My dad, Bob
The following piece was originally written in late August 2018. It was my eulogy at my father’s memorial service in October of the same year. Members of my father’s side of the family gathered at the cemetery in his birthplace, Emporia, Kansas, two days after he would have turned 87 years old. It was a sunny but cold and windy day. We came together to share memories of my father and then played some of his most favored pieces of classical music.
August 2018
Sunday morning, I woke up to the phone call that no one wants to answer. It was a hospice worker telling me my dad had passed away in the night.
Since my dad’s stroke nearly two years ago, he could no longer live independently in his home outside Kansas City. My brothers and I moved him to a care facility near Grand View University in Des Moines, where he worked in the 1980s after my parents’ divorce.
After a hospital stay in May, his doctor at the VA Hospital in Des Moines decided palliative care was the next step. We had him moved to a nursing home in Indianola. It was a fitting place for him to spend his last months as my family had lived in Indianola when my two older brothers and I were adopted. Our first home was a light green house on N. D St. Our dad was an Associate professor of music at Simpson College. He was a director of choral music, and he taught his specialty, the pipe organ.
I have carefree memories of walking to Simpson Campus with my big brothers and watching the hot air balloon race overhead.
As children, we took weeks-long car rides. We rode in our family car across the country as our parents showed us nearly all of the United States. We took trips east to see the Biltmore Mansions, Boston, and Washington D.C. and west to the Grand Canyon, Seattle, San Diego, San Francisco, Disneyland, and everywhere in between.
Many of these trips were planned around the location of various historic churches with pipe organs that my dad wanted to see and have a chance to play. Due to these trips in the 70s and 80s, I am fortunate enough to have traveled to forty-seven states.
My dad would blare classical music on these long car rides on his 8-track player. He would take his hands off the steering wheel to play a pretend piano or organ on the dashboard. Or he would use two fingers to direct an imaginary symphony as his mind was lost in the music.
Through his love of music, I learned to appreciate all types of music and understand that many parts create the magic of a symphony.
Besides music, my dad had a knack for cooking. I always looked forward to the various dishes he would cook when I was a child or during a visit to see him as an adult. He always followed the recipes to a T. He couldn’t resist clipping hundreds of recipes from newspapers and magazines like Bon Appetit. When I cleaned out his house, I found files and files of recipes. He was fond of fine food and enjoyed cooking at home for his guests and dining out for a long, leisurely dinner full of conversation and an aged Scotch.
As my dad’s health declined, so did his mind. However, he never forgot my name or who I was. I am grateful for that.
The last time I saw him, he was in bed and not feeling well. I brought him a scoop of strawberry ice cream from a local shop. At first, I thought he wouldn’t be interested as he had little appetite, but he eagerly devoured each bite. He often enjoyed a slice of pie topped with a scoop of ice cream at home after dinner.
As I went to leave, I patted his shoulder and told him I would see him soon. When I rounded the corner to leave, I heard him call, “Bye, Janey. I love you.”
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I loved reading this! Your photos and descriptions are wonderful.
Beyond precious!