were “holed up” in the tent playing cards.

On the way, the caravan of friends stopped somewhere – I can’t remember exactly where, but it was a small store and gas station. It was a perfect time for a “nature break.” We all bugged our parents for something, maybe ice cream, maybe some other snack. I don’t remember what the girls bought – probably candy. Steve got a peashooter and either cut it in half, or I got one too. My brother may have even had one but my memory says “no,” mostly because Steve and I took turns shooting at the girls or my brother.

Everyone knew about the peashooters, but they were never taken away. Just thinking back about those peashooters, I want one now.

We got a “talkin’ to” – maybe a couple of times. But – watching that pea pop off the neck or the back of the head of our siblings was something we just couldn’t resist. Thanks for the camping trip Dad! And, thanks for the peashooter Steve!

-Craig

Dodge Ball

2007-08-24T07:16:00.000-07:00

Ben Stiller was the star of “Dodge Ball” a few years ago. I never saw the movie, only the commercials. The movie brought back the memory of a game we played in elementary school. Dodge Ball was a great equalizer – the fast versus the strong. The accurate thrower could be the smallest weakling. There were only a couple of people that didn’t do well in dodge ball - the slow and those that got picked on at lunch.

Slowness was an obvious disadvantage. Even the girls picked out the slow moving targets. It was an ego boost, watching the large rubber ball bounce off the back of the head of a slow moving opponent.

There was a point where I had grown wider faster than I had been growing taller. I guess it would be similar to middle age, but I was in 3rd or 4th grade at the time. The good news was that I had the agility of a gazelle. I probably looked a little funny because I had this geeky awkwardness to my leaps and dodges. If you ever saw me dancing to hip hop or rap, you would know exactly what I mean. But I didn’t get hit often.

I don’t know if schools still play dodge ball. The liability insurance must cost a lot. I saw Dusty get his feet taken out by Terry, and he landed on his wrist. It snapped.

Dusty was relegated to the sideline for a while. Dusty is an EMT the last I heard. I don’t know if the emergency treatment he received had anything to do with it or not.

One day in fourth grade we had all four classes playing dodge ball all at once. There must have been sixty kids per side, in a single gymnasium. Lots of people meant easy targets, but scrambling for the few red rubber balls was dangerous! People might get hurt fighting over “the ammo.”

Our fourth grade teachers conferred and thought for some odd reason we should get those hard volleyballs out… as if that would reduce injuries…

I saw the volleyball close to the centerline, and the slower targets were holding to the back wall. My quickness was an advantage. Just as I picked up the ball, I got hit full force from five feet away… cleanly knocking the ball from my hand. Yes it hurt. Everyone in the gym stood still from the chilling screams of a wounded gazelle. Dusty was first on the scene (along with my teacher). “Are you okay?” “No.” I am thinking you idiots – didn’t you hear my scream?

Dusty throw up on the gym floor when he saw my dislocated thumb. I had to sit in the principal’s office to wait for my mother to come get me. The fun part was watching Gary “gettin’ a talkin’ to.” His dad was in the office too. Gary’s dad said “I’ve seen this before and usually we could just pop it back in – but this looks bad. We should wait for his mother.” I thought “you idiot – do you really think I would let someone other than a doctor fix this?” It still hurt, but Gary’s dad wasn’t a doctor.

Mom took me home. I had to sit on the couch and “wait for my father.” That wasn't usually a good thing. He had to drive me to the hospital. It was probably the longest few hours of my life. Pinched nerves hurt! I know mom heard my screams from the waiting room while the doctor tried to get my hand flat for the x-ray. I know she felt bad.

The doctor said to “look away.” I turned back just as he let go of my eight inch thumb – it was stretched way out… Yes – that hurt too. Even today my right thumb knuckle is larger than my left…

-Craig

Ham

2007-08-23T04:58:00.000-07:00

Ham is the thigh and rump of any animal that is slaughtered for meat, but the term is usually restricted to a cut of pork.
- Wikipedia

Defn: [short for hamfatter, from "The Ham-fat Man," minstrel song]: a showy performer; especially : an actor performing in an exaggerated theatrical style.
- Webster's

I am a ham. I love ham. I think my dad loves ham too, but mom never fixes it anymore when the family gathers. My Aunt Martha lived with us in Renton while she went to “Mr. Lee’s Beauty College.” It was located in downtown, not far from my father’s favorite hardware store – McLendon’s. McLendon’s has expanded and now has a number of stores two of which are close to me.

Aunt Martha was genuinely amused by our family travesty one night. She was brought to tears laughing so hard. There were a number of things which she laughed at – not the least of which was my father’s lack of control over the situation which was about to unfold.

We were having a leisurely family dinner. I don’t recall everything we were having that night, but the meat dish was ham. Greg and I were commanded to try everything, if not clear our plates. You see – there were people in India starving – or some African nation – I forget. Mailing our food to them was not an option according to my dad. My brother in-law Jeff would hide his food behind the refrigerator. When my in-laws moved the frig they even found a missing plate.

Most kids think they are smarter than their parents. Jeff got away with throwing food (and entire plate) behind the fridge. My parent’s table was not near the fridge – and dad was watching every minute. I think the native American tribes of northern Wyoming and Montana called him “Eagle-Eye Edmonds.” He was probably an honorary member of the “Cree”, but most likely it was the “Flatheads.” (just a joke Dad…)

Greg didn’t like ham. He had a sly style of “not eating” it. “You need to eat it all,” Dad said. “Can I have another napkin?” “No, you’ve had…” I don’t recall how many paper napkins, but there were a pile by his plate. “Chew and swallow.” Somewhere in the conversation my mom said “Duane don’t make him eat it,” or “Duane, he doesn’t have to eat it.” There was a touch of frustration or anger because mother’s intuition told her what was coming next.

“I am feeling sick.” “Finish your Ham – now!”

When Greg started upchucking, I was hiding behind the couch (I was much smaller then!). I couldn’t take it and headed for the bathroom. I didn’t make it. Within moments I heard my mom gagging, and she didn’t make it either.

Aunt Martha was laughing hysterically. Dad had lost control because of a single piece of ham.

-Craig

Pizza Face

2007-08-22T04:56:00.001-07:00

My brother’s sixth grade teacher became a close family friend. He was someone the family could “count on” when you needed help. Dave invited us to meet his family and his mother and father went salmon fishing with my father once.

Years ago, in your typical grocery store, the state of Washington, only allowed the sale of “three-two” beer. Three point two percent was the maximum alcohol content in beer sold outside the state liquor stores. I am not sure if was because organized crime ran the liquor stores or the state was just greedy. They kept the good stuff for themselves.

But, in those days we didn’t have all of the “high-falutin” micro-beers. Dave had been at the liquor store. He brought my father a six pack of “Olde English 800.” It might have even been a “five-oh.” Dad never tried it, and the beer sat in the old yellow refrigerator in the workshop - for months.

When I was in college, and my brother was in high school, my parents went to Wyoming for vacation. My mother had made several pizzas and put them in our deep freezer for us to cook and consume after our daily jobs. As with any good mother, she watched out for her boys even when she was 1000 miles away.

I had been eyeing the “Olde English 800” for quite some time and the perfect opportunity was with a homemade, fresh cooked pizza while mom and dad were on vacation. I popped the pizza in the oven at 400 degrees, set the timer for 15 minutes and cracked an “Olde English.” Actually it was the “pop-top” where the aluminum separated from the can, and you could make beer and pop-top chains… however, I never did that – I had only heard rumors from others at college.

Back to the story… the oven timer had just gone off as I finished the first can of beer. The beer did not taste all that good – but it was cold. I was used to “Bud,” the “High Life,” “Animal Beer,” and “Beer Beer.” The most expensive beer I had was probably a “Colt 45.” I pulled the pizza from the oven and let it cool for a few minutes before slicing it with the pizza cutter. My wife likes to have salad with pizza. That would have been way too much work “back in the day.” Anything other than buying dinner at McDonald’s or Taco Time, was usually too much work.

I carried the whole pizza downstairs, setting it down on the TV tray which conveniently remained set up – right by the couch where I “vegged.” I walked to the workshop and grabbed another beer, popped the top and started chowing down on my first slice of pizza. Mom’s pizza is one of my favorites, and hunger made it all the better. I took a sip of beer, pulled another slice of pizza to my plate (balanced on the arm of the couch) and flipped the channel.

I don’t remember what was on that day, but I remember waking up about an hour later with nearly a full can of beer, one slice of pizza gone, and second one wedged between the couch and my face. I never finished that warm “Olde English 800.” I went to the fridge to get a cold one (but washed my face first).

-Craig

Birthdays

2007-08-21T08:34:00.000-07:00

Today is my father’s 76th birthday. Birthdays were always a big thing at my house. As a child it means you are “getting older.” It might mean you are big enough for that ride at Disneyland, or getting that special birthday gift reserved for “older kids.” Many times getting older meant different, or more chores - more responsibility. It might have meant a bigger allowance! I remember wanting a watch and I had to wait until my eighth birthday. It was a Timex with a gray watch band. I really liked that gift!

When you get older, there are other important milestones. Being old enough for a part time job, turning sixteen so you can get your drivers license, or for some being old enough to buy booze are all examples of birthdays which hold some significance for many.

Some women hate certain birthdays. Turning thirty, forty, fifty, and sixty are sometimes traumatic. They don’t want you to do anything special (although they secretly do…). “Don’t tell everyone how old I am!” I always try to say something nice like “you don’t look a day over sixty” – if they are fifty for instance. I try to lighten the mood. Usually you get a smile and a “Thanks.” When women get older though, they take pride in their birthdays. “Just turned eighty” some say with pride. “Ninety!” another might state with only the enthusiasm a ninety year old can muster.

Men on the other hand for the most part take birthdays as another accomplishment. The same birthdays which women abhor, the men look at like a “job promotion” or a “raise.”
In April, I just got a “raise” to “fifty!” I don’t look a day over forty-nine, and some even say I could be as young as forty-seven. I take it all in stride.

Today I am including a few “birthday quotes.”

When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not.
- Mark Twain

Inside every older person is a younger person - wondering what the hell happened.
- Cora Harvey Armstrong

Growing old is like being increasingly penalized for a crime you have not committed.
- Anthony Powell

I have achieved my seventy years in the usual way, by sticking strictly to a scheme of life which would kill anybody else....I will offer here, as a sound maxim, this: That we can't reach old age by another man's road.
- Mark Twain, at his seventieth birthday dinner, in 1905

- Craig

Wiring

2007-08-20T04:49:00.000-07:00

Uncle Jim was an electrician. That was his career. He didn’t teach me to wire though, my dad did. Even today, I can’t profess to always remember how it works. Black to black and white to white. There is something about the non-insulated wire being “the ground.” I hate when you open a wire or a new light fixture and there are three insulated wires or one of them is red. But, when it comes to wiring, remembering how it works is pretty important.

We wired the cabin. I watched. We added outlets to the workshop, the garage, and replaced light fixtures. I learned to add new light fixtures – crawling in the attic amongst the fiberglass insulation. “Step only on the rafters and don’t fall through the ceiling dry wall.” I never did.

When building a new structure – you wire without worry. You simply have to meet “the code.” It is easier if you drill the studs before you put the wall up. Placing the outlets higher on the wall means you don’t have to bend over as far. These are all things I have learned from my dad. Oh – and don’t forget to get everything inspected before you drywall… less work!

Remember to turn off the circuit at the “fuse box" before beginning. I have really only seen fuses once. Today they call them “circuit breakers.” Flip the switch.

I have never been bitten by a snake. I have also thought that when I did get “bit” by the electricity, it would feel like getting bit by a snake. I hope I never find out.

I've been bitten a few times - maybe more. It “smarted” every time.

One day earlier this spring, one of our outside spot lights stopped working. Both lights were out at the same time. This made the “cheap light switch” I had purchased and put in a few years ago – suspect. What “a perfect opportunity to teach my own son,” the basics of “wiring.”

Chad knows one thing – electricity “bites.” I told him he had to help – he had to learn to do this. I had already gone out to the circuit breaker and flipped the switch which said “west outside.” But, he had not seen me do this and I told him I was going to show him how to change the switch “hot.” Now I had his attention – He muttered “you are soooo stupid.” I was laughing to myself as he watched intently.

I had unscrewed the cover plate and the switch. I pulled the switch out of the box. At this point I was explaining the need to attach the wires on opposites sides of the switch. “Do you want to do it?” I asked. “No” he replied.

So I continued, removing the white wire from the switch. Sparks flew and the smoke of melting insulation filled the air. I thought I had flipped the correct circuit breaker but I hadn’t. This time he muttered “you idiot – I told you so.”

Dad taught me “wiring." I taught my son "not to be stupid."

- Craig

Texas Hold ’Em

2007-08-19T09:18:00.001-07:00

The “World Poker Championship” series plays a single poker game, Texas Hold ‘Em. My favorite player is Annie Duke. Years ago when I first heard of the event, I learned the championship was won on a “pair of Jacks.” Now I watch poker on TV. (There is something wrong with this world or with me.) Because of my father I think I could win it all – the championship, the whole enchilada – “I’m all in.”

I have only played Texas Hold ‘Em once for money. I didn’t play long. A friendly game with low stakes can usually be played for several hours. There are no big winners and no big losers. People go home, sometimes a little tipsy, sometimes a little poorer, but none go home mad. The one time I played Texas Hold ‘Em, I was “in the game” for maybe half an hour. Family only – and my fourteen year old son took the rest of us for fifty-five bucks. The whole game went a little over an hour. I was fortunate – I only lost $10.

I learned poker very young. Maybe we have a genetic propensity for poker or even gambling. When I was a boy, my father played poker once a month with men from work. They rotated hosts so I when I was lucky they were at our house a couple of times a year. The host fed the guests, had the table, the poker chips and cards – and one of the guests brought the beer.

We played poker at Thanksgiving, Christmas and sometimes I believe we even played on the holiest day of the year – New Years Day. College football fans – I apologize for the sacrileges I have committed!

I watched, I learned. Little did they know I was a shark circling, waiting for the feeding frenzy; camouflaged as a youth in pajamas. Sometimes after the hand was finished, and chips were being gathered, I asked questions. Everyone politely answered. “Full House beats a Flush.” I would reply “okay – thanks!”

Not all of our friends or family play poker. So we bought a less threatening version of the real thing. Kids could play. People who knew little could play and still win! The board game was called Tripoli or Tripoly. I am not sure of the game’s spelling. But, it laid the poker hands over various areas of the playing surface. “One Pair,” “Three of a Kind,” “Full House,” “Straight” – they were all there! A simple game of “everyone antes one chip to each of the pots” laid out on the board. I don’t recall much more about that game, but I know some pots grew larger than others. Maybe mom and dad even still have that game somewhere.

One Thanksgiving, with the neighbors in attendance, the family stuck up the game with “maybe we should play some poker” – penny, nickel, dime… Was this an attempt at entertainment or the opportunity to recover some costs of the feast?

Mr. Ketchum lived across the street with his wife. He liked playing poker that day, but he wasn’t having much luck. At one point the pot had grown to a substantial amount, and he was raising – his hand looked good… seven card stud. He turned his cards over, “Full House” he said actually smiling for the first time that day and starting to pull the chips toward him. “Full House beats a Flush” my little brother said…

One time at the Friday night poker game they “were short one guy.” “Can I play? I have my own money.” The Friday night poker game always ended at midnight. That night I heard one man say to my dad “next month at my house, but don’t bring the kid.” I smiled slightly when my winnings added up to $12.50. That’s a lot of money to a twelve year old.

- Craig

Smoking in the Boys Room

2007-08-18T08:46:00.000-07:00

I don’t know when dad started smoking cigarettes. He probably changed brands several times over the years, but the one I remember was Pall Malls; a red pack with white lettering. It could have been my grandfather who smoked the Lucky Strikes.

At some point dad stopped smoking cigarettes and started with a pipe. The smell of pipe tobacco was better than any cigarette – any day. Cherry? The variety of “flavors,” the different colored tin foil packets and logos… Dad would carefully unfold the packet, opening it slowly while one of his many pipes lay silently on his leg or the arm of the chair. Dad’s style of pipe was a wooden, beautiful wood grain, straight stem. He replaced them as fast as he misplaced them.

Pipes need breaking in – like a good horse, a comfortable pair of shoes or tight jeans. Some circles the cliche might include "men" or "women." The first few “smokes” are about tempering the bowl. He would dip the bowl of the pipe in the packet, scooping a “bowl full.” Tamp. Tamp. Tamp. Usually with the thumb, packing the tobacco tightly.

Dad had several lighters, and the cans of lighter fluid refills – blue on the bottom and yellow on the top. You would unscrew the bottom and pour the lighter fluid onto the cotton packing inside the lighter and replace the screw. It was the perfect opportunity for me to learn how to “unscrew” a screw with my thumbnail or the back of one of many pocket knives.

At some point when I was much older, my father quit smoking pipes too. I must have been in college. Dad waited for his boys to notice, but we never did. I am sure he was disappointed. We “didn’t miss it.” Mom questioned us relentless: “Do you notice anything different about your father?” Nope. She couldn’t take it any more. Dad had quit smoking – weeks ago. Of course we were proud!

When I think back to the smells of the pipes, my memories are much more romantic than reality. Over the course of several days our toilet became plugged. A “bowl full” means something different than previously discussed. And, a full bowl meant a plumber. It took awhile, and I am sure it irritated my dad to pay the plumber bill, but he found his missing pipes.

-Craig

Laughter is the Best Medicine

2007-08-17T05:05:00.000-07:00

This is a titled section from the Reader’s Digest magazine. My parents had a subscription for many years. I liked reading the short jokes, flipping through to the cartoons and reading the short humorous story section, “Laughter is the Best Medicine.” All were funny and I always believed most bore their origins in true events, whether it is in a doctor’s office, the bank, or an elementary school room.

Having an optimistic outlook can clearly have positive affects whether it be medicinal, or dealing with the mundane daily items we encounter; the person who thinks you are driving too slow in stop-n-go traffic (so they give you the “you’re number one” salute) to the salsa which drips down your dress shirt (when you don’t have a change of clothing) right before an important meeting. Some times you need to “smile” and just “move on.”

Mind over matter is a scientifically studied “theory” where people’s mental capabilities overcome the laws of physics. Time travel, levitation, and out-of-body experiences can all be classified as “mind over matter” in one sense or another.

I believe in all of these: “laughter” and “mind over matter.” My brother thought both of these together could overcome the power of “a good spanking.”

Being older, I tended to encourage my brother in a number of different things, and the influence an older sibling has, is actually quite incredible when the young sibling has limited “real world” experience. Spankings hurt and I knew that. However, while we were still young (8 and 5 respectfully) I encouraged and influenced my brother to test his theory.

I don’t recall what led up to Greg’s opportunity, but I clearly remember the results. Both of us were in trouble. It certainly wasn’t the kind where our punishment was a “stern talking to.” We were going to get spanked. We in fact, got spanked “n” times, plus “one” over the course of our younger years. We learned from those spankings. Specifically, if you started crying after the first swat, you didn’t get another one. One was enough to get the message – but it still hurt.

I bent over and grabbed my ankles and dad swatted me. I started crying. Greg bent over and got a swat, but to my delight and eventually his own horror, he laughed! “HA HA HA!” He said it with enthusiasm, the cogs of his brain trying to latch and twist and turn, dealing with the pain. “Mind over matter” was the signal he was looking for, but instead, he got another swat. “HA, Ha…” he stated less enthusiastically this time; trying gallantly to hold back the tears.

At this point I turned my encouragement toward my father. “He thinks it won’t hurt if he laughs” I said through tearful whimpering. My father looked at me and said “What?”

Swat. “ha…” Greg said before the tears started flowing. Laughter is not always the best medicine. Some times medicine tastes bad. Laughter doesn’t make it taste better… (smiley face).

-Craig

My Earliest Memory

2007-08-16T05:02:00.000-07:00

My earliest memory is not of my father or my mother. When you think back you hope that it would be. As I have gotten older (and, I am not old – thank you) I find that memories are locked away in a series of file cabinets stacked and scattered around the inside edge of my scull. When thinking back, sometimes I am working my way through a store room of cabinets, pushing aside the cobwebs, or moving storage boxes so I can open the drawer.

Often I find the cabinet drawer locked or stuck, and I tug sometimes softly and other times hard. Sometimes the drawer opens and the details of the memory flood the room. Other times the drawer never opens and I stand there holding the fragment of the memory on a slip of paper the librarian gave me.

Ansel Adams was a great photographer. Noteworthy was his ability to bring his subject to striking life in a black and white print. He didn’t use fancy equipment and he didn’t “morph” the subject to fit his idea of how the final product should look.

My earliest memory is in black and white. On the scrap of paper there was a single thought. Pulling on the cabinet drawer brought out more detail; black and white and still quite vague. One piece of color showed through, so parts of the memory are a composite.

When we moved to Seattle I was just over 2 years old. Dad and mom had rented an apartment in the Fauntleroy area of West Seattle. I can still see “California Avenue” as it tapers down toward the water from the top of the hill. If the apartment building still exists, I think I could drive there. It was a two story brick structure, quite plain and boxy. The color of the brick was a kaleidoscope sandy color with some speckles darker than others, but overall lighter rather than darker. It looked much like a Motel 6 with bricks.

The rest of the memory is black and white. We had a neighbor named Mary. She was older. I recall “visiting” her at her first floor apartment which opened to a large grassy area. I remember her white colored hair as she sat in a chair on the sidewalk; in the shadow of the balcony above; her apartment door opened to the background. While I can’t see in, I know I have been there. My mom has too.

I don’t think Mary had a wheelchair, but she had only one leg. I hope Mary enjoyed my visits as much as I enjoyed visiting her in my black and white memory.

- Craig

Learning Shop Safety

2007-08-15T05:09:00.000-07:00

I watch “The New Yankee Workshop” with Norm Abrahms (sp?). He opens his show with “Before we get started… Read and follow all safety precautions… and the most important is these (as he points to his face) safety glasses.”

I am not sure that is true. Yes they are important, but “Before we get started” is pretty important and “Read and follow all safety precautions” is probably at the top.

I think I actually have more tools than Norm. My dad loves tools and he knows I love them too. So, it makes sense that almost every time I see him, for my birthdays, for Christmas, or even summer visits he gives me tools.

Sometimes my father escaped to the workshop downstairs to avoid the “brotherly love” Greg and I showed each other. He was working on a project which involved a wooden pointed oval shape (much like a football if sliced down the middle lengthwise, only ¾” thick). The edges had a number of ¼” slits almost all of the way around. It was the base for a simple African style mask. The face was formed by a slit concave piece glued perpendicular to the center of the base. Everything was painted black, and two empty thread spools, painted white which became the eyes were glued on each side of “the nose”. A white thread was woven between the slits of the base, back and forth across the nose in a crisscross pattern. It made a simple, and yes, odd African style wall ornament.

It was interesting enough, and it elicited comments of “groovy,” “cool” and “neato” (depending on the era, or political alignment from which you sprang). “Neato” was pre-Cambrian Nerd language, and we all know Nerds evolved into Geeks. No one said a negative word, and most of our friends owned one. I think the original design came from Denny, dad’s good friend from high school. Denny and Janet lived near us in when we had moved to the SeaTac area.

I thoroughly enjoyed working with my father learning to use the various tools, and making the African style “masks.”

One Saturday, my brother and I were going at it upstairs while my father was “sanding” pieces for the masks in the workshop downstairs. Greg had locked himself in the upstairs bathroom as a self-defense mechanism, while I shouted “I am going to get you, you little #!@&#!.”

I don’t know exactly how old I was, but I am guessing 12 to 14. I was still quite a bit bigger than Greg, who had not yet begun wrestling or this story might have had me inside the locked bathroom.

Dad started to come up the stairs holding his hand, and I could see blood “oozing” from his hand, and I started banging on the door for my brother to “Let me in! Dad’s hurt! Hurry!”

Greg shouted back “Liar!”

By this time dad was at the top of the stairs, and maybe something in my voice – panic – caused my brother to open the door. Dad had caught his right hand ring finger in the portable belt sander while it was turned on automatic, upside down on the work bench.

From the “ring” knuckle to the end of the finger there was almost nothing but bone. While holding his hand under water, I was able to tie a gauze “tourniquet” to stem the flow of bleeding. Scouts had provided me my First-Aid training.

Dad probably still doesn’t have all of the feeling in that finger, but he did get to keep it, and all of us learned “shop safety.” I think dad also bought an upright sander, and we stopped making African mask wall hangings.

- Craig

Shoot the Moon

2007-08-13T21:47:00.000-07:00

“A Christmas Story” shows very small, but almost reflective glimpses into my life as a young boy. Many differences can be noted too – for instance, my name is not Ralphie. I didn’t learn “that word” from my father either.

It was coming up on my birthday – it must have been my 9th, because I got my first watch for my 8th. I wanted the “official Red Ryder Carbine-Action two hundred shot range model air rifle!” Actually I asked for a BB gun. I think my mother was much like Ralphie’s – “Be careful or you’ll shoot your eye out.” She might have even had a similar conversation with my dad, with dad responding to the effect “he’s a boy!”

If you’ve ever seen the movie you know exactly what I mean.

After a brief training lesson on how to load the BBs I was set loose into the back yard. There might have been more to the training such as “don’t point that thing at anybody, etc., or else!” but I don’t recall that much.

Although Ralphie had this imaginary gang of villains, I only had my brother. I know you think you know what is coming next, but no – I never shot my brother in the back. I did let him try out the gun though. We would stroll the back yard shooting at things in the garden – particularly cans.

Within a few weeks, and maybe within a day or two, my brother and I were in the back yard shooting "the gun." Vern or Ronnie might have been there too. The moon was full and clearly visible in the day light; big, round, white – an easy target. That day I was particularly selfish – I was a big shot.

Greg (but it could easily have been Vern) urged me to shoot the moon. Showing off is a good way to get you in trouble.

That night while sitting around the dinner table, my father asked “what did you boys do today?” Greg piped right up, “Craig was shooting the moon with his BB gun.” My dad said “what?” Actually it was more like “WHAT?!” The look which came over his face when he said “What did I tell you…!?” was one I’d see many times over many years (reference “Wait Until Your Father Gets Home”).

I don’t remember exactly what my punishment was after the quipped reply “don’t point that thing at anybody. You never said don’t shoot the moon.”

- Craig

The Bottom of the Outhouse

2007-08-13T05:03:00.000-07:00

I am not sure exactly when we bought the property upon which we would erect our mountain getaway. It was definitely in the early 60’s, maybe ’62 or ’63. Long before we built the cabin, we would set up the large blue canvas cabin tent. I think my father bought it at Sears in Renton. I still own it today, although we haven’t used it in years.

I have many stories about camping in that tent; the stories told, eating in it when it rained.

Our mountain getaway property consisted of two primary levels. The lower level ran along May Creek, and had naturally occurring springs which bubbled out from the hillside. As boys we spent many hours along the creek, searching, investigating, or basically hiding from work which my father freely assigned.

The upper area was a large flat area. A single lane, one-way road spurred South and then West from the main road into the development. We spent many weekends at the property in preparation for building the cabin. One of the very first things we built was the outhouse. My dad was familiar with outhouses from his own childhood, and knew clearly the construction basics. We purchased a used toilet seat and painted it in preparation for the outhouse’s first use. Dad even improved on that basic design by applying a clear fiberglass sheet to the roof. Outhouses are notoriously dark – and scary. Besides spiders and bugs of a wide variety, we always thought snakes might be in there. Even when Amanda, Greg, Dad and I went fishing in 2006 at Gibbs Bridge, we checked the outhouse thoroughly for snakes.

We spent nearly every weekend at the property working toward building the cabin (and many many friends and relatives helped – thanks!). When Steve was in junior high or high school, he made our family a sign in woodshop: “The Edmonds’ Family Privy.” We displayed it proudly and it remained on the outhouse even on the day the cabin was sold many years later.

It only made sense to "store what we could" at the property – hauling everything we needed to the site every weekend was a chore unto itself. Our only lockable facility was the green outhouse with the red painted toilet seat.

One time we arrived to find someone had broken into the outhouse. The lock had been snapped and our worst fears had been realized. All of dad’s tools were gone! The only remaining item was about 20 pounds of lime we used for flushing (lime helps keep the odors to a minimum – something else I learned from my father).

Wait! It must have been kids who broke in! The expensive tools were not stolen! They lay at the “bottom of the outhouse.” It took only a short discussion before it became obvious what must be done. No one could fit down "the hole" except my brother and me.

I am not sure if the vote was fair or not, or what other considerations there may have been (such as my brother was “too small” to do it), but I won that election – sort of. I was lowered to the bottom of the outhouse by my ankles, past spiders and bugs, to retrieve dad’s tools, one at a time.

- Craig

Snakes in the Hay

2007-08-12T09:39:00.000-07:00

The barbershop was across and just down the street from the Weagers (sp?) from church. Mr. and Mrs. Weager were an older retired couple that a number of the younger couples befriended. I don’t recall her first name, but Mr. Weager went by Wally which could have been short for Walter or Wallace.

I liked going over there because they had acreage. There are several stories I can relate about their small farm so watch this blog for more on the Weagers.

My father always told great stories. When we were camping, there were lots of stories. We would be bundled into sleepwear in our sleeping bags when dad would begin. He had many and today’s memory combines the Weager farm and one of dad’s stories.

The Weager farm might have been ten acres. Part of it was wooded, but the “front yard” was a large pasture of about 3 acres. From the highway you could see the small white house at the end of a long single lane dirt driveway. The house sat on the upper slope, with the wooded acres behind.

Mr. Weager had mowed – or maybe had some one mow – the front pasture for hay. Wally needed the hay picked up. I can’t remember everyone that was there, but it seemed our neighbor Chuck from SeaTac was there. He knew Wally from church too.

Greg and I were too small to throw the hay into the “hay wagon” but we could certainly help. We rode in the wagon towed behind a small tractor and stomped down the hay. The men used pitchforks to throw the hay over the sides of the trailer as it moved slowly along the dried rows.

Occasionally a pitchfork of hay contained a snake. Several snakes got pitched into the wagon that day and you could see them crawling around as we stomped. I don’t like snakes, although at that age, I was a “handler.” My brother and the neighbor boys would go snake hunting in our backyard as it backed up to an undeveloped area. Handling snakes was not much of a problem when I was younger – I understood one thing. These were Gartner snakes – the black harmless ones with yellow stripes. Some times we found ones with red stripes, and some with blue. We called those “blue racers.”

Some of the snakes we found were small and some were larger. One of the biggest ones I ever saw was pitched into that wagon, that day. The snake didn’t bother me – in fact I rather enjoyed watching it wrap around my brother’s leg. When a snake begins to climb your leg, you scream! My brother was no different. I think all the men were laughing and I know they did it on purpose. Torturing, and teasing little kids - what fun!

Dad said something to the effect “when I was little the men always threw snakes into the hay wagon too… only they were rattlesnakes.” “Stop your whining…”

(I might have made that part up for my brother).

-Craig

Saturday Morning Haircuts

2007-08-11T06:55:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how often Dad got his haircut. It might have been every couple of weeks to a month. There really was only one rule – it can’t touch the ears.

If you look back at pictures of Dad – he has the same haircut, same hairstyle since he was 12. Mine has changed several times. My brother has had a few too.

When you think of why a man wears a particular hairstyle, it is usually because it looks good on them. Men don’t change their styles often – not like women. Dad though has really had only one style.

I think a lot of it had to do with his upbringing. Clean and off the ears. It reminds me of something a farmer would have his sons wear. I don’t know if my grandfather made Dad keep his hair “off the ears” but I know the Air Force did.

Sometimes a look can become a habit. Dad’s hairstyle looks good on him. Dwight’s was similar (Dad’s identical twin). Maybe that style was in the genes.

Dad would pack my brother and I into the little blue “Renault” for Saturday haircut mornings. This has also become a tradition for my son and myself too. Be the first in line – don’t waste time waiting. We would arrive at the barbershop, the kind with the fancy spinning bar pole on the outside. It probably didn't spin, but I let my memory think it did. The shop was right across the street from some friends from church and not far from the parsonage. It was however a few miles from home, so we had to get up early.

This was the closest barbershop, but I think it also might have been the cheapest. Dad grew up on a farm during “the great depression.” You had to be frugal – or cheap. My memory has faded on the prices, but I think it started at $1.75. He probably complained when the price went up to $2.25. It would have had to be a really good haircut to be worth that – “off the ears and shirt collar too.”

It was more than great prices or the location that took my father and his two boys to this particular shop though. The barber gave “free” crew cuts to kids if there was a paying adult. Frugal!

For many years my brother and I had crew cuts. When I was a toddler, I had curly hair. It is not so curly now and mom blames dad for it - and the crew cuts.

I am wondering what happened to that barber – something must have happened which changed our haircut routine. He might have retired, been bought out, or simply moved. At some point, the barber started charging for our crew cuts. I think it was 75 cents. Dad might have been outraged, or just frugal, but we stopped going to that barbershop.

Dad bought some barber shears. Frugal? I think it was his keen "long-term investment skills." I don’t recall my father ever cutting my hair, but my mom did. She cut Greg’s too. In the summer we sat on a chair on the pink patio.

We still had the crew cuts, but they just “didn’t look like what the barber did.” Our new style was full of nicks and chunks missing and more than once we cried when we looked in the mirror. At least once my mom cried too.

I don’t think dad ever let my mom cut his hair – it turns out he was both frugal and smart!

- Craig

Wait Until Your Father Gets Home

2007-08-10T05:12:00.000-07:00

I don’t think my brother and I were wild. Some of the neighbors might disagree. It was more like “boys will be boys!” My brother and I were practically best friends as kids. Although there were other boys in the neighborhood within a year or two of our age: Randy, Geoff and Paul, Vern and Ronnie – we both knew “blood was thicker than water.”

We frequently teamed and schemed against the neighbor boys. Sometimes it was subtle and sometimes more overt. But all those are stories for another time.

Sometimes Greg and I fought. Most of the time no one got hurt seriously although occasionally I would get kicked in the groin or my brother would get his head banged against the ground. When we got like that, mom couldn’t really do much except say “sit on the couch and wait until your father gets home.”

Sitting on the couch with my brother – waiting for Dad to walk in the front door – was painful. No matter what we had done, it seemed like that was punishment enough. Occasionally we would blame each other quietly as not get in further trouble. Sometimes we would punch the others arm. “Mommmm!”

I know my father looked forward to coming home. He always wore a suit because you “need to dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” When he came home he was almost always in a good mood. But when the boys were "waiting for their father to get home” his look, his body language changed, and we knew we had disappointed him somehow.

He walked to the fireplace mantel and removed his Boeing badge, the pens, his glasses and wallet, keys and some change. Sometimes we would start crying just from "the look." He never said a word. Dad would head to his bedroom to change his clothes while we were weeping quietly (when we were younger, although we were sat on the couch as old as fourteen).

It never really seemed to matter “what” we had done – only that it had made Mom sit us on the couch to “wait until your father gets home.”

-Craig

Learning To Fish

2007-08-09T12:49:00.000-07:00

My dad taught me to fish at an early age. I am not sure exactly when. I might have been three, but it could have been four. We lived in a neighborhood called Heather Downs. This was the first home my father and mother purchased. Our house sat on a hill above the Cedar River in Renton Washington.

My dad had bought me a fishing pole and showed me how to cast. I had this little rubber weight on the line and practiced casting in the back yard. I am not sure why it was even rubber because this thing was pretty solid. It could have broken the back window if I aimed in that direction. Mostly I aimed for my little brother, or the dog - just about anything other than the middle of the yard.

I wasn't old enough for school yet, so in my mind I practiced all day. In reality I probably had cast for one half of an hour. I was ready!

Although I know I would sit patiently waiting for him to come home from work so we could go fishing, my mom would probably dispute that. This seemed to be a regular routine. My memory says we would go fishing for about an hour (most likely all my dad could take!) before dinner. It seemed like every day, and I looked forward to it.

The Cedar River ran through a valley into Renton. We would drive up the highway to a few different spots. Sometimes it was a wide area we could pull off from the highway and in others there was a dirt road. In each case though we had to cross the railroad tracks. Every fishing trip was an adventure!

I got to carry my fishing pole and the new green creel for the fish we caught! When we walked on the trail to the river I remember all of the blackberry bushes. They were way above my father's head. I envisioned being in a jungle, if I even knew what one was.

I followed close behind. I didn't want to get lost. When we got to the river we would walk back and forth until he could find a place where he could sit me down without much fear of me wandering out of his sight.

He would get me tied up with a little hook and a little red worm. For those of you who have fished with us in Wyoming, the worms there eat the Washington worms for lunch. You have to put a small worm on a small hook, and you need a small hook because the fish in Washington are small. We were always happy if we caught something 'legal' which I think was six inches.

When I first learned to fish, dad would cast it for me. After practicing I got to cast myself. Invariably, right after my father cast his first line, I would have mine tangled in a mess on the reel, or be snagged on the bottom.

I don't recall if my father ever really got to fish those evenings or not. But I know God was teaching him patience.

Soon we would pack up and head home for dinner which mom always had ready. I would look forward to another day of fishing with my father.

- Craig

Initial Post

2007-08-09T11:14:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday evening, my father called to tell us - me - directly that his test results were "not good". I broke down. I don't think I have ever cried in front of him as a grown man. We cried together. Two to six months.

You never have enough time with your family - your mother, your father, your spouse or your children - you can never tell them often enough that you love them.

I always thought Dad would be at my kids' graduation from high school, from college or be at their weddings. I thought he would see Chad become an Eagle Scout, or be at the birth of his great grandkids. In fact - it was never even considered that he wouldn't be there.

I have decided I need to write. I need to tell him of all of my memories.

- Craig