Dear Dad - Happy 90th Birthday

Dear Dad, I write to you in honor of your 90th birthday on June 7th. You've been on my mind and ohhhh how I'm missing you. Each year that passes without you, I fear that I’ll forget the little things that I loved about you and the things that made you the uniquely complex and dynamic man I called Dad.

Topping the list of things I don’t want to forget are:

1. Your love, respect for God's creatures and the pleasure they brought to your days: I remember watching you stop to scratch the chin of the barn kitties; your delight in witnessing the clumsy landing of a sand hill crane; your conversations with the doggies through the window as you sat in your chair at the kitchen table; or finding the sweet scratch spot that drove a bull to ecstasy, and remembering it for the next encounter;

2. The way you always put the best interest of the animal ahead of your needs and pleasures; The weight on your heart when you had to put a bull down, though your courage in doing it out of respect for the value of life;

1. Your respect for the dead in that if you didn’t bury dead animals you gently hauled them to their lifeless bodies to the ranch dump or the bone pile with respect and kindness; Those places where nature would take it’s course and predators would glean protein from their skeletons -- eventually becoming white bones in a graveyard that was hallowed ground;

2. The importance and responsibility in taking care of our animals. How nothing ever went hungry or thirsty and the routine and time of care was as important as the care;

1. The way you fixed everything and exhausted all repair options before buying a new one. Regularly I heard you say, “waste not want not.” Along these lines, I remember you oiling the hinges on the corral gates only after you adjusted them to level. Gates must swing freely and evenly, and the hinges (oh my the hinges). You fixed things immediately so as not to let them deteriorate. Your meticulous care in greasing and oiling the equipment;

2. The way you studied and were always learning about plants, grasses, and weeds. If you didn’t recognize a plant or weed, you brought a sample home and looked it up — then decided to cultivate, eliminate or leave it alone. You were as concerned with the health and vitality if the soil and plant community as you were with herd health, and without healthy pastures you couldn’t have healthy animals (I subscribe to that lesson hook, line & sinker);

1. The delicate balance and connection between all things – particularly livestock and pasture, and how with every action or inaction there was a corresponding consequence;

2. Your affection and quest for a tight and straight fence, and your instruction on the right way to build and repair a fence. I have to admit that there is something so pleasant about looking at a tight, straight and secure fence, and it almost always reminds me of you;

3. Your theory on working livestock in that “slower is faster”, and there was no whooping or hollering; A ranch dog was used only as an extension of you to quietly bring in or work the cows, and there was no harassing livestock allowed with your dog;

4. How you insisted that cows should never leave a pasture on a dead run. Circle them and the leader will emerge and slowly lead the herd to the next pasture;

5. You went out of your way not to ever appear intellectually arrogant and you never made anyone feel dumb. I remember hearing you talk to some people at the feed store, and you repeatedly used wrong verb tense and purposely talked like a hillbilly. I later realized that you dummied down so as not to make anyone feel bad. I love the story of you asking directions on the Princeton campus as a freshman, and the snob that corrected you for using a dangling participle, and you restated your question by asking, ….”Where is the library at….asshole?” (no dangler there);

6. How you never missed an opportunity to learn something about ranching, wildlife, birds, history, and your incessant quest for knowledge through reading, which is why the kids called you "the old scientist;"

7. I admired your courage in dealing with chronic pain. I remember feeling almost mad at the end of your life with the reality that the pain made your life shorter, but now having more insight to chronic pain because of you;

8. How you didn’t let your physical limitations limit your days, and event 15 years after fusing your leg you used to try to take off running;

9. The sound of your voice. Oh I wish I had a recording of your voice;

10. Your quest to document life and it’s events and your discipline to write in your diaries every day for almost 6 decades;

11. The way you grabbed your hat and tipped it back when you were thinking; I loved your sweat stained felt cowboy hat, that only you could shape that way;

1. I loved your sense of humor and sarcasm and you inappropriate limericks;

2. The way you used to point at things with your middle finger, especially when you knew someone was taking a picture;

1. Your emotionally sensitive side which which was so hard for you to express, and I’ve learned so much from reading your diaries and especially touching were your diary entries about losing your dog Gus; how a hug from Grandpa for our kids was a tap on the nose with your finger – yes your middle finger; and how hard it was on you each time one of us got married and moved on; and your love of family;

1. The food you loved which was mostly butter (by the spoonful), steak burned on the outside, but pink on the inside, blue cheese dressing, fried potatoes, fried apples, well fried anything, and your obsession with Enstroms Toffee.

These are just a few of the many many things that I took for granted for so many years, and I pray I never do again. For Your birthday I so wish we could sit down at the kitchen table for a cup of coffee with you. Since that isn’t possible …… for your birthday I’m going to walk through my day with renewed awareness and humility of the world around me. I think that maybe, just maybe if I listen I will be able to hear your voice and feel your strong hand on my shoulder. Because believe me oh Daddy-o I need you now more than ever. Love always, and Happy 90th Birthday Dad! Ellen