In Memoriam: Alfred P. Walter (1941-1997) |
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Some favorite memories of my dad:
Tossing
the football to me in the backyard of our house in Northglenn, Colorado
and
telling me, after every overthrown pass that sailed into the neighbors'
yard,
that if I could touch it, I should catch it. Sleepwalking downstairs to
my
basement room at 5:15 in the morning to wake me up for 8th grade
basketball
practice. In the pulpit at the Portland church, praying that the Lord
would
bless our hearts, but slipping on the last word and instead pleading
with God
to bless our flatulence (to use one of his favorite euphemisms).
Flirting
with my mom at the dinner table. In the driveway of our Owosso,
Michigan home
in the dead cold of January, trying to get the rusted-out station wagon
to
start, lifting the hood with his bare, aching hands because he
hadn't wanted to
spend the money on a pair of gloves for himself. Handing his wallet
with a
grin to one of the campers at Camp Corbett as four others lifted him to
throw
him into the pool. Peering at me over the lenses of the reading glasses
he had
perched so precariously on the end of his nose as he slowly worked his
way
through the sports section, smiling just a bit teasingly at me while I
chafed
in my impatience to have a crack at it. In Laurie's room at bed-time,
telling
her, one more time, everytime, the story of Goldilocks Laurie and the
Three
Bears, Laurie squirming with delight and yelling out "And suddenly. . . " just as he reached the good parts.
Near the
end of a long game of canasta, laying the seven of spades down atop a
huge
discard pile with a warning look at me, saying "I know I'm going to
regret
this."
Hiking
through the woods of Simonsen Road, always tacking on an extra mile or
two to
the total distance walked as we reviewed the hike afterward. Counting
over
2,000 antelope as he drove the car yet again through Wyoming, refusing
my
estimate that three-fourths of his tally must have been nothing more
than mile
markers. Informing me, in the middle of an FYC meeting, of the correct
pronunciation
of "irrevocable," one of my favorite words as a teenager. Bursting with
pride
and pleasure at his fiftieth birthday party when I did my imitation of
him
trying to remember someone's name. Staying up most of the night
with Tim when
he was sick, emptying the basins that his oldest son was filling with
the
restless contents of his protesting stomach. On his knees in the living
room
at 5:30 in the morning, praying for half-an-hour without pause, his
eyes
clenched tight, his hands frequently rising to his face in the
earnestness of
his pleas. Preparing the stuffing at Thanksgiving, every year coming up
with a
new secret ingredient -- summer sausage, a few choice cranberries,
maybe a bit
of ground orange peel -- to produce precisely the right flavor.
Knocking me to
the ground in our last game ever of one-on-one basketball, protesting
that all
he was doing was 'blocking me out' for the rebound.
In
his easy-chair, his arms and lap filled with his grandchildren and a
book. Working a crossword puzzle with Mom. Prospecting the dictionary
in a Scrabble
game. Discussing the Santiam's dismal fishing prospects with
Uncle Willie,
even when it had been years since he had grasped a pole or baited a
hook. Talking marbles with Aunt Nora Lee, TrailBlazers with Uncle Henry
and Uncle
Dale, Broncos with me and Tim for hours and hours and hours. Walking
Gleneden
Beach in bare feet, the legs of his trousers slightly rolled-up,
waiting for
the right moment to dip his toes in the frigid Pacific. Grinning
uncontrollably
at Lynnea and me in the midst of our wedding ceremony, telling us that
we could
continue to annotate if we so desired. Typing up my high school essays
and
telling me that he thought they deserved, well, maybe an A-, then
adding
quickly, "but I'm a tough grader." Smiling in his
chair as Lisa would come
over and give him a kiss on the cheek.
Telling
stories of his dad, the
buttermilk-drinker who once lost his false teeth in a barn, picked them
up,
wiped them off with his handkerchief, and popped them right back in.
Telling
stories of his golf-caddying days, of tying cats together by their
tails and
slinging them over clotheslines, of standing up in the pedals as he
rode his
bike down the hill on Maple Street, daringly releasing his grip on the
handle-bars
and catapulting into a spectacular crash that left a visible scar
between his
nose and upper lip. Telling the story of the track meet in which he
exploded
out into the lead over the best sprinters in the region only to break
into such
a huge grin when the crowd began chanting "Go, Alfie,
go!" that he ended up
losing the race. Telling us one last time how, after nearly flunking
out his
first term at Kent State, he had worked his tail off the next semester
and got
himself onto the Dean's list.
Hinting
around to anyone in the family that, boy, that car sure is dirty, and
boy, I
sure would love to see it get washed. Mentioning, because he could no
longer
take care of it himself, that boy, that lawn sure needs mowing, or boy,
that
pair of shoes someone left over by the door sure would find a better
resting
place in a bedroom closet. Hording boxes and boxes of kleenex under the
covers
of his hospital bed, just in case the third world war started and he
might be
found a little short of toilet paper sometime before the end of the
century. Sneaking off to look up terms in the medical dictionary at the
nurses' station
so that he would have plenty of ammunition to fire back with the next
time the
doctor didn't tell him what he wanted to hear. Reaching out to
take Mom's
hand, Tim's hand, Lisa's hand, Laurie's hand, my
hand, or anyone else's from
his lovingly extended family who came to visit him in his sickbed.
Smiling for
us through his pain, his heart trying desperately to fail on him, his
mind
working still more desperately to keep himself going, fighting to the
last
possible minute, outliving all his doctors' predictions,
wringing more out of
his life than should have been possible, giving strength to us in our
grief
even when he had none left to give to the working of his own body.
Asleep, his
face peaceful, his mind, soul, and broken heart finally at rest.
We
had hoped that things would turn out differently, of course. We had
hoped that
his long ordeal, his unspeakable pain and suffering, would end with a
transplant. We had hoped that he would get more time to spend with us,
enjoying the life he loved so much. But one way or another, all of us
who saw
him in the hospital these past few weeks, struggling and overcoming the
ever-mounting odds merely by drawing a new breath every few seconds,
all of us
who watched him endure procedure after procedure, machine after
machine,
episode after episode, all of us -- and most of all, those of us
closest to him
in his immediate family -- wanted his ordeal to end sooner rather than
later,
even if the only resolution possible turned out to be the one with
which we are
all coping today. And that must be our comfort, knowing that finally,
he is at
rest, that the long dark night of his heart's failure has
finally dawned in
peace.
On
behalf of my family, and on behalf of my dad, I would like to thank you
all for
your attendance of this service, because if you knew anything at all
about Fred
Walter, you know that he is somewhere right now taking a head count of
everyone
gathered here today, padding the numbers ever so slightly because
he's pretty
sure he just spotted someone heading off to the bathroom, pleased at
any rate
to see you all here on account of your feelings for him. I'd
also, of course,
like to thank you all for the affection and support you lent to my Dad
and to
us over the years. Dad thrived on you, your interests, your opinions,
your
hardships, and your triumphs. And most of all, he appreciated all the
kindnesses you have shown him through his long illness.
Knowing
as he did, as we all did, that he was becoming weaker and weaker these
past few
years, knowing that his time on this earth was growing short, Dad
predictably
requested that this service not be a somber or overly solemn occasion.
That's
a tough request to fulfill, of course. Even though we would rather,
finally,
have the pain of his long burden shifted from his shoulders to ours,
even if we
would rather grieve his loss than see him stretched still longer on the
rack of
his life, we cannot easily find it in us to celebrate his passing from
our
lives, however sincerely and thankfully we celebrate the end of his
illness. At best, we seek a cause to smile through our tears, a means
to expand our
focus to perceive the greater good. Each of us must find his or her own
means,
but I would like, in closing, to share with you one of mine, a poem
that I'm
sure Dad would have known and liked, a short poem about a purposeful
traveller
who pauses in his night-time journey for a moment of contemplation, a
poem that
has, for many years now, made me think of my dad: Robert Frost's
"Stopping by
Woods on a Snowy Evening."
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
The promise
of
his life has been
fulfilled, the long miles set before his feet measured to their end.
Though we
may not be able to rejoice, we can, at least and at last, give thanks
that his
toil has ended and that his time has come to sleep.