Never give out while there is hope.
William Penn
This marks the end of the biography of
Carmon, A Pig in the Kitchen. As a
post script, I thought you might like hearing what our children said about
their father as a fitting close to this month-long tribute. Here are some excerpts from some emails that were
exchanged this week:
~ ~ ~
Tuesday marks 30 year since Dad died. Over the years, August 28th sometimes passed without conscious notice; this year is a little different for me. Perhaps it is because I am getting ready to turn 50, or maybe it's because I was with Em's dad when he passed. Whatever the case, it has made me look at how life takes its toll on all of us.
I have spent some time just looking back on how Dad has influenced all of us. He taught me how to work and taught me a trade. When I left the corporate world 12 years ago, I began, with the help of my wife, what has become a successful floor covering business. Who would have thought it all began when I was 10 years old in 1973 making 50 cents an hour picking up carpet scraps for Dad.
I look at all my sibs - old memories and pictures. Although we don't talk every often and see each other even less, I want you to know I am proud of all of you. I know Dad is, too. Each and every one of you has taken what life has dealt you and you never gave up. Sess going to a new job in a new state, never backing down with all the uncertainty and changes that involved. Tee, who got the first deer of the year with Dad in Peterson's sporting good store contest when she was 11. Now a career woman, she works hard to support her family and has done a damn good job of it. Tunk had divine intervention. He was just a little boy when Dad died and now he is a father of 4 with a son in college and a fantastic business of his own.
So please join me in a family toast to Dad on Tuesday at 9:00 p.m. Eastern time. Pour yourself a cold glass and join me in thanking Dad on how - even in death - he has taken care of his family.
I love you all,
Beed
~ ~ ~
Beed and I had a good visit by phone tonight. One of the things we talked about was that if dad had lived, how would our lives be different? We agreed that all four of us would be entirely different people. Dad's presence in our lives beyond 19, 16, 12 and 8 would have altered our perception
of life. Would have given us a completely different reality, which would have
affected all of our lives at a core level, leading us to be substantially
different than we are. I am sure, because we are still the same people, that we
would be similar, but I think that if you could take a peek at who we
would all be if his influence had been extended another 20 years, you would see
a completely different group of people with almost unrecognizable lives.
That being said, I
know the Lord had a hand in this. Dad's heart test that came back from the cardiologist's office the week after the funeral made me believe that, though his
death was an accident, it was under the watchful eye of a wise, benevolent and
loving Heavenly Father, who knew His son and understood that Carmon would much
rather be taken out of this life quickly, in the great outdoors, on a hunting
trip, driving a Chevy truck, wearing blue jeans, boots and an old flannel shirt
than lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, IV's and oxygen, having to
be dependent on others to care for the basic necessities, while he waited for
the Lord to decide that he had endured enough cardio-pulmonary issues.
If
you look at Dad's life as a whole, from the little boy who went to school
barefoot, while the shrubs by the bus stop guarded his shoes, to the 19 year
old in the Air Force who shot a cobra with a shotgun while bird hunting in
Africa, to the 20 something year old man who would hunt pigeons with his flipper,
to the 30 something year old man who raised all sorts of animals in a suburban
neighborhood in Las Vegas, to the 40 year old man who worked as an account executive
for a major exposition company in blue jeans, t-shirts and western boots; it seems
quite obvious to me that Heavenly Father and Dad were on the same page and Dad
had progressed enough in his earthly trials to receive a gift from God. That
gift was the gift of being taken from this life exactly the same way that he
lived this life...on his own terms
With love,
Sess
~ ~ ~
I have been struggling with this
anniversary as well, for some reason. I appreciate how you have reminded us
that, even though Dad has been gone for many years, his lessons in life have
continued to shape who we are today.
I am also very proud of my siblings and the men that you all have become. Not
only in your professional successes, but in how you love your families. I am
proud to call you my brothers.
And I am grateful to our mother, who allowed us to be who we are. She exhibited
strength when we needed it the most, and I admire who she has become, as well.
Tunk and I are going to visit Dad's grave site tomorrow, and I will be thinking
of you all.
I will also raise a toast, with you in spirit, to our Dad.
Love you very much, T
Dear Mom,
It was a great day.
Spending the afternoon with my younger, but oh-so-wise, brother helped to heal
my heart. And toasting our dad, with all of my brothers, vÃa conference call
was priceless. It makes me smile to know that you were toasting with us from
the Mogollon Rim
I'm okay with you sharing my tribute on your blog....I have loved reading your
blog, and all of the memories you have shared.
Blog away.
Vaya con dios,
Tee
~ ~ ~
[Tunk's tribute doesn't come from one email, but from several conversations he and I have had in the past few weeks leading up to this anniversary.] I used to feel like I'd been cheated because Dad died when I had just barely turned 8. For years I carried that in my heart. Just recently, I've begun looking at that differently. My brother, Sess, said that, if Dad had lived, " Tunk would have been a much different man. Having been without a father since he was barely eight has helped make him the strong, independent person that he is." My brother is right. But it goes much deeper than that. Because of my father and my mother, I learned some very important life lessons by the time I was eight; lessons many children never learn.
First, I learned that it is the father's role to provide financially for his family. The mother can then be fully available to nurture and care for the children so that they aren't being raised by KinderCare. I also learned that it is the father's role to protect his wife and his children. I remember many times if one of us was getting sassy to Mom, Dad would step in and remind us who she was. For example, one night, he told us that if we didn't think we had to respect her as our mother, we'd better respect her as his wife or we'd have to answer to him.
Dad taught me how to work and how to be responsible for my actions. Once, when I was 5, I wrote on the porch post in front of the house with black marker. Dad saw it and called me outside and asked me if I knew who had written on the post. I lied to him. He stayed calm as he pointed out the backwards letters and the words straggling down the post in a kindergarten hand. He taught me that choices have consequences. For writing on the porch, I had to scrub the letters off the post. For lying to him, I got a spanking. He made it very clear which wrong choice was the most serious.
I learned that parents should parent consciously. Dad taught us work and responsibility, but he also played with us. He took us fishing and camping. He'd come home early when they drained the canal and we'd all go hunting for crawdads with Dad. When I was about 3, he used to go to Winchell's for coffee every morning. He'd take me with him and I'd always get a donut. One day, he didn't have to go to work, so we didn't go to Winchell's. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally said, "Dad do you need some coffee? 'cause I sure could use a donut!"
I only had my dad for a few short years, but in those years, he taught me what I needed to know - how to work; support my family; be honest; recognize that choices have consequences; consciously parent my children; love my wife, enjoy my family, have fun.
Thanks, Dad.
Tunk
Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise:
Which having no guide, overseer, or ruler,
Provideth her meat in the summer, and gathereth her food in the harvest. (Proverbs 6: 6-8)
This was our scripture for our morning family devotional today. I told my kids that this scripture reminds me of my dad. ~ Tunk
Picture of Sunday Afternoon at the Park from a family photo taken by Sess
SUMMER AND BEYOND
WINTER
Beed and I had a good visit by phone tonight. One of the things we talked about was that if dad had lived, how would our lives be different? We agreed that all four of us would be entirely different people. Dad's presence in our lives beyond 19, 16, 12 and 8 would have altered our perception
of life. Would have given us a completely different reality, which would have
affected all of our lives at a core level, leading us to be substantially
different than we are. I am sure, because we are still the same people, that we
would be similar, but I think that if you could take a peek at who we
would all be if his influence had been extended another 20 years, you would see
a completely different group of people with almost unrecognizable lives. 
I have been struggling with this
anniversary as well, for some reason. I appreciate how you have reminded us
that, even though Dad has been gone for many years, his lessons in life have
continued to shape who we are today.
[Tunk's tribute doesn't come from one email, but from several conversations he and I have had in the past few weeks leading up to this anniversary.] I used to feel like I'd been cheated because Dad died when I had just barely turned 8. For years I carried that in my heart. Just recently, I've begun looking at that differently. My brother, Sess, said that, if Dad had lived, " Tunk would have been a much different man. Having been without a father since he was barely eight has helped make him the strong, independent person that he is." My brother is right. But it goes much deeper than that. Because of my father and my mother, I learned some very important life lessons by the time I was eight; lessons many children never learn. 
In the
years since then, I have come to realize that Carmon was neither totally a
saint nor totally a sinner. He was as we
all are, a person, continually in process of becoming. He experienced failure and triumph, joy and
despair and he left an indelible imprint on my life. That I am who I am today is so inseparably
linked to who he was during our twenty years together that I can’t tell you
where one of us stops and the other begins.
My life and my character have been shaped – and I think for the better –
by all that he was and by all that we both endured and enjoyed in our time
together. 
I kept the
mini-farm for a while. Dot was gone, but
we still had one pig, a steer, several chickens, rabbits and pigeons, and Brandy. As days turned into weeks and weeks into
months, the upkeep of the farm became almost overwhelming. Some days I hardly knew where to begin.
As soon as Sess stopped in the driveway, she would run
around the truck two or three times then sit on her haunches in front of him
and bark once. Sess would say, “Dad’s
not here, Brandy,” and she would return to the porch and lie down, her head
resting on her outstretched front paws. Those first few weeks, she spent hours, just staring at the places he used to stand and looking for him down the road.
To make
things worse, she was eating very little.
I made her favorite dog nog, the kids would try to encourage her
to eat, but nothing worked. On Christmas
morning, the next-door-neighbor found her on the porch, curled up in the spot
where she always waited for Carmon. She
had died of a broken heart.
For months
after his death, I felt such emptiness that I couldn’t even see the world
around me. It was as if a light had gone
out of my life. Then one morning in the early spring, as I
was driving to work, I became aware of a heavenly fragrance wafting through the
open car windows. As I looked about me,
I realized that I was driving by a grove of orange trees in full blossom.
Suddenly, the sky was a truer blue, the trees, a deeper green; the very air so
charged with beauty that it took my breath away. At that moment, a roadrunner skirted the tall
grass at the edge of the road, then disappeared into the grove of trees. 
The police
came to the door at dawn that Sunday to tell me that he had fallen asleep at
the wheel driving back to his campsite the night before and had gone over the
cliff. Miraculously, both of his friends
had survived, although both had been injured.
Carmon had died instantly on impact.
Yes, Carmon
was his own man, from the boots on his feet to his brown felt hat. For most of his nearly 20 years of working
for his employer, his maverick attitude was rarely, if ever, a problem. Like Sinatra, he did it his way, and since he
was the best in the business, the fact that his way involved Wranglers and tee
shirts never got in the way. Or, at
least it hadn’t until 1982.
I’d never
seen Carmon depressed in all the years I had known him, but he was then. He had finally met a problem that he couldn’t
whittle down to size with his pocketknife. Even long walks with his Brandy didn’t soothe
his troubled heart. I listened when he
needed to talk and just sat with his silence when he didn’t. I was glad that he had something to which he
could look forward. He and two of his
best friends had planned a trip to the Mogollon Rim the last week in August to
scout out likely hunting spots for a bow-hunting trip they had planned for
September. 
The night
before he left, he couldn’t sleep. I sat
up with him, even though I had to work the next day. I’ll be forever grateful that I did. I made hot chocolate and we talked. We played Canasta and I beat him – the first
and only time that ever happened.
Sometimes I just held him. It
must have been nearly dawn when he finally fell asleep.
The summer
after my youngest graduated from high school, I decided to take him and my
daughter’s five-year-old son on a trip across the country to my summer
institute classes in Florida, visiting family and friends en route. We headed out like the three musketeers on a
grand adventure. One of our stops was
Oklahoma City, OK. We had been driving
long days and I thought we might enjoy a break, so we headed to a western theme
park not far from the motel. One of the
first attractions that caught the boys’ eye was a haunted mine ride. I thought it would be like the Haunted
Mansion in Disneyland, so I agreed. When
we got inside the wooden building, I saw that it was nothing more than a huge
indoor roller coaster. When I was
younger, I loved exciting rides, but as an older adult, roller coasters
terrified me. There was no way to avoid
the inevitable, so I entered the car with the two boys. I don’t think the ride scared them, but my
screaming certainly did!
As I thought
of an apt metaphor for grief, I thought of a roller coaster. I entered an unknown place expecting one
thing and finding something entirely different.
In the beginning, I was numb and a little frightened as the gears
ground, pulling the car up that first enormous hill. Then I was plunged downward into terrifying
sorrow, feeling as if I’d left my stomach, heart, and soul at the top of the
hill. As the coaster tore around sharp
turns and plummeting hills, I was torn from the only life I knew and was angry
and disoriented. There would be moments
of relative calm as the car approached the next obstacle when I thought things were getting better, only to
have my hopes dashed by another plunge into grief.
As time
progresses, you will notice something about the roller coaster: the hills
become lower, the valleys, less deep. The
smooth stretches between the valleys become longer. One day you will recognize that you are
looking forward to something – really looking forward to it – without tension
and effort. You begin to invest less
emotional energy on the past and more on the future. The memories are less bitter, more
sweet. You will still miss your loved
one at times and for the rest of your life: weddings he can’t attend; grandchildren
he can’t enjoy; baptisms and missions and graduations. But these memories will be more poignant than
painful. When the time is right for you, reach
for tomorrow. It can be a beautiful
journey.
Carmon was
rarely to be found in church. The kids
and I went nearly every week, but it was a rare Sunday indeed that saw him in a
shirt and tie. When he did attend, it
was in support of one of us taking part in a special program or receiving a
special ordinance. The rest of the time,
while he supported our going, he himself was not a regular celebrant. 
On the
surface, no one could ever mistake him for a religious man, but if loving your
fellow man counted for anything, Carmon could have taught many of us an object lesson
on the subject. I used to love one
particular country-western song by Hank Snow.
I had to hunt around to find the title using the only lyric I remember, which is about hard-working
hands. In the song, Hank asks that
when it is his time to go, he prays that God will judge him by his hard-working
hands. To this day, whenever I hear
it that song, I think of Carmon. 
