My Father passed away August 23, 2019 and we laid him to rest on August 30, 2019 – he was 81 years old. The funeral was stiff and religious and everything that He wasn’t. I give my sisters and I a bit of grace because we’ve never planned a funeral before and the only Funeral Home in town gave less than stellar services.
The largest complaint I have about the service, aside from all the praying, was the Eulogy.
Written by me.
In a sweating panic of fear and confusion.
I had 6 tabs open on Google with examples and instructions for writing the perfect Eulogy and it didn’t help in the slightest. I spent 5 hours banging my head on the keyboard, swearing liberally and snapping at The Viking every time he walked in the door. I sent a frantic, curse-y, all-caps Messenger post to my sisters vowing off even going to the funeral. I was utterly humiliated by the end result because it did no justice to my Father.
The largest obstacle, for me, was the person who would be reading the Eulogy – a devout, religious man who “wouldn’t say ‘Shit’ even if he had a mouthful of it”*. He is a perfectly wonderful man but my Father was the antithesis of a devout and religious man. I have very few humorous stories of Dad that don’t involve sex or bodily functions and those are exactly the type of stories that could cause a devout and religious man to pass out at the podium.
I don’t know why Dad specifically requested this man to give the Eulogy. Perhaps he couldn’t think of anyone else? Who knows? I also don’t know if I should have been the one to write the Eulogy because it’s more than just a little obvious that no religious, devout man would happily read anything I’ve written, especially in front of a full house of mourners. There was a single horrifying suggestion that I stand up in front of all those people and give the Eulogy, but the only way that was going to happen was if someone bodily dragged me, kicking and screaming and summoning demons, to the front of the room and physically tied me to the podium. Watching me try to talk to more than 3 people at a time is like watching an explosive train derailment in slow and graphic detail. No one should be subjected to that, and, frankly, I deserve points for recognizing that fact.
To make up for the ‘Worst Eulogy in the History of the World’, I’ve decided to post what I would rather have written. So, here goes….
Dad was the only son of an only son, born in New Mexico, USA on May 9, 1938. He grew up being the centre of attention until his young life fell apart. His father died when Dad was 9 years old and his mother died when he was 11 years old. An Aunt from Canada brought him to Alberta when he was 12.
Not one to dwell on tragedy, Dad decided his main occupation was to enjoy life and either amuse or disturb anyone and everyone around him. If he hasn’t offended you at some point in time, you probably didn’t know him. He was always telling you “where the bear shit in the buckwheat” and “don’t eat that Harry, that’s Horseshit!” He loved to “poke you with a sharp stick” then sit back and see what happened.
There was always a joke on deck; a gross one if he were sharing it with men, and only slightly less gross if he were sharing it with ladies. And every once in a while he left someone bleeding in his wake as he pursued the next laugh. He didn’t deliberately try to hurt people, it just happened while his sails were full and he was performing for his peeps.
Dad had another side to him, though. He was the man who plastered mud on a bee sting and straightened the handlebar on my bike. When a neighbourhood bully smacked a big rock with a bat and it hit me in the stomach, Dad hauled me to the kid’s father, pulled my shirt up and showed the damage. The result was never in question once Dad was involved.
He taught us all to change a tire, check the oil and add fluids to our vehicles. We all learned to drive in a red Ford Courier truck – no power steering, no power brakes, a 4-speed manual transmission. We learned how to saddle a horse and ride. How to chop wood and build a campfire. We all learned to work hard and to take pride in everything we do. He was MacGyver and John Wayne rolled into one – he could do and/or fix anything. I asked him once if he minded having 4 girls and no son. Without a thought, he said “There isn’t a single thing that a girl can’t do, that a boy can, except pee standing up.” Of course, we all know that girls can pee standing up too, but we are definitely less accurate. He made his point though.
When Dad walked into a room, everyone knew he was there; he wasn’t a man to be ignored. Not for long, at any rate. He was hard-headed and stubborn as a rock. He rubbed people the wrong way many times and offended others and blustered his way through delicate situations like a Sherman Tank. If there was a chance to ‘torment’ you, rest assured he would find it. If you happened to disagree with him, his eyes would spark and snap and he would carefully and quietly tell you exactly how and why you were wrong and that was the end of that.
He was also the man who listened to an excuse and told you to find your ‘sympathy’ between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis’ in the dictionary. He was the guy who explained what an Orgy was when I was 8 years old and saw the word scratched on the bathroom wall at school:
“You know that thing under the bridge in the story Three Billy Goats Gruff? Well that was an Ogre and when it’s just one Ogre, it’s called an Ogre. But when you have more than one, like two or three of them, they are called an Orgy. And do you know what more than three Ogres are called? An Orgasm!”
Truth. Seriously.
It was always ‘colder than a well-digger’s ass’ or a ‘witch’s tit’ depending on his mood and things always worked ‘slick as goose shit in a tin horn’ whatever that meant. He sang songs like:
She was a great big fat girl twice the size of me
And you ought to see her when she squats to pee
She has hair on her snatch like the branches on a tree
Oh Nellie put your belly next to me**
Or….
I love to go swimming with bow-legged women and swim between their legs
There were plenty more of them, too. At a family reunion about 10 years ago, my sisters and I realized that we only knew the naughty version of nearly every campfire song ever written. We opted out of the sing-along in favour of another activity, obviously.
Dad loved life and loved people and loved a good joke. He was happiest in the middle of a crowded room, bull-shitting and swapping stories. And, he was the best story-teller I’ve ever met and I’ve met my share of story-tellers. He was honest and hard-working and always ready to lend a hand, as long as you understood who would now be in charge. He was a Construction Foreman in the Oil Patch after all, and he knew how to get things done.
The last couple of years were difficult for Dad. Cancer didn’t care how tough he was or how angry he got. It wouldn’t be bullied or intimidated or ignored. He never gave in to despair though, and he didn’t go without a helluva fight.
He was the rock in the family, steady and dependable and always there if we needed him.
And we loved him. Rest in Peace, Dad.
He leaves his wife, Lois, 4 Daughters, 10 Grandchildren and 6 Great Grandchildren. The world is a poorer place without him.
*Another of Dad’s favorite sayings.
**Honestly. Can you see a devout and religious man reciting this?