I knew that I was going to speak at my dad's funeral, but I didn't know what talk I was going to give. So, I wrote the Life Sketch, and I started writing down memories, as if I would share them at his funeral. These are the memories that I wrote down in the event I gave the "Fun Memories" talk. I didn't give the Life Sketch (Emily did), and I didn't give the Memories talk (Cal did), but since I already posted the Life Sketch (of which I wrote the first draft), I thought I'd include my memories "talk" anyway. Here it is:
Back in high school, I ran cross-country and distance track. My brothers would have me rephrase that to “I moved my legs faster than my normal walk as I traveled around a designated race route”. My parents would come to as many meets as they could to cheer my pathetic running attempts. During track meets, I’d nervously approach the starting line, watch the starting gun, and begin the 4 or 8 laps around the track. About the time I made it to the 50 yard line, about 150 meters into my race, I would hear my dad’s voice cheering me from the in-field. Then, as I made my way over to the other 50 yard line, about 350 meters in, I’d here his voice cheering me again from the infield. He would walk that 50 yard line back and forth to cheer for me during my 1600 meter or 3200 meter race. The first time he did it, he took me by surprise. The first cheer made me so happy, but when I realized he was pacing the field for me, I was surprised and a little overwhelmed. I was never good at running, and his cheers helped me finish each difficult race.
Of course, his enthusiasm for all my activities, while always as supportive as my pathetic running career, wasn’t always that enthusiastic. He tolerated my piano recitals--I like to think he enjoyed them more in the later years, band concerts, and even my plays. I remember asking him how he liked our show the first year I performed onstage at Mountain River Ranch, and he said something like, “It’s not really my thing,” but even when he wasn’t really excited to watch what I was involved in, I could always count on him to do his best to support me. He even made it down to watch one of my intramural flag football games at BYU. My family was shocked that I was participating in a football league. Really the whole thing was a misunderstanding. I thought the girl had said “Steal the Flag” and I didn’t realize I’d committed to an intramural team. I’d never really been into sports, much to my dad’s disappointment, and my family all got a kick out of the fact that I was on a football team. I think he had to see it for himself. Our team was terrible, but my dad didn’t care. He made the trip to Provo to cheer me on for one of our games.
When he wasn’t cheering us on to our faces at our various events, he was telling everyone who would listen about his kids, sometimes to our embarrassment. He never met a stranger in his life. He would start up conversations with any random stranger he encountered. All they needed for the conversation was something that he related to. If their kids were fussing, he’d try to cheer the kids up and tell about how he had six kids and (then later) lots of grandkids. If the person was wearing a military hat, he’d ask about their service. Then he’d tell about his own service in the Navy and his son-in-law’s service in the Army. If they were wearing swag from one of his kid’s college, he’d start a conversation about it and somehow bring up how one of us was a student there or graduated from there. If he ran into a missionary, he’d ask where they were from and eventually get to how three of his children had served and where. Once, a few years ago, we were all on Temple Square in Salt Lake City to see the Christmas lights. Unbeknownst to him, we started a bet on how many missionaries he’d stop to talk to before the night was over. I was well on my way to winning when Taryn spilled the beans and told him. It made him feel bad, and he stopped talking to the Sisters. It made me a little sad, not because I lost the bet, but because he was always so happy when he was interacting with the many people around him. He never did it in an awkward way like one of those people that pulls out pictures of her kids and tells about each one. No, he just loved people, and he was a master at starting a conversation with anyone, and during those conversations, he just couldn’t help tell his new friend how proud he was of his family.
He often regretted that he didn’t serve a mission when he was young, but looking back on his life now, I can’t help but wonder just how many strangers he must have cheered up throughout all those random conversations over the years. I must confess, I inherited this particular trait from him, and I stop myself on many occasions from entering into conversations with strangers. Many of my mission companions were amazed at my ability to just strike up a conversation with someone in the middle of the store and slowly work the conversation into the topic of the gospel, but it was one of the most natural things in the world for me; I’d been watching my dad do it his whole life.
My dad had the sweet tooth of a toddler, and growing up, we always knew that a trip to town with dad usually meant that we’d get a treat. When the grandkids arrived on the scene, Dad would always make sure to have goodies on hand to give them when they came for a visit. They could always count on Grandpa to be their sugar dealer, especially for fruit snacks or lemon drops at church. He even made sure to have our favorite snacks when he came to visit us or when we’d go to visit him. He knew how much Brian liked peanut butter and certain fudge-striped cookies, and it was more the exception that he DIDN’T buy them for our visits. Sunday evenings usually meant him asking one of us to bake cookies or some other kind of treat, and though I haven’t lived with my parents for around 16 years, I still find myself with an urge to bake something sweet every Sunday.
My dad was the shopper in the family. My grandma would marvel that he would load up all his little kids and head into town, often by himself. He didn’t always buy anything; he just liked looking at all the things and rummaging for a good deal. One of his favorite spots to go was D.I. He could spend hours there, and often did. Many a road trip involved trips to the local D.I., and I remember at least one trip that involved going to a swap meet. He was never in a hurry; he just enjoyed seeing everything. After the grandkids came, he’d often take them out with him on these excursions, and they always came back with a toy or a book and a treat.
My mom, on the other hand, is not a shopper, and she doesn’t really like lingering at places. When I was a senior in high school, I had set up a day to go and tour Utah State University. I wanted my mom to go with me, but my dad came instead. A few days before we headed on our tour, I received my scholarship letter to BYU, which was where I really wanted to go. However, I wasn’t completely sure, and my dad encouragingly said we should still go to Utah State and check it out to help me make my decision. He patiently walked all over that campus with, willing to go talk with anyone and everyone about whatever program I was interested in. We visited the music department, the interior design department, and the different on-campus housing places that I was interested in living. He helped me investigate everything, never rushing me and never making me feel like I was a burden on his time. That was the trip that I learned that if I needed someone who was willing to explore everything, see everything, Dad was the one to take, not Mom. Mom was the one to teach you how to drive in rush hour, but Dad was the one to take on the exploratory trips.
Not long after that trip, I chose to attend Brigham Young University, and I really owe that decision so much to my dad. Since he grew up in Lehi, he was an avid BYU fan his entire life. I grew up watching him cheer for BYU, and he slowly acclamated me to the idea that BYU was the best school in the world, and I always wanted to go to school there. It wasn’t that it was a Church school, it was always about those Cougars! My dad loved the Cougars, and so did I. It’s a good thing too, because I met the love of my life at BYU.
Education was very important to my dad. After leaving the Navy, he went to school and trained to be a dental lab technician, and few years later, he began attending night school through the University of Idaho. As I grew up, I watched as he left early to catch a bus to head out to the Site for work, and then he’d attend night classes after he got home. Through it all, he encouraged us all to get good grades so that we could earn scholarships and get into college. He wanted me to be the valedictorian, just like my mom was. He was so proud of all of our school achievements. He dreamed and worked towards his Bachelor’s of Science degree for 13 years, finally graduating in 2003, the same year I graduated from high school. I insisted on having a picture taken of the two of us in our robes, and I put the photo in a frame and kept it on display while I was at BYU. Anytime things got hard, or I wanted to give up, I would look at the picture and keep going. Even though he was four hours away, he was right there, cheering me on, encouraging me to do my best and finish my degree while I was still young, before I had kids. I finished my coursework three weeks before I married my sweetheart. When Brian was ready to quit his masters’ program after landing his first career job, I refused to let him quit. I remembered my dad and all those years of night school, and I told Brian that he was finishing this degree before we had any more kids and while Michael was too young to remember all that extra time it took.
Back in high school, I ran cross-country and distance track. My brothers would have me rephrase that to “I moved my legs faster than my normal walk as I traveled around a designated race route”. My parents would come to as many meets as they could to cheer my pathetic running attempts. During track meets, I’d nervously approach the starting line, watch the starting gun, and begin the 4 or 8 laps around the track. About the time I made it to the 50 yard line, about 150 meters into my race, I would hear my dad’s voice cheering me from the in-field. Then, as I made my way over to the other 50 yard line, about 350 meters in, I’d here his voice cheering me again from the infield. He would walk that 50 yard line back and forth to cheer for me during my 1600 meter or 3200 meter race. The first time he did it, he took me by surprise. The first cheer made me so happy, but when I realized he was pacing the field for me, I was surprised and a little overwhelmed. I was never good at running, and his cheers helped me finish each difficult race.
Of course, his enthusiasm for all my activities, while always as supportive as my pathetic running career, wasn’t always that enthusiastic. He tolerated my piano recitals--I like to think he enjoyed them more in the later years, band concerts, and even my plays. I remember asking him how he liked our show the first year I performed onstage at Mountain River Ranch, and he said something like, “It’s not really my thing,” but even when he wasn’t really excited to watch what I was involved in, I could always count on him to do his best to support me. He even made it down to watch one of my intramural flag football games at BYU. My family was shocked that I was participating in a football league. Really the whole thing was a misunderstanding. I thought the girl had said “Steal the Flag” and I didn’t realize I’d committed to an intramural team. I’d never really been into sports, much to my dad’s disappointment, and my family all got a kick out of the fact that I was on a football team. I think he had to see it for himself. Our team was terrible, but my dad didn’t care. He made the trip to Provo to cheer me on for one of our games.
When he wasn’t cheering us on to our faces at our various events, he was telling everyone who would listen about his kids, sometimes to our embarrassment. He never met a stranger in his life. He would start up conversations with any random stranger he encountered. All they needed for the conversation was something that he related to. If their kids were fussing, he’d try to cheer the kids up and tell about how he had six kids and (then later) lots of grandkids. If the person was wearing a military hat, he’d ask about their service. Then he’d tell about his own service in the Navy and his son-in-law’s service in the Army. If they were wearing swag from one of his kid’s college, he’d start a conversation about it and somehow bring up how one of us was a student there or graduated from there. If he ran into a missionary, he’d ask where they were from and eventually get to how three of his children had served and where. Once, a few years ago, we were all on Temple Square in Salt Lake City to see the Christmas lights. Unbeknownst to him, we started a bet on how many missionaries he’d stop to talk to before the night was over. I was well on my way to winning when Taryn spilled the beans and told him. It made him feel bad, and he stopped talking to the Sisters. It made me a little sad, not because I lost the bet, but because he was always so happy when he was interacting with the many people around him. He never did it in an awkward way like one of those people that pulls out pictures of her kids and tells about each one. No, he just loved people, and he was a master at starting a conversation with anyone, and during those conversations, he just couldn’t help tell his new friend how proud he was of his family.
He often regretted that he didn’t serve a mission when he was young, but looking back on his life now, I can’t help but wonder just how many strangers he must have cheered up throughout all those random conversations over the years. I must confess, I inherited this particular trait from him, and I stop myself on many occasions from entering into conversations with strangers. Many of my mission companions were amazed at my ability to just strike up a conversation with someone in the middle of the store and slowly work the conversation into the topic of the gospel, but it was one of the most natural things in the world for me; I’d been watching my dad do it his whole life.
My dad had the sweet tooth of a toddler, and growing up, we always knew that a trip to town with dad usually meant that we’d get a treat. When the grandkids arrived on the scene, Dad would always make sure to have goodies on hand to give them when they came for a visit. They could always count on Grandpa to be their sugar dealer, especially for fruit snacks or lemon drops at church. He even made sure to have our favorite snacks when he came to visit us or when we’d go to visit him. He knew how much Brian liked peanut butter and certain fudge-striped cookies, and it was more the exception that he DIDN’T buy them for our visits. Sunday evenings usually meant him asking one of us to bake cookies or some other kind of treat, and though I haven’t lived with my parents for around 16 years, I still find myself with an urge to bake something sweet every Sunday.
My dad was the shopper in the family. My grandma would marvel that he would load up all his little kids and head into town, often by himself. He didn’t always buy anything; he just liked looking at all the things and rummaging for a good deal. One of his favorite spots to go was D.I. He could spend hours there, and often did. Many a road trip involved trips to the local D.I., and I remember at least one trip that involved going to a swap meet. He was never in a hurry; he just enjoyed seeing everything. After the grandkids came, he’d often take them out with him on these excursions, and they always came back with a toy or a book and a treat.
My mom, on the other hand, is not a shopper, and she doesn’t really like lingering at places. When I was a senior in high school, I had set up a day to go and tour Utah State University. I wanted my mom to go with me, but my dad came instead. A few days before we headed on our tour, I received my scholarship letter to BYU, which was where I really wanted to go. However, I wasn’t completely sure, and my dad encouragingly said we should still go to Utah State and check it out to help me make my decision. He patiently walked all over that campus with, willing to go talk with anyone and everyone about whatever program I was interested in. We visited the music department, the interior design department, and the different on-campus housing places that I was interested in living. He helped me investigate everything, never rushing me and never making me feel like I was a burden on his time. That was the trip that I learned that if I needed someone who was willing to explore everything, see everything, Dad was the one to take, not Mom. Mom was the one to teach you how to drive in rush hour, but Dad was the one to take on the exploratory trips.
Not long after that trip, I chose to attend Brigham Young University, and I really owe that decision so much to my dad. Since he grew up in Lehi, he was an avid BYU fan his entire life. I grew up watching him cheer for BYU, and he slowly acclamated me to the idea that BYU was the best school in the world, and I always wanted to go to school there. It wasn’t that it was a Church school, it was always about those Cougars! My dad loved the Cougars, and so did I. It’s a good thing too, because I met the love of my life at BYU.
Education was very important to my dad. After leaving the Navy, he went to school and trained to be a dental lab technician, and few years later, he began attending night school through the University of Idaho. As I grew up, I watched as he left early to catch a bus to head out to the Site for work, and then he’d attend night classes after he got home. Through it all, he encouraged us all to get good grades so that we could earn scholarships and get into college. He wanted me to be the valedictorian, just like my mom was. He was so proud of all of our school achievements. He dreamed and worked towards his Bachelor’s of Science degree for 13 years, finally graduating in 2003, the same year I graduated from high school. I insisted on having a picture taken of the two of us in our robes, and I put the photo in a frame and kept it on display while I was at BYU. Anytime things got hard, or I wanted to give up, I would look at the picture and keep going. Even though he was four hours away, he was right there, cheering me on, encouraging me to do my best and finish my degree while I was still young, before I had kids. I finished my coursework three weeks before I married my sweetheart. When Brian was ready to quit his masters’ program after landing his first career job, I refused to let him quit. I remembered my dad and all those years of night school, and I told Brian that he was finishing this degree before we had any more kids and while Michael was too young to remember all that extra time it took.
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