In which my dad taught me many things about work and music and life

 My dad was a teacher, but I was never in any of his classes.

He was employed by school districts for more than 30 years, teaching music at Meridian and Lynden High Schools (back in those days, one person taught band, orchestra, choir, music theory, and coached the cheerleaders).  When my brother and I were little, he switched from high school music to teaching 5th grade, first at Geneva Elementary, and later at Roosevelt.

Dad rarely told me how to live a good life.  He showed me.

• He told the (probably apocryphal) story that his dad, a professional musician, left musical instruments lying around the house and told Dad and his brother Bob not to touch them, and so of course they both picked up instruments and taught themselves to play. 

There was no shortage of musical instruments at our house

• Dad didn't learn to read musical notation until he was in college at Western Washington State College (now WWU), despite being there on a music scholarship. When new music was given to the band in school, he'd leave the room to "go to the restroom" and hang around outside the room to hear how it was supposed to sound...and then come back in and play it.  

• Dad loved hiking, and he loved hanging out with kids.  For him,  it wasn't a totally crazy thing to take a troop of teenaged Boy Scouts to Alaska...and hike the Chilkoot Trail with them.

Pippin and Merridog on the trail with my dad

• My dad read Where the Red Fern Grows  out loud to his 5th grade students every Spring.  He always cried at the ending.  Several of his students told me that it was the first time they'd ever seen a grown man cry--but there was my dad, crying over a book in front of 30 kids, every single year.

• He knew that students learned best by doing things.  That's why he taught them how apple cider is made: first by scouting out trees in the vicinity of the school, writing letters to homeowners to ask permission to pick fruit from their yards, collecting a huge quantity of apples, pressing them and jarring the juice, and finally sharing the juice with the rest of the school as well as taking some back to the neighbors who donated apples.  

• If a project was difficult, he'd invite friends over to help get it done.  When they had tough projects, they'd call him knowing that he'd round up a gang to help.

• After retiring from teaching, Dad qualified for a CDL and got a job driving the para-transit bus.  When they wanted him to work more days, he quit rather than cut into his golfing time...and then immediately signed up as a volunteer driver transporting cancer patients to appointments.

• He retired earlier than most of his friends, and when they retired he'd invite them to go on a road trip--to go fishing in Montana, or watch spring training in Arizona, or try out a new golf course in California. Along the way, Dad would scout for the ultimate roast beef sandwich, the cheapest camp site, or a prettier route to the destination.

• One time we were walking down a street in a little Mexican town and heard somebody on the other side of a tall garden wall whistling a jaunty tune.  Without missing a step, Dad joined in whistling a harmony. He didn't speak a word of Spanish (having leaned heavily on my mom's language skills to pass the class in college) but by the time we got home he'd learned about 8 words and used them incessantly to communicate with the people we met.

• He could play music on anything.  I watched him spend an hour singing and accompanying himself on a baby granddaughter's toy xylophone and a slide whistle.

• Personal dignity was never an obstacle.  If  the band needed a goofy gag, he was the first volunteer to put on a dress, or a silly hat.  Using a rubber chicken as a trombone mute became his signature move onstage, and it never stopped being funny.  

The Bathtub Gin Party Band.  Dad is second from left with a microphone, with
the infamous rubber chicken close at hand.

• He was always curious about the places my brother and I visited, and the things we did.   He wasn't interested in horses, but he came to see me in camp several times.  He liked to watch the footage my brother would film while piloting the Search and Rescue practice drone.  He would always ask his granddaughters to tell him things about their day.   

Back when a "snow day" was a good thing

• Dad was fascinated by local history and the outdoors.  For years we would drive up the Skagit River during spawning season to count the bald eagles--a rare sight when I was a kid, but the numbers got higher over the years.  

• Because of my dad, I know about things my age-mates have mostly never heard of:  Blanket Bill Jarman, The Great Gildersleeve, Bix Biederbecke, pan-fried hooligans, and the lyrics to "Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown."  

• Because of my dad, I always leave a camp a bit better than I found it.

• When the old cat got too arthritic to climb up and down the stairs, Dad would carry her up to the sunny couch cushion and back down to the sandbox several times each day.

• Dad loved meeting new people, and always managed to find things in common with the folks he met.  On a train trip across America he found a jazz musician to talk to, and they spent hours comparing notes until they found one guy they'd both shared a stage with.

• When my dad moved to an assisted-living home, Mom visited him every day.  He would call her every evening before bed to talk and say "goodnight" and "I love you." 

Mom always shared my trail videos with him

• Whenever Dad left the house, he'd grab his keys and holler, "Be good, I love ya a bunch."  When we got older, he'd say "Be good, or don't get caught!"  

Dad told us a little while ago that he wasn't having fun anymore.  He was ready to be done with this bit, and ready to move on.  We told him we would be sad.  He said he wasn't scared.  

It was quiet, at the end.  Mom and I were there--Covid precautions at the hospital limited visitors to just two people.  Mom helped him call people so he could say "I love you" a few more times.  

And he showed me, one more time, how to live a good life.

North America Storms

August 11, 1936 - February 2, 2022

 I fully expect that when we all arrive in Heaven, Dad will meet us
at the gate to tell us where the best kite-flying hills are,
where the best bands are playing,
and where we will find the best roast-beef sandwiches.