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No blog about my widowhood could possibly be complete if it doesn't contain this tribute Matt wrote about JD.
A Tribute to My Father
by Matt Converse on Saturday, November 7, 2009 at 11:36am
J.D. Willson – passed from this life on Friday, October 23 around 6pm. He is survived by his wife, Casey Willson, his daughters Tammy, Tonya, and Christina and two step-sons, Gurtch and myself. He was born in 1943. These are the dry recitation of facts that fail entirely to encapsulate the the elemental phenomenon that was my father. He was irrepressible, irresistible and incredible.
He met my mom in 1980; they were nigh-inseparable from that day on. If you could ask a 10 year old boy to define all the things he wanted in a father, once you got past “Fireman!” or “Astronaut!” you would almost certainly find he had listed every quality my dad displayed and embodied. He taught me how to throw a punch, catch a fish with a spear, run a trout/cat line, gut and clean a deer. He taught me how to plant and grow a garden. He taught me to hold my liquor, to shoot pool in dive bars, and how to approach women. Most of all, he made my mother happy.
He was full of stories. He had adventures and things to talk about. He could hunt, fish, prospect gold, use dynamite safely, shoot accurately, and play pool like a machine. My dad was really, nothing short of the most powerful figure in my life.
He used to sit with me on the porch, or in the living room and tell me about raising hell as a kid in Michigan, running ‘shine for his uncle, fighting with the football team, and doing farm work. He told me about getting rejected for military service during Vietnam because of a ruptured ear-drum and you could tell that while he was glad to have avoided going to hell, he was sad not to have served. Dad was a mix of contradictory feelings. Some of his stories are not fit for mixed company, and he was happy to explain them to me, even when I was probably too young to really understand. Some of them made me spontaneously erupt into laughter when the real meanings became clear later.
The early 1980s were hard on everyone financially. Mom and Dad both lost their jobs and we moved to a tiny, one-room, unfinished farmhouse in Oklahoma. Dad and I dug trenches and ran PVC pipe for water to the kitchen, but we still had to haul water in jerry-cans for showers/baths and to flush the toilet. We fished a lot. I learned a lot about survival from him that year. He never once got mad at a slightly squeamish kid who didn’t want to stick his fingers in a catfish’s mouth to take the hook out. He just kept at it until I did the deed.
Once, in jr. high school, I was in a terrible accident and nearly suffocated. My skin was blotched and stained from blood boiling to the surface for air. My eyes were solid red from the exploded capillaries. My hair was tangled and my clothes were torn. I suspect that if someone had been casting a zombie movie, I would have gotten a lot of camera time. It really was that bad. I shambled home via public buses with people shying away from me and staring (and in LA, that takes some doing!). I hurt everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Dad was preparing for a trip to the desert outside of Barstow that weekend, and saw me shuffling up the hill, clutching my bag and looking like death warmed over. My heart was heavy and I felt like hell. But dad, he knew what I needed to hear.
“Son, I hope the other guy looks worse.” That lanced my pain and let me laugh and cry and scream all at once. He took me into the house, got me cleaned up, soaked me in ice water to reduce the swelling and bruising and never once let me feel like I’d failed or been stupid. Dad took me on the desert trip and didn’t complain once about how I slowed him down, drank too much of our precious water, or that I kicked him in the shins while we slept in the bed of the pickup truck. That was him, strong, supportive, unstoppable and kind.
I’m going to miss you dad. I’m going to miss calling you an ugly old man and having you tell me I’m an ugly kid so we’re even. I’m going to miss you telling me you’re not too old or too short to kick my ass. I’m going to miss you sharing a quiet drink and a quick game of pool.
Thanks for being my dad. For being a part of my life, and for the thousands of tiny ways that you shaped me into the man I am now.
Rest in peace.
A Tribute to My Father
by Matt Converse on Saturday, November 7, 2009 at 11:36am
J.D. Willson – passed from this life on Friday, October 23 around 6pm. He is survived by his wife, Casey Willson, his daughters Tammy, Tonya, and Christina and two step-sons, Gurtch and myself. He was born in 1943. These are the dry recitation of facts that fail entirely to encapsulate the the elemental phenomenon that was my father. He was irrepressible, irresistible and incredible.
He met my mom in 1980; they were nigh-inseparable from that day on. If you could ask a 10 year old boy to define all the things he wanted in a father, once you got past “Fireman!” or “Astronaut!” you would almost certainly find he had listed every quality my dad displayed and embodied. He taught me how to throw a punch, catch a fish with a spear, run a trout/cat line, gut and clean a deer. He taught me how to plant and grow a garden. He taught me to hold my liquor, to shoot pool in dive bars, and how to approach women. Most of all, he made my mother happy.
He was full of stories. He had adventures and things to talk about. He could hunt, fish, prospect gold, use dynamite safely, shoot accurately, and play pool like a machine. My dad was really, nothing short of the most powerful figure in my life.
He used to sit with me on the porch, or in the living room and tell me about raising hell as a kid in Michigan, running ‘shine for his uncle, fighting with the football team, and doing farm work. He told me about getting rejected for military service during Vietnam because of a ruptured ear-drum and you could tell that while he was glad to have avoided going to hell, he was sad not to have served. Dad was a mix of contradictory feelings. Some of his stories are not fit for mixed company, and he was happy to explain them to me, even when I was probably too young to really understand. Some of them made me spontaneously erupt into laughter when the real meanings became clear later.
The early 1980s were hard on everyone financially. Mom and Dad both lost their jobs and we moved to a tiny, one-room, unfinished farmhouse in Oklahoma. Dad and I dug trenches and ran PVC pipe for water to the kitchen, but we still had to haul water in jerry-cans for showers/baths and to flush the toilet. We fished a lot. I learned a lot about survival from him that year. He never once got mad at a slightly squeamish kid who didn’t want to stick his fingers in a catfish’s mouth to take the hook out. He just kept at it until I did the deed.
Once, in jr. high school, I was in a terrible accident and nearly suffocated. My skin was blotched and stained from blood boiling to the surface for air. My eyes were solid red from the exploded capillaries. My hair was tangled and my clothes were torn. I suspect that if someone had been casting a zombie movie, I would have gotten a lot of camera time. It really was that bad. I shambled home via public buses with people shying away from me and staring (and in LA, that takes some doing!). I hurt everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Dad was preparing for a trip to the desert outside of Barstow that weekend, and saw me shuffling up the hill, clutching my bag and looking like death warmed over. My heart was heavy and I felt like hell. But dad, he knew what I needed to hear.
“Son, I hope the other guy looks worse.” That lanced my pain and let me laugh and cry and scream all at once. He took me into the house, got me cleaned up, soaked me in ice water to reduce the swelling and bruising and never once let me feel like I’d failed or been stupid. Dad took me on the desert trip and didn’t complain once about how I slowed him down, drank too much of our precious water, or that I kicked him in the shins while we slept in the bed of the pickup truck. That was him, strong, supportive, unstoppable and kind.
I’m going to miss you dad. I’m going to miss calling you an ugly old man and having you tell me I’m an ugly kid so we’re even. I’m going to miss you telling me you’re not too old or too short to kick my ass. I’m going to miss you sharing a quiet drink and a quick game of pool.
Thanks for being my dad. For being a part of my life, and for the thousands of tiny ways that you shaped me into the man I am now.
Rest in peace.
What a beautiful tribute to an awesome dad who shaped the man you came to be! You were blessed to have him in your life and so was your mother.
ReplyDeleteOur sons are awesome men, both of them, although sometimes they don't see it. JD was a blessing. This is our fourth Christmas without him although only slightly more than three years) and our "Santa" is sorely missed.
ReplyDelete