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I have the honor of giving a eulogy for my father Albert Davis. Here is my first draft.
Its not as easy, and I know Dad would have been the first to be bored by hearing it but it is something I must do.
I am going to get a bit preachy.
Dad hated preachy.
And forgive me if I say Dad and not the name that many knew him as. Al, Mr. Davis, Papa, Zada. He taught me respect and taught me to never call him by his first name, so I can’t.
To me his is and always will be Dad.
Back to being preachy.
I’ve come to the realization recently that all the evil in this world comes from four simple sources.
Pain
Ignorance
Entropy which is chaos and destruction.
and Self Absorption--or the idea that You are all that is important.
The opposite of these forces I see as divine attributes.
The opposite of Pain is Ecstasy and Joy.
The opposite of Ignorance is Enlightenment.
The opposite of destruction is creation
The opposite of Self Absorption is Love.
Why do I bring this up? Because I’ve only just realized how much my father lived to overcome those 4 evils, and how much of his life was filled with those good attributes. You can not know who my father was unless you know how he dealt with forces.
Ignorance.
My father never finished high school. The death of his father forced him to earn a living for his family.
He could have gone off to work and had a great excuse to live in ignorance the rest of his life.
He could not. Instead he read. He read books. He read magazines. He read newspapers. Our house was filled with words. He encouraged us all to read, and hidden under that encouragement was the enjoyment of reading more.
He brought me to the book fairs and bought us the encyclopedias and fed our curiosity.
Later we will tell fun Dad stories. They will include how in his later years he loved shopping at Wal-Mart--just to buy videos. His house had more videos than Blockbuster at its height. Did anyone ask why? Because he could no longer read. When holding up a book or a magazine or a newspaper became too difficult, he could listen to a tape. He could watch a video. He could feed his brain as much as his body. He fought the ignorance.
There will be stories of the travels and camping trips he loved, and that were so much a part of his life. But my Dad was no outdoorsman. Sure he had hunted, but he wasn’t a hiker, or a naturalist. He never sought to rough it.
He sought answers and information. When there wasn’t enough in the home, he went out to find it. We traveled when I was a child, but we didn’t travel to resorts, or to escape work, or to run away and relax. We traveled to learn. We went to Washington DC and Truman’s Library. We went all the way across country to Disneyland, but we did so stopping at every scenic wonder and place to learn that my father had heard of--The Grand Canyon, White Sands, Sequoya. Sure he loved visiting Disney World, but in Disney World he loved Epcot the best--to learn while having fun, the science, the history, the other cultures. Even his last few trips with the family stopped at Johnson Space Center.
Whenever he drove he sat back erect, eyes scanning ahead. It wasn’t just the traffic he was watching. He was searching for more things, new things, things he had not seen--hand not learned. He was fighting his own ignorance of the world.
His mind was insatiable.
He was brilliant.
Entropy or Destruction.
The opposite is Creation, and my father was creative. I have known few who were ever as creative as he was.
I don’t mean creative as in artistic. He didn’t write poetry or paint pictures. He created.
He took the chaos of parts and raw materials and created practical necessary things.
He was a master mechanic. He rebuilt his own engine as a teen, or perhaps as a young man, but mechanics was just the beginning.
He took a junked icecream jeep of no worth and built an off-road vehicle that stories will be told of for a long time.
He took an old school bus, and with his own hands and left over scrap metal--built an RV, one that he lived in with his wife for a winter as his house was being rebuilt.
He once made a wooden xylophone for his son’s Scout project, that was rejected because the other parents assumed such craftsmanship had to be store bought.
He made a retail space out of an old pup-up trailer.
He built a train out of 50 gallon drums and a lawn mower. He had so much fun and gave so much fun with it, he built a second.
One must be creative to build a basement under a house without moving the house--while still living in the house, and he did--it all. He worked the concrete, layed the bricks strong and straight, ran the plumbing--which worked better than the plumbing on the professionally built house that followed, and he ran the electrical and set the cast iron spiral staircase..
Woodwork, Welding, Plumbing, Electrical, Roofing, Gardening, landscaping and construction. All of these were areas he mastered not for his occupation--but to create for his own use and enjoyment.
He wasn’t done. As his body weakened he still sought to master other crafts, other chances to create. He dabbled in carving, and planned a career building doll houses and doll house furniture. These were areas he couldn’t quite get too.
These were his recreations, but he took to his occupation with the same energy, and the same need to create. He worked long hours not for the money he knew would come but because his work was a chance for him to create--create the repairs the clients needed, and create the business the owner expected.
Of course he was not perfect. While he strove to finish all his work and creative endeavours at work, his creative impulses rarely saw completion elsewhere. The basement he built had some holes in the retaining wall that needed to be finished. Of the three workshed/barns he built--they shared 7 ½ walls between them. The camper he built from the school bus caught fire on its first trip out, and the cabinetry he wanted to install was never actually installed. I remember the long green deck he built for our trailer. It rose 3 to 6 feet off the ground, and was probably 100 feet long. A lower section was built to surround the swimming pool, but it never reached more than half-way, and the last 20 feet of the upper porch was a combination of unnailed boards, missing railings, and dangerous drops. As a boy I loved it.
His greatest unfinished creation is us. His children, his grandchildren, even his great grandchildren. He was so proud of the work he put into us, and we have all so far done his work proud.
Pain and Joy
My Uncle Gene once said that he would rather have my father win the lottery than himself because “Al would enjoy it more than I would.” On that, everyone who knew my father would agree, he would know how to enjoy it.
That’s because he enjoyed life. That’s because he knew joy.
A wise man once said, pain shared is halved, joy shared is doubled.
And pain he could not abide in people or strangers or animals. He loved and took great care of our dogs, spent way to much on vet bills, but knew when he had to do the hard thing and put them to sleep. Even then he would not let their ending be our pain. Ask Jim about the canary who flew away from home, and took its cage with him.
He could not abide bringing pain to others, and strove for so long to hide any pain in himself. Perhaps too long.
On the other hand, sharing joy was his calling. He loved to double the joy, to bring joy to others brought joy to him. Christmas was his favorite. My earliest memory involved him planning a great Christmas for us kids.He grumbled and played the grouch and fooled no one. Every year he threatened, “First one up on Christmas would be the last one to open their presents.” Every year he was the first one up, no matter how late he was up wrapping presents and assembling toys. Every year he was the last to open presents, because seeing the joy in the faces of others was what he loved the most.
He had a reputation for knowing all the best restaurants wherever he traveled. From Cowans to Garavelis, Eleven Mile House, the Cruises, and more, he loved to take people out to eat. But he was not a foody. He did not enjoy new foods or strange diets. His tastes were simple--steak & potatoes, eggs and hash. Why did he love restaurants if he didn’t love food? Because he loved sitting around the table in good company. He loved treating others and he loved giving them something special.
Eating at a restaurant was a rare treat for my father growing up. Treating others was just a simple joy he could afford.
Money to him was not to be saved or stored or locked away. He never measured success by the bank account. He measured it in the fun you had and the fun you gave others.
He told stories. My how he told stories. Not great fanciful creations of impossible people, but realish stories of his friends and family, truly impossible people. The stories, like any fish story, grew in the telling, and I realized a family secret. Never let a boring fact get in the way of a good story.
The ride on the sled down Art Hill grew every year. The length of the sled ride got longer while the temperature got lower, and the amount of snow up Uncle Jerry’s shirt doubled. Yet it was a true story and a good story.
And when ever he told it, it spread joy.
In the hospitals and homes he visited he was always remembered for the Joy he gave. Stern doctors and strict nurses were playthings in his hand.
In the midst of surgery one time, fearing that the anesthesia was too much, the surgeon asked him a question. His witty and explicit answer was a drop of joy in the operating room.
He built a jeep to explore the world, but he used it mostly to bring laughter to children who went camping with him.
He built a camper from a school bus, but made sure there were beds enough for many traveling companions. He traveled with joy, but only when he traveled with others to share that joy.
He built a train so kids could have fun. Even when he was down to just one leg, and had difficulties moving, he took that train and loaded it with kids just to spread some happiness.
He was the salesman I could only dream of being for he entered everyone he mets life, lifted it up a bit, and his little impish smile made them smile back.
Near the end, there was one person whom he could still bring Joy to, and who brought joy to him. There was one young lady who’s smile and giggle kept him going. I am talking about his great grand-daughter Moira. When her eyes lighted up upon seeing him, his eyes lighted up in return.
Joy shared is doubled. I do magic, professionally. But I don’t really perform for audiences. I don’t perform for myself. I perform for each child or adult in the crowd, striving to make that single person smile or open their eyes in surprise, or laugh out loud. And when I succeed, when I see that light of enjoyment in their eyes, I can feel that impish smile spread across my face. When I succeed I know how my father felt on Christmas morning when we opened our special presents, or at the camp fire when he told his stories, or with the nurse who came in to change some sheets and left giggling.
I had spread joy as my father taught me.
Self-absorption or love
My father was not the gushy lovey-dovey type of person. He tried hard to project a tough, grumpy stern figure. As he grew older the grumpiness got louder, but everyone knew it was fake.
He may have faked grumpy, but he was never greedy.
He may have sought the best chocolate, but he loved to share it.
He may have worn out the phrase “Bah Humbug”, but he always made sure that everyone he cared for had the best gift he could find.
There were only a couple times, in hospital rooms, when I think he was really scared, and I know he was really well medicated that his feelings came to the surface. Those times almost broke my heart.
We saw his love in the respect he showed and the responsibility he accepted.
He never forced us to be like him, or to serve his needs, or fulfill his dreams. Each of his boys grew up far different than he ever imagined. Yet he told us all the same thing--”Are you happy? Then you are doing well.”
He respected our decisions, but worried about our futures. Never were we told that we made him look bad. It was always how we did, were we happy, is this what we wanted to do.
He was not perfect. He had the biases and prejudices of his generation. But he loved us enough to overlook them. He told me once that if the person I found made me happy, he didn’t care about anything else. He would warn us about the troubles some relationships would encounter, but if we were in love, he promised to stand by us, despite his own prejudices and biases.
There were people he knew, people who were important in the lives of those he loved. Some of them may be in this room. Some of them he really didn’t like. Some of them he avoided if at all possible. Yet none of them realized his antipathy, because if they did that would hurt those he loved, and he never would allow himself to do that.
When we boys added wives to the family he met them with grumpy, humorous love. He cared about them, and for them. He loved them each as a daughter, would fight to protect them, and gave all he could to make them happy.
He wore a Tux to make Cindy happy at my wedding. Sure, there was a dark Mickey Mouse t-shirt visible underneath the white shirt, but he wore the tux.
There is a part of love that doesn’t get mentioned often. Its responsibility.
If you some someone or something you take on the responsibilities associated with that thing.
Dad loved many things, and he proved it by taking on those responsibilities.
He loved his family. When his father died he took on the financial responsibilities for that family. He left school and went to work.
He loved his country. When he was old enough he became a marine. One does not join the Marines, because that implies you could leave them. One becomes a marine.
And he loved the marines.
He accepted all of their responsibilities, despite his own limitations.
He was the only marine I’ve heard of who graduated basic training without learning how to swim. Yet when it was time to jump off a ship and swim to shore, he took that responsibility to heart and jumped into the cold water, with full faith in his luck, his mae-west life jacket, and the other Marines in the water with him.
He never had to harm or kill for his country, but he did risk his life. He fought forest fires in California. Long tiring hours and hours of chopping and digging and hot labor to defend peoples homes and lives.
He took responsibilities very seriously. When he went to work, he took responsibility for the work he did. He didn’t do that out of love for his boss, or for the business, but out of love for his co-workers, his clients, and mostly himself.
He gave money only the worth of what it could buy and what he did to earn it. If he was going to earn money, he was going to give good value for that money.
He worked overtime and delivered on his own time, not because his boss said to, but because his clients needed him to. He worked from 7am to 7pm many nights that I grew up. That wasn’t because his boss demanded it or expected it, but because others counted on him, and he refused to let anyone down.
This embracing of responsibilities gave him a work ethic that flows through me to this day, as it does through Mike and Jim. From us it flows through the grandchildren. When I hear of Stevens long hours, or Melissa’s independence, when I see Nick salute or read Julie’s post about long hours of study and at the pharmacy I see my father’s work ethic alive in them. And hopefully through Moira and generations yet to come it will go further.
He loved animals. Sure he did some deer hunting, but the number of deer he caught were very few. He went mostly to have fun with friends.
Dogs, however were his favorite. Strays and foundlings, pure-bloods and pure mutts, smart and stupid, once out of the marines he always had a dog.
Some would argue that we kids always had a dog, or that my mom always had a dog, but the dogs knew better.
The cats were the kids, the birds were my mothers, but the dogs were his.
This gets me to my last bit of love. The love between my parents. Can you begin to imagine how lucky I am to be the child of such a couple? I thank the heavens so often its silly.
I have friends and acquaintances whose parents fight, or have split up, or who enjoy degrading each other, or who just, barely endure each other. I’ve seen families built on feuds and the dominating will of one person or the other. I’ve seen terrible families.
And then I see the way my father treated my mother, and the way my mother treated my father--as equals, as part of a team, with compassion, patience, and understanding, taking on responsibilities and letting go of differences. They talked and thought and compromised and grew to be so much better than either could be on their own.
They were two strong individuals who bowed to each others wisdom.
It was never a competition in our house unless the competition was someone against them.
Sure there were arguments and disputes. They didn’t last long.
Trust is the other issue they shared. Jealousy was not a concept they seemed to grasp when it came to each other.
There are many photos of my father posing in pictures with pretty girls. Ask Sasha if he remembers Hooters. Yet the look he gave those girls was nothing like the look he gave my mother. There was the impish smile of course, and the witty remark, and the deep laugh felt all the way in the body, but when he looked at my mother it was so much more.
From such love we came, my brothers and me. With such love we started our own families. With such love I wish that everyone here find their own families.
It is rare. Good luck.
In closing, my father was an amazing man, a force in the life of everyone who had the privilege of meeting. He made friends that lasted a lifetime, but took only moments. He made memories wherever he went, and left stories in his wake.
He fought ignorance and he fought pain. He spread joy and he spread love.
I can not imagine a heaven without him.
Posts: 1941 | Registered: Feb 2003
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