Today, as I was putting away my laundry, I had several tee shirts to hang in the closet. In the summer, all I ever wear are shorts and tee shirts. What you see is what you get.
If you’ve been reading this blog from its inception, you may have seen some of these tee shirts before. As you can tell – I really like them. They are fun to wear and cool in this summer heat!
Dear Readers: I have asked each of my daughters to write about their dad. This is the month of the year when he lost his life to sepsis. Today’s post is from Daughter #1. These reflections are long; but, one cannot write about such a man in a few words. The Cranky Crone.
Daughter #1 Speaks:
My mother asked me to write something about my dad for her blog. This was a very difficult thing for me to think about doing. It was not because there wasn’t anything to write. On the contrary, there is so much to be said about my dad. It was because I am very sad about his passing. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of him. He was such a good man, a good husband, and a good father. It helps to tell stories about my dad and to tell the stories that I learned from our long conversations over the years. It is through the storytelling that the sadness gets told and gets healed.
My father always had a job and, alongside my mother, provided for his family. Sometimes these weren’t the easiest of jobs, but he always said that it didn’t matter what he did for work, he had to make sure that he took care of his family. One of the worst jobs that he had was working at a uranium mill during his college years. This work and exposure to the radioactivity of the uranium eventually caused him to have chronic lymphocytic leukemia. After years of chemotherapy treatment fighting off this cancer, he was left with no way to fight off the infection that took his life. Even during these years of rough chemotherapy, he still worked 18 hours a week, took care of the maintenance on several of our houses, and spent time with his family (even travelling to Germany).
One of the reasons that writing this is so hard for me, is that my dad was not only my parent but he was one of my best friends. When my mother was the superintendent of schools for the Agate School District, my dad and I spent hours travelling back and forth from Denver to Agate. We had a lot of time to talk and get to know each other. He told me plenty of stories about his life, his family, his growing up, his work, and so much more. My dad was always what people call these days “an involved parent,” but we really bonded during these trips to Agate and during our later trips to the cabin where my mother later lived while working at Hewlett Packard in Loveland. We had many hours during these trips to talk and would often discuss current events, hypothetical situations, or our thoughts about what had happened in our lives.
During the 58 years that I had with my dad, he taught me so much. He was always showing me how to do things around the house, in the garden, or with my car. I marveled at how my father knew how to do EVERYTHING from plumbing and electrical work, to building and roofing, to working on cars (the older ones without computers), to planting and taking care of gardens. One day, I asked my dad how he knew so much. He told me that HIS dad had taught him a lot of skills, but that he also relied on using manuals and reading books. As a person who has difficulties following written directions myself, this ability really impressed me. I remember him reading a book about roofing and how to lay a “valley” in the roof. He had the book up there on the roof open to the page that he needed for help while doing the actual work. My father was very resourceful. If he didn’t know how to do something, he would research how to do it.
One of the first topics that my dad taught my next youngest sister and me about was birds. He thought that we needed to be able to identify some of the birds that we saw. When we were about six and seven, he read to us from an illustrated book about birds like robins, goldfinches, blue jays, and chickadees. When he was done teaching us about the birds, he used the book to make pencil drawings of the birds that he had us color with their appropriate plumage. It was one of the first “tests” that I “took” as a child. I remember these lessons, today, when I use my binoculars to look at the birds in my backyard or when I open up the bird guidebook that I carry with me on vacation to identify an unfamiliar bird.
My father thought that being curious and learning about the world that surrounds us was very important. Both my mother and my father believed that their daughters needed to be and were going to be educated. When each of us turned six years old, my parents took us to the bank and opened up a bank account for us. The account was for our education where any money that we were give as gifts and half of the money that we made at our jobs was saved. All three of us knew that we were going to go to college and that WE were going to pay for our education. It was a given. AND, that is exactly what we did. We all received Bachelor of Arts degrees and went on to take graduate coursework.
It doesn’t surprise me that my very first memory as a child was of my father graduating from college at Western State College. I was about two years old when he graduated. I knew that this was a very important day and that there my father was, walking across the high stage with a cap and gown. Of course, I really couldn’t understand the meaning of this scenario. I just knew that my dad was there and that he looked really happy to be there. I know that school wasn’t the easiest thing for my father, but he worked hard to get his degree. In later years, he would always say to me and to my sisters, “No one can take away your education. Once you have it, your education is yours.” He would, also, say, “Don’t quit a job until you have another one to take its place.” I didn’t always do so well following that advice.
Growing up, I knew that my father was a “good guy.” He worked hard to help provide for and take care of his family. In addition, he was always helping others (many times at the behest of my mother) do what they needed doing. With his pick-up truck, he hauled furniture, decorative rock, and so many BIG things for friends and family who needed something taken from one place to another. He was a handy man for so many and would do whatever people needed, be that planting a rosebush, fixing a faucet, moving tables and chairs, or helping man at the ticket table at a rock show. If my mom volunteered him to do something, he did it. His willingness to help showed how kind my father was. He helped others throughout his life even in the last few years when he wasn’t feeling all that great due to the chemo treatments. This truly amazed me.
I miss my dad so much, especially his “okay, I’ll do it” manner. For the most part (maybe, with a little grousing), he would do just about anything that my mother and my sisters would ask him to do. When my mother saw a report on “CBS Sunday Morning” about Death Valley having the greatest wildflower season in a hundred years, she said, “Larry, we’re going to Death Valley tomorrow morning to see these flowers.” After a few minutes of “We can’t do that Marj,” he acquiesced, started packing, and off they went the next. One winter when my nieces were here, my mother and I said, “The girls need to go sledding.” My dad took the green, antique, wooden sled from his father’s family down from the wall and took his granddaughters sledding on a HUGE, slippery hill. He (about 72 years old) would help the girls (about three and five years old) climb to the top of the hill and push them toward the bottom where there was a small ditch filled with water. I would be at the bottom of the hill to “stop” them before going into the brink. My father and I decided that “what happens on the sledding hill, stays on the sledding hill.” By the way, my nieces were fine and enjoyed themselves immensely.
One of the many things that I respected about my father was his ability to talk to anyone and everyone. Even when he met people for the first time, he was able to talk to them with ease. I attribute this to the fact that he read the newspaper and watched the news every day so he was aware of current events. Plus, his curiosity served him well because he was familiar with so many things. He was truly interested in people and asked them questions. All of this helped him hold conversations with people from a variety of backgrounds.
My dad was an example of someone to emulate. His kindness, his caring, his knowledge, his good advice, and his all around good “guyness” will not be forgotten. In so many situations, I stop and say to myself, “What would my dad do?” I listen to my inner “Larry voice” for the answer. Most of the time, the answer comes in the form of a feeling or just a “knowing” of what he would tell me. Then, I do what needs to be done. Sometimes, his advice comes a little late like when I was dealing with some wasps in a light post in my front yard. When the wasps flew out of the lamp looking for someone to sting, I heard my inner “Larry voice” say, “Didn’t I tell you to deal with the wasps at night and NOT in the daylight?”
I do so wish that my dad was here with us. It is really hard for me to know that I just can’t call him up to discuss how to do something or to invite him to go have a “dining experience” which we used to call going to a new restaurant without expectations. He did his best to teach my sisters and me the lessons that we needed to get along with the basics of life and, along with my mother, to be strong, independent women.
On one of those long drives out to visit my mother in Agate, I asked my dad what the best day of his life was. I was thinking that he would say that it was when he married my mother, when he graduated from college, or when he moved into the house that he bought. What he said was, “The best day of my life was when YOU were born.” This wasn’t to diminish the importance of the births of my two sisters, but he told me that having his first child made him so happy.
I was the last family member to have a conscious conversation with my dad before he passed away. The last thing that I did was to say the Lord’s Prayer with him and tell him that I loved him. That has been the saddest day of my life.
Be Safe and Be Well
The Cranky Crone
Thoughtful comments are appreciated.
Dear Readers: I have asked each of my daughters to write about their dad. This is the month of the year when he lost his life to sepsis. Today’s post is from Daughter #3; Daughter #1 will pos, next week. These reflections are long; but, one cannot write about such a man in a few words. The Cranky Crone.
Daughter #3 Speaks:
My Father, Larry Becker, Renaissance Man!
Several months ago, my mother asked me to write a little something about my dad for her Cranky Crone blog. This is no small task for me. The death of my father has affected me greatly, and it’s still hard for me to think of him without my eyes wetting. But I look at this request from Mom as a cathartic exercise and, perhaps, you will get to hear some stories about him that you’ve never heard. My Dad really was a Renaissance Man, a Jack-of-all-Trades.
Eighty-five is a BIG number. Now that I’m officially 85 years old, I thought I’d look back over my life to see what I’ve seen that was new to me and the world. Or, just happenings that happened during my life. Born in the summer of 1938, World War II was on the horizon. I was about a year old when it started and, basically, could not have been aware of the reasons for its start.
I think I’m in love – with Avoca, Nebraska! Returning from Wisconsin where I saw my youngest Grand graduate from high school, we had reserved rooms at the Motel 6. Motel 6 often gets a bad rap; the one in Avoca is quite satisfactory – and allows pets with no added fee.
There was a time when most clothing hung in closets on wire hangers. Suits. Blouses. Skirts. Pants. Sweaters with pokey nobs on the shoulders caused by the wire hanger. I think the wire hangers usually arrived with dry cleaning. At least, that’s the way it seemed to me. Well, actually, the first five of the wire hangers usually came home with the dry cleaning. A week later, so it seemed, there were ten wire hangers. And, then, there were twenty. And MORE and MORE.
As Daughter #1 and I drove into the city from our Wisconsin trip, we chose to go through town using streets and not highways. Arriving at the edge of the city about 3 pm, we thought the highways would be clogged with home bound workers. They were. We also encountered detours that sent us onto streets we hadn’t planned to traverse.
Ribbons By The Highway
When I climb out of the Mississippi River valley at Dubuque, Iowa, either east or west on Highway 151, the cliffs always intrigue me. I must have photographed them dozens of times. Traveling to Wisconsin with Daughter #1, this year, was no different. So, I photographed them, again.
We were going to see Grand #2 graduate from high school. And, to help with her celebration party on the next Sunday. It’s hard to believe that she will be going to college in the fall. Still age seventeen, she won’t be eighteen until August. A young college freshman, I think. Then, I remember that I was only two months older than she when I started my college freshman year. And, I survived, met the man I would marry a year later, and start my next life as college student, wife, and educator.
As you know, I am a poet, and I write a poem every month for the Denver Gem and Mineral Guild’s newsletter, Tips and Chips. The poem below appeared in this year’s July edition of that newsletter.
Ribbons
A Haibun
by
Marj Becker
Climbing out of the town of Dubuque, Iowa, into the State of Wisconsin, I’m always struck by the beauty of the road side decorations. Miles and miles of stone ribbons line Highway 151. Browns. Yellows. Reds. And, black. Layer upon layer of these stones. As if someone has taken mayonnaise and ketsup and mustard and smoothed these sandwich decorations between two pieces of bread.
Red and yellow. Black.
Stone layered between the grass.
Meal for a giant.
The highways from Wisconsin to home stretch out in front of us. Ribbons of highways in front of us and in back of us. Sometimes, straight. Sometimes, curly. Sometimes, four lanes across. Sometimes, only two.
This is where we’ll go.
Over hill and over dale.
Ribbons take us home.
As little girls, we had long hair in braids. And, always had ribbons at the ends of the braids. Dresses were frilled with ribbons at the neck and sleeves and around the waist. Sometimes, curled. Sometimes, sewed on straight. But, always ribbons to adorn the plainest of dresses. Occasionally, around the hem.
A new dress for me.
Mom made one for each of us.
Mom knew what to do.
Be Safe and Be Well.
The Cranky Crone
Thoughtful comments are appreciated.
What do you do when someone you love very much makes you extremely angry? My mother used to say about that kind of situation, “That makes me so mad, I could just spit!” I never realized how she “kept her cool” with all the things life threw at her.