On Thursday September 10, 2009, my father passed away unexpectedly while making his USA Today delivery. In many ways, I think it was a blessing that it was quick and that he did not suffer a long, drawn out illness. However, it was all too soon. And I am still coming to terms with the reality that he is truly gone.

His funeral was held yesterday, September 15 and my mother asked each of my sisters and I to write a tribute and then asked me to read them in the service. I was honored that she would ask this of me. The following is what I wrote and then read:



My Dad preferred to live his life in a quiet, unassuming manner. While he would be so pleased to see all of you here today, he would absolutely be embarrassed by all the fuss. And he most certainly would not like me standing here, reading these words. Not because he would not like what my sisters and I have written but because to hear one of us read it out loud would have been too much for him and he did not like anyone to see him cry. That is just the kind of man he was.

His quietness in living did not mean my Dad lacked passion. He had many passions, dreams and pursuits. At various points in his life, he fell in love with certain instruments like the banjo, the mandolin and the hammered dulcimer and proceeded to build one or two of each. He never really learned to play but he loved making them. When he fell in love with Scottish bagpipes, I half expected him to figure out a way to build his own but it isn't really a wood instrument, so we were safe. However, we were subjected to a bagpipe CD on occasion. His passions always seemed to involve woodworking or animals. He built his own wood sailboat, "The Crappie Stalker" and a beautiful wood strip canoe. I will never forget when he decided he wanted to raise miniature pot-bellied pigs because a couple friends and I spent the better part of an afternoon chasing that pig through the woods behind the house. He never did get to pursue his dream of the Llama Therapy Ranch.

His number one passion however has always been his family. He had no greater source of pride than my Mom, the three of us girls and then his grandchildren. He would do anything he could to make sure his family was taken care of.

As I have thought about my life with my Dad over my childhood and my adulthood, the memories that continue to surface are of our many camping and fishing adventures. He loved the outdoors. His girls, for the most part, did not. "Mrs. Miller" for one, hates bugs. "Desert Bloom" and I prefer quiet indoor pursuits. He liked to take us fishing, a lot. He just never seemed to understand that I really do not like fish or fishing. However, when I was 20 or so, I went on one last camping and fishing trip with him. I really just wanted to ride in his canoe and read my book. But I indulged him by throwing my line in the water. We soon learned that the lake was full of bullheads and began to catch one after the other. My Dad showed me how to get them off the hook and throw them back. But this became very annoying to me so I quit baiting my hook and still threw my line out. This did not deter the fish from biting. Eventually, the fishing was interrupting my reading so much that I just quit putting my line in. But we joked that this may not stop the fish at all, they probably would jump out of the water and find my hook anyway.

My Dad will forever by my number one hero. This trait became even more prevalent when I became a driver. For several years, I developed a certain affinity for winding up in ditches all over the state. Always, he would come and pull me out. He never made me feel silly or stupid. His first question was "Are YOU alright?"

These car rescues continued when I went off to college in Duluth. My predicaments usually occurred late at night, in sub-zero temperatures and always a couple hours from home. Nevertheless, he would get in his car or his little red truck and drive to where ever I was and fix an alternator (which he always seemed to have an extra in the garage), or a radiator hose or a battery that burst into flame with a comment like, "Well, that doesn't look good." He would let me sit in the warmth of his car or the gas station while he suffered in the bitter cold. And then I would follow him home. He was not easy to follow, it took a lot of skill and a heavy foot to keep up with him!

My biggest rescue came when my marriage ended and I needed to leave TX. My Dad, without hesitation the moment he heard the news, began to make plans for driving down to get me. My Mom only slowed him down a bit when she reminded him that 3 adults and 3 small children in car seats would not fit in their Ford Focus. From that moment on, he was the man I could count on for anything. His joke was his business was now called "Blueduck Woodcraft and Daycare". He so often took care of my kids when I was going back to school or when one of them was sick and I had to work. He would also pick them up if I couldn't. He only said No if he could not find a way to change the plans of his day.

My most cherished memories will be of him and his relationship with my children. I know he loved being a Dad to us girls and he was proud of us. But when his first grandchild came along, the pride and the love practically oozed out of every pore. I will never forget the day when Princess, who was 4 or 5 months old, and I stopped by to see him at work. He met us at the door of his unit so that HE could be the one to carry her in and introduce his granddaughter to everyone. And with the grandson's that followed, he was there when they were born or shortly after and again, it was love at first sight. Each child was a precious gift to him. We lived with my parents for 4 years and I think that moving out was hard on all of us but it was perhaps hardest on Grandpa and Peanut who had been with each other every day of Peanut's life. When it had been a few days since we had seen or talked to Grandpa, Peanut would start to cry and we would call Grandpa. They would talk on the phone for a few minutes and I know that phone call made both of their days.

I miss you, Dad. More than words can say.