Tribute from the girls

We're back in Madison.

I'm still in disbelief that my dad is gone. Just trying to absorb it all so I can share my thoughts. In the meantime, here are some other tributes for Grandpa Bill:

From Anna, age 9

My grandpa was the best grandpa ever. He taught me how to ride my tricycle, my bike, and my scooter. He was really funny and thought everything I did was great. When he was teaching me to ride my bike down a hill, I fell down and got a bloody lip. The next day, my grandpa fell and got hurt too! He was happy for what I did and was supportive. He was always willing to help and to play. He could fix a lot of things, like my bike and my bitty baby high chair. He was a really great grandpa and I’ll always remember him.

From Mary Jane, age 6

Grandpa was really good. He let us do a lot of things. But it still feels like he’s with me. He’s always going to be the best grandpa on earth. Whenever I was afraid he always helped. He taught me a lot of things. He taught me bike riding. I got to ride on his motorcycle! I like to go out on the boat with Grandpa. He was awesome.

A touching tribute to Bill

I'll have more to say soon about the past few days, but I can't neglect to thank our amazing friends and family -- those who came to the funeral services and those who kept us in their thoughts while we were here. I'm overwhelmed and speechless about the outpouring of kindness and sympathy.

More details and thoughts later, but for now, here's what Scott had to say about Bill at the funeral service. It was an amazing tribute to my father.

Captain Bill

All of us are here because we were touched by the life of Bill Beecheler.

Many of us here were also touched inappropriately by Bill Beecheler.

But that’s Bill. He loved life and he lived it the way he wanted to, whether you liked it or not. Fortunately for all of us, he gave us far more than we were ever able to give him.

Bill was self reliant. He was a prankster. He was resourceful, strong willed and focused. He was a dad, son, brother, uncle, grandpa, brother-in-law, husband, father-in-law and Power Man. He was giving, fun-loving and dedicated to his family, work and friends.

Bill loved boating, especially his various Beech Buoy power boats that made multiple trips to Kelley‘s Island, Put-in-Bay and numerous other destinations both far and near. And god forbid if even a scrap of dirt got on the boat, or you wore the wrong shoes. Bill was there with a paper towel to pick up every scrap and a forceful reminder about the proper soles for the Tiara.

Bill loved cars, from all the ones he owned to the ones he bought and sold for friends and family. Sometimes there was no place Bill was happier than in the garage taking a car apart and putting it back together the way it should have been assembled in the first place. I think we’ve all had to deal with trying to figure out car alarms installed by Bill that even the auto dealers can’t bypass.

Bill loved animals, like his cat Elsa and dog Cher. He gave generously to the Cleveland zoo and animal rescue projects.

Bill loved giving, not just to numerous charities but to his family and friends as well. He once anonymously paid a co-worker‘s health insurance for a year. He loaned money so a relative could go to college. He also loaned money to both Lisa and Heather so they could make down payments on their houses.

Bill loved work, from his 33 years at the various incarnations of Lorain Products, to helping out on the Born family farm, to innumerable projects at the homes of friends and family members, and even those who barely knew him but were connected in some way with those he loved. His co-workers at Lorain Products could always count on him to deliver chocolates on Valentine’s Day and Sweetest Day, even sometimes at their homes after they had left the company.

If there was a light switch that didn’t work, or a door that squeaked, or a tractor that wouldn’t start, Bill would fix it. And even if there were things you didn’t want fixed, if Bill thought something was wrong, the tool box was coming out and your day was booked.

He had all the skills that are perfect for passing down to a son. But maybe someone knew that would be too big of a burden for any male offspring to bear, so Bill was blessed with two daughters and three granddaughters.

Bill loved his family. And unlike many men of his generation, he wasn’t afraid to show it. Bill was one of the most emotional, gregarious and loving, men I knew. He knew how to hug.

Bill was born in 1944 in Lorain, the son of Carl and Ella Beecheler. He grew up spending time with his dad and step brother Robert, learning from them how to take things apart and put them back together in proper working order. He learned how to boat from his dad, taking numerous fishing trips on Lake Erie in their Lyman.

Bill met Sue shortly after graduation from Admiral King High School in 1962. In many ways, they couldn’t have been more different. Bill was from a small city family, had no college degree, and was working his way up the ladder with a blue collar job at Lorain Products. Sue was from a large farm family, a graduate of Miami University and a teacher.

Luckily for me and Chuck, Bill and Sue fell and love and soon had two girls: Lisa in 1971 and Heather in 1975. No offense to all the wonderful women gathered here today, but I do not believe there are any two more beautiful women in this world than Lisa and Heather.

Bill and Sue soon built their home on land owned by Sue’s family, on what became Bill’s pride and joy at 50902 Becker Road. Bill and his brothers-in-law, and Sue, spent countless hours, days and weeks clearing the woods to build the house. Bill was there every step of the way, either doing the work himself or berating those hired to do what little he couldn’t, pointing out their transgressions to the eight of an inch.

By 1975 the work was largely done and the Beecheler family was home: Bill and Sue and little Lisa and Heather.

Bill loved his family, to be sure, but he had too much energy just for them. He had to share it with the community. He worked all day at Lorain Products, building a career that would eventually take him all the way to manager of quality control before retirement in 2000. He spent his nights with a side job fixing corn dryers on farms as far as three hours away, tucking away every spare nickel and dime to invest in bigger and better boats for his family. He joined the Firelands School Board, eventually serving as president. Bill spent as much, or more, time getting to know the janitors and bus drivers as he did the teachers and administrators. To him, titles and college degrees meant little or nothing. It was the person’s character, and their knowledge of a car’s working parts, that mattered most.

While work and public service were a large part of his life, Bill never wavered from his dedication to his family. He took them skiing, teaching Lisa and Heather how to work the downhill. They went camping, sleeping in the back of a pickup truck in what at the time may have been uncomfortable but in later years would provide deep and meaningful memories. He continued to work on the house, building a barn with such focus that even when he accidentally hit himself in the head with a hammer, falling off the roof in the process, he kept on hammering until the job was done. Then he went to the hospital for stitches.

Given how beautiful his two daughters grew up to be, Bill was put in a difficult position when it came time for them to start dating. But he came up with an approach on how to handle the various boys who started coming around the house with more frequency. Instead of getting to know them or trying to divine their true intentions, Bill simply ignored them. If they talked to him, he walked away. If they asked what he was doing, he would grunt. Mostly he just stayed in the garage. He told me later he wanted them to be afraid of him, to know he was there, but to realize that he had no time for them, in the hopes that eventually they would just go away.

That approach didn’t work for me and Chuck. We stuck around.

The first time I met Bill, when Lisa and I were dating in college in 1993, he drove down to Miami in a 1980 blue Ford Mustang with his wonderful mother Ella Banas in tow. Bill loved his mother. He cared for her into her old age, frequently bringing her to his house for dinner, including her in family gatherings, and even taking her and her friends out on the boat. He was a dedicated son and she loved him wholeheartedly in return.

The first time Chuck met Bill he was put to work immediately, waxing the entire bottom of the boat, a hard and thankless job. Just consider it son-in-law hazing. Chuck must have passed the test.

Bill insisted on being the MC at Lisa and my wedding reception and, as the videotape proves, there was no better dancer once the music started. He danced like he lived: with abandon.

He even managed to fix a flat tire for one of the wedding guests the next morning. Just last week, 15 years after the fact, that friend sent me an email saying how he still remembers how Bill made sure the tire was fixed and the car was safe before it hit the road for the drive back to Illinois.

Bill was always there.

He was there for Sue when she needed him most, never wallowing in misery, but still finding time to travel, boat and keep on living. Ten days after she died Bill’s first grandchild, my daughter Anna, was born. Bill was mourning the loss of his wife, but guess who was the first visitor to our Lincoln, Nebraska, hospital room? If you guessed Bill, then you’re at the right funeral.

He stayed with us for a couple weeks, running wires and fixing things. That’s one of the best ways he showed his love. He also bought us a new car, which was another way he showed his love. I have owned four cars. One of them I bought with Bill, one of them Bill bought for me, and the other two I bought from him at a deep family discount. Even when he was sick this summer, living with Lisa and me in Wisconsin, he was researching cars for our family to buy, eliminating any that had a poor safety record no matter how popular.

Three years after Anna was born, Bill returned to be there for Mary Jane’s birth. The night Lisa went into labor, I calmly awoke Bill to let him know I was taking Lisa to the hospital. He jumped out of bed, threw the sheets off, and sprang to attention, wearing nothing but his tighty whities. He was prepared, even though I wasn’t ready for that image.

Just two years ago Bill was blessed by the birth of his third granddaughter, Chuck and Heather’s daughter Charlotte. He was also there shortly after she was born in Annapolis, Maryland. He worked on innumerable projects for Chuck and Heather as well, most recently putting in a brand new kitchen in their house. It was one of Bill’s last, and most beautiful, pieces of work.

I want to say a few words about Linda, but anything I say will not do justice to what she meant to Bill and our family.

After Sue died, all of us were certain that there was no other sane woman on the planet who would fall in love with Bill. But then came Linda.

She and Bill knew each other through her husband Phil. Linda and Bill reconnected after Phil and Sue died and soon became inseparable. They shared a love of boating and adventure. They filled each day to the max, taking whatever life could throw at them and embracing it, running toward the next adventure and not just sitting back and letting things come to them. Bill found a new lease on life with Linda and welcomed her wonderful son Lee into his life. He showed his love by making Lee help him chop wood.

Bill and Linda traveled the world, they explored the Great Lakes, they watched Bones and House. They lived and they were happy.

This May Bill and Linda moved in with Lisa and me for three months. The day after he moved in, I ran my first marathon, dedicating it to Bill and wearing his name on my shirt. He came out for the race, catching me at various spots, and even getting in on the action, running alongside me for a few hundred feet. We embraced, he was smiling ear to ear, and when his feet failed him, he walked back with the spectators, sad that he couldn’t keep up for longer.

The fact that he was there and ran with me is one of the greatest memories of my life.

I, along with all of you, cannot imagine what life would have been like without Bill Beecheler in it. And it’s hard to think of how it will be without him.

He showed that life was meant to be lived. And not just on vacation days or weekends. But all the time. Every minute. Because friends, you never know when your time is up.

The last time I saw Bill 11 days ago I knew he didn’t have long to live, but I was certain I would see him again. His last words to me weren’t, “Pray for me,” or “You’ll probably never see me again,” or anything negative. He simply said, “You’re great.”

No, Bill, you’re great. And for those of us left behind, we can take solace in knowing that all the kitchen remodels, all the rewiring projects and all the other general maintenance that has been neglected for centuries in heaven will now finally get done.

Details

Here is Dad's obituary. In it you will find information about the visitation and funeral on Thursday/Friday as well as memorial fund suggestions.

To send cards to Linda:

Linda Mahar

50902 Becker Road

Oberlin OH 44074

Thanks again so much. Your friendship has brought us so much comfort. I'll continue to post in the next days as I can.

I keep thinking about Dad tapping me on the shoulder this morning. He died at 3:43 a.m., and I woke up in Madison from a deep sleep at 3:47 and felt strangely comforted.

Rest in Peace, Bill

The world lost an astoundingly good man today. We mourn his death and celebrate his life.

William C. Beecheler
June 22, 1944 to February 23, 2010

He died peacefully in his home with Linda and Heather by his side.

Scott, the kids and I will leave for Ohio today. The services for Bill will be Thursday and Friday. I will keep you posted on the details.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for following this story, which continues with Bill's legacy being left with so many people touched by him.

Dadddy

Bill is in quick decline. The hospice nurse asked Heather today if Dad was the type of person who likes to get things done. YES, she replied. That's him. He's dying just like he lived.

Heather and I are amazed at the providence involved at this point. When Mom died, I was there for 8 weeks taking care of her. Heather came a few weeks later and stayed after I left, a few weeks before Mom died. I was eight months pregnant, having early contractions, and I left to have the baby back in Nebraska where Scott and I lived. (Mom died Jan. 14, 2001, and Anna was born Jan. 24.) Heather was there with Mom at the time of her death. I don't know that I could have handled it like Heather. She's a quiet angel on earth. And here she is again with Dad at the end. I don't know if I'll make it there in time, but Heather will be there with him and Linda. And that comforts me. I'm also comforted to know that I was there last week for Dad, during a trying emotional time for him. I'm a jabber-mouth, so I talked and listened to Dad's worries and tried to calm his fears. Heather and I each have roles to play. Not that we like these roles, but we'd do anything for our parents.

Just like they did everything for us. Dad's gifts to his children are immense. He's our hero. But let's not sugar-coat it too much, even at this point. Dad, like the rest of us, has his faults. And my relationship with him is far from perfect, like all relationships. In fact, at times it was downright difficult. We're both stubborn and opinionated and we sometimes think we have all the answers. Dad used to have quite a temper, and he settled for nothing less than perfection in many areas. We locked horns frequently through the years.

In April 2009, just weeks before he was diagnosed with brain cancer, we had one of our disagreements. Dad was in Madison for Easter. He was putting French doors on our office. The project was intense and required a lot of woodwork and calculations. Bill was getting tired. The kids were loud and rowdy and getting in his way. "I should have hired this out to someone else," I thought while making dinner as I listened to Dad cursing in the next room. "Dad, for God's sake watch your mouth. The kids are right here!" I told him. "Well, do you want these damn doors on or not?" he replied. But eventually the doors were hung -- to perfection. And they look lovely. And Dad felt proud and we hugged, and I took his picture in front of yet another home improvement triumph.

The beauty of our relationship is that we work through the conflict, we don't hold grudges, and there's never been any question about the extent of our love for each other. I'm sure Heather would say the same thing.

Below is an essay I found in a box of old stuff while at home. I think I was in junior high when I wrote this. Dad always signed his name "Dadddy" on cards, with three d's. Not sure where this originated but we'd often call him "Dadddddddy," stretching out the word as some kind of quirky family joke.


DADDDDY

by Lisa Beecheler

My dad is a great father who has taught me a lot. I remember when I was only five years old and my dad was running beside me teaching me how to ride a bike. Even though I fell into a ditch full of water and cried and complained he never gave up on me. Eventually I learned how to ride that bike and when I did my dad smiled and said "That's my girl!"

A few years later my dad took me skiing. After barely conquering the bunny hill he decided I was ready for a "real hill." He took me to the top of what I thought was a huge hill. It was snowing hard up there, but my dad gave me a reassuring smile and said, "See you at the bottom!" and was gone! As I stood there bewildered, tears running down my frozen cheeks, I tried to remember everything my dad had taught me. At first I thought I'd never make i t down, but needless to say, I did! When I finally reached the bottom, there was my dad. Standing there, he smiled and said, "That's my girl!"

My dad always has had a lot of confidence in me. Because of the feeling he gives me when I 'm around him I feel I can conquer anything. Not only has my dad taught me practical things like riding a bike and skiing, he has also taught me things about life. For instance, he has taught me to work my hardest in school and to give 100% in everything I do. He enforces his beliefs by attending all of my school activities. I'll never forget the feeling I had when I had to give a speech in front of all my classmates and their families. Before I got up to the podium I was so nervous but then I remembered who was sitting right beside me, my dad. As I stood up there, all eyes on me, my knees knocking, I could almost hear my dad's reassuring voice, it gave me the confidence to begin my speech. After finishing my flawless speech [Note from 38-year-old Lisa: Wow, I wish I had that confidence today!] I stepped down from the podium and there was my dad. Looking so proud, he gave me a big hug and said, "That's my girl!"

I'll always know that no matter how old I am my dad will always have something new to teach me, and when I accomplish any new goal I'm sure that when I look over at my dad he'll have a big smile on his face and he'll say, "That's my girl!"

Down, but not out

Back in Madison. Numb. I wish I could say, "I was so happy to get home!" But it's bittersweet because I left Dad. Truth be told, I have no emotions and feel like I'm in shock. Like I just survived a plane crash. Maybe a good night of sleep will bring me around. Transitions are tough. And it was one helluva week.

A few hours after I posted my last blog, the hospice doctor told my dad, "It won't be days, but it probably won't be months," and that was shocking. What does a man do when told he has weeks to live? He cries. Holds his loved ones. He worries about who will take care of them, even though they're all adults. Although I respect that doctor, I wish he wouldn't have been so specific. I mean, why try to put a number on someone's days? He can't know. It doesn't seem to be comforting. Dad knows he's dying of cancer. Isn't that enough? Linda and I hugged Dad and wept and wept. The spirituality guide from hospice shared some peaceful thoughts. What can you say?

To add to this soup of depression, yesterday hospice delivered a hospital bed to Dad's living room. He can't go up and down stairs anymore. A little over nine years ago, Dad, my sister and I nursed my Mom through to her death on a hospital bed in that same living room, in the same spot. I had to leave the house when the bed was delivered. When I stepped in the room and saw it set up just like it was nine years ago, I had an out-of-body experience. My heart physically hurt. Is this a cruel joke? Then of course what made it worse was leading Dad in that room when it was time for bed.

"What?" was all he could say. He's lost a lot of thinking capability, but he sure as hell remembers what happened the last time a hospital bed was in this room. We might as well have put him to bed in a coffin.

I'm sorry if I sound completely negative. I advise you to go watch the Olympics or some comedy if you haven't already given up on this entry! I thought about not writing but then decided to keep it real. Some days are harder than others. Some days you feel uplifted even in the worst of times. Some days, you just don't. And that's okay.

But even today I can muster up some good stuff. Like Linda. Linda lost her first husband to cancer about 11 years ago. Her husband Phil and my Dad were going to start a business together before he died. While at first it was difficult to see my Dad with another woman, Heather and I quickly got over it and fell in love with Linda. She's a school nurse and has a son, Lee, who's a real gem. My bro. On that dreadful day they delivered the bed, Linda took charge. She plows through emotion and gets the job done. I cower in the corner or escape to run errands. Linda makes the bed beautifully -- like it's at a B&B. She gathers things from around the house to decorate the room -- family pictures, a lighthouse she and Dad got on vacation, a TV so they can watch movies together. She stays upbeat. "Lisa, look at this great wheelchair to use around the house. It's so lightweight and it folds up!" She wakes Dad up by smiling and kissing his cheek and sweetly saying, "Good morning, sleepy head! Time to get up!" Linda loves my Dad. Period. This is what you do for people when you love them.

Another positive thought: What I was able to do last week was spend a lot of time talking with, or mostly to, Dad. I recalled how he taught me to ride a bike and I swerved right in a muddy ditch. Dad laughed. He remembered. I pointed to the side yard and said, "Remember all those grounders you threw me over there?" He nodded and said, "Yeah. You worked." Yes, I did, because Dad was yelling, "C'mon, bend those knees and get the glove on the ground! Thatta girl!" I brought out some picture albums and pointed to family vacations, relatives, picnics. "There's Mom, your wife Sue. Look at those goofy glasses and hair!" He smiled. He laughed again when I pointed to this hilarious shot of him laying on his stomach looking face-to-face with one of our pet cats. Bill: always hamming it up.

And to end this blog on a high note: When I walked in the door of our house in Madison, I picked up the kids and squeezed them. I achingly miss them when I'm away. They are my rays of sunshine. And MJ's first comment? "MOMMY! You look younger and your neck looks longer!" I'll take it.

It's been a while. I wish I had better news.

Anybody have an elixir for a broken spirit? Aside from a cure for cancer, Captain Bill could use a shot of that.

But I'll back up a bit. First, apologies for the long hiatus from blogging. I know many of you have asked for updates (even offering to write for me). Although we all suspected this wouldn't be a fairy tale, it's been tougher than I thought to live through and write about it. I'll do the best I can at this point. (Props again to my dear friend Janel for her blogging courage and prowess ... http://all4ally.blogspot.com. Sometimes I read her words and feel like she's saying what I need to say. So thanks, Babe.)

Dad's tumor is growing. It originated on the left side of his head, above his ear. After two brain surgeries, radiation and chemo, summer in Madison, setbacks and seizures, and intermittent batches of good news, an MRI showed that the tumor was under control. Captain Bill's shipmates breathed a sigh of relief. Could we actually beat this? No such luck. A few weeks ago, when Heather was in Ohio, Dad had another seizure and ended up in the hospital. Another MRI showed that the tumor had in fact grown into the frontal lobe. The doctors told Dad that his original prognosis of one year from May 2009 is a reasonable estimate.

The frontal lobe. This is where we mammals derive our higher mental functions. This is the place we park our long-term memories that are not task-based. The frontal lobes are considered our emotional control center and home to our personality. One study from the Centre for Neuro Skills said, "It has long been known that some patients with frontal lobe damage have significantly changed personalities." We're seeing that. This ugly tumor in Dad's frontal lobe is raising hell. His emotions are all over the map. One minute he's irate about the smallest detail -- a light left on too long. The next minute he's weeping and apologetic about his condition. His speech and understanding are severely limited. And the bitch of it is that he's fully aware of his losses. This is a recent conversation we had -- sitting face-to-face as I held his hand:

Dad: How am I gonna do this?

Me: I don't know, Dad. It's so hard. You're doing the best you can.

Dad: No, how am I gonna DO this? I don't know how to DO it.

Me: It's not your fault. We didn't ask for this. There's nothing you need to do, Dad.

Dad: But just laying in a bed ... I don't know how to do that. How can I DO that?

Me: Let's not look too far ahead. Let's think about being together. We'll do what we need to do together -- you, me, Heather and Linda.

Dad: I just love you.

Me: I know. I love you, too. You've told me you love me my whole life. So I know.

After my conversation with Dad, I said, "Dad, can you give me a massage?" So I sat on the floor in front of him, in his chair. He gently rubbed my shoulders and commented about the left one being tight. "Yeah, it is Dad. It's sore." I think helping me was the highpoint of his day. He seemed content -- and himself -- for a minute or two.

He's devastated about losing his independence. Bill is a man of action. He wants to "do" something about this. He does not want his daughters or wife putting on his socks or having to give him a shot of Lovenox in the gut every morning. (Who would?) Bill still wants to be the guy to fix your car, take you for a boat ride, take you on his motorcycle, haul wood for the fire, tease you in good fun. He dreads people hovering over him, feeding him and giving him pills and shots. He's spent 9 months fighting this disease like hell, only to get to this point of hopelessness. My Dad's courage, his optimism and humor, his fierce determination -- it's drying up. He just wants, in his words, "To go outside. To look at my woods."

He can still walk, but the gait is turtle slow and it's tough for him to get out of his chair. He still eats on his own, still takes care of his basic needs. But he sees what's coming. And I hate it as much as him. Linda and I met with hospice on Tuesday. They marched in like an army of angels -- nurse, social workers, spirituality guide, doc. As much as I dread that "H" word, there's nothing else in the world like that organization. You feel like you have another extended family to care for you and your loved one.

And speaking of family, I know many of you are concerned about my lovely step-mom, Linda. She's holding up amazingly well. Because she's an amazing woman. But she could sure use your words of encouragement. Same for my strong and beautiful sis.

I should mention that I'm writing this from Ohio. I got in on Feb. 12 and will leave tomorrow. Scott was in last weekend and left Monday. (Heather comes in next week.)

I knew from the moment I hit the ground in Cleveland that this would be a pivotal week. Dad's good friend Joe picked me up from the airport. Joe's an ex-Marine, soft-spoken and big-hearted. He's helping his single-parent son raise his granddaugther, 2-year-old Shyla, and she was in the back seat with me while Dad and Joe were up front. Dad had little to say, not even too excited to see me -- so uncharacteristic of the Bill who in the past would fly up to the terminal in his Spec B and give me a big bear hug, lugging my luggage and asking about my trip. In that back seat, my head suddenly felt like it was in a vice. I felt a pit in my stomach. I turned to Shyla, who just woke up from a nap in her car seat. I smiled at her sweet face framed by a pink coat and bouncy blond curls. She smiled back and reached out a fat hand, which I quickly grabbed, fully expecting her to snatch it away. But we held hands almost all the way to Oberlin.

And those are the kind of moments I'm hanging on to right now. Looking out at Dad's property, blanketed with snow. Trees stand at attention, getting ready to bud. Talking to my sis. Reading e-mails from friends: "Just checking in." "Hang in there." "Tell Bill we love him." "Nice to know you're smiling from time to time." Feeling Scott's love and loyalty -- and knowing his purchase of a block of 15-year-old Wisconsin cheddar awaits me! Talking to Dad's neighbors, who I've known my whole life, about elderberry pie and horses and winter trips to Florida. Hearing a friendly voice mail from my cousin Mel. Reading. Chatting on the phone with a friend/colleague about our book venture. Watching Lindsey Vonn tear up that downhill run in Vancouver. Music, like an awe-inspiring concert at Finney Chapel in Oberlin. Cousin Molly sending me hilarious Facebook IMs. Eating dark chocolate and drinking red wine -- daily. Running, running, running on a dumb treadmill in Dad's basement. Listening to Mary Jane on the phone: "Mommy, we played a fun new game in gym!" Getting a note from Anna about our upcoming hunt for a family dog: "Mommy, we need to check out the humane society."

Life in bloom.

Oh, and this prime example of family humor and loyalty:

Cousin Gary: Hey, Lisa. Calling to see if I can visit Bill this afternoon.

Me: Oh, we've got hospice coming. Can you call another day? Plus ... you should know that Dad's really been upset and hasn't been excited about visitors.

Gary: Well, I'll call back. But he's got no choice. I'm visiting. I'll have to come kick him in the nuts.

And I shouldn't neglect to mention that Dad's had his share of good moments, despite it all. His brothers-in-law and Scott took him out for breakfast last weekend. His posse. Scott and I took him to the botanical gardens in Cleveland, and I think he enjoyed the tropical heat and lush greenery. (I know I did!) We walked around Oberlin, and Dad shopped for Charlotte's birthday and stopped at an art gallery where he bought me a pair of earrings made of shiny old guitar picks. I took Dad out to lunch with friends, and he laughed a little. His friend Frank stopped by with ash Wednesday Paczcis ("poonch-keys"). We rode around in his sporty Spec B as, from time to time, Dad would mutter, "Punch it," and at the risk of getting a ticket, I'd put the pedal to the metal. "This car hauls ass," he'd quietly say with a slight grin.

When I go back to Madison, my goal is to get Dad's slides scanned on my computer. I hope for my next visit we can sit and look at old pictures. We're so lucky to have a boatload of happy memories. Thanks in large part to my Mom and Captain Bill, his hard work, his dedication to family, his zest for life.