I Remember Dad
Alcoa and the Air Force
Two things predominate my memory of Dad. He worked for Alcoa and was a meteorologist in the Air National Guard. As a four-year-old, walking down the basement stairs in the house on H Street I proclaimed, "I want to work at Alcoa and be in the Air Force, just like Dad". Somehow that is my first memory of him. He was tall, dark-haired, and outwardly very self-assured. Stubbornly strong he relished in telling the story of the furnace in the house he grew up in that burned sawdust. As soon as he could handle a shovel it was his job to move the sawdust from one side of the basement to the other. "I would shovel until I thought I couldn't lift another shovelful, then shovel ten more". He was a trumpet player and earned a music scholarship to the University of Portland. He chose however to major in Industrial Administration and worked about 20 minutes away from the house on H Street, down Lower River Road at the Alcoa Vancouver Smelter. Moments after he arrived home from work he would announce "Let's Eat!" And his four kids would drop what they were doing and run to the dinner table. Enter Dave, the picky eater. There were several occasions when I was implored to eat by a fist being pounded on the table and the "Eat Becker, EAT!" command directed squarely my way. In the 1930's and early forties when Dad grew up I think he very often left the dinner table wanting more, maybe even hungry, so it was a complete aberration to have a child at the table he provided that did not clean his plate. One particular evening Mom had prepared Swiss Steak. I am sure to an adult palate it was delicious but it was too rich, maybe too sophisticated for my taste. I drug my feet and poked at the food until as everyone else was finished I was told that I could leave the table when I was done. As Mom left her post at the kitchen sink I surreptitiously disposed of the remains of my meal in the garbage can under the sink. When she returned to my empty plate she assumed I had thrown the remaining meal away and gently admonished me, "Never throw food away". The dinner psychology changed when Dad just asked me if I was going to eat the dinner and if I said no, he would divide the plate between himself and my brother Steve. This improved the odds that I would eat, but just as often later in my youth Mom would just make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
The house on H Street is on a corner 100 by 100-foot lot bordered by a concrete retaining wall. Dad often described the lot as a quarter acre. A key feature of the front yard was a large Horse-Chestnut tree.
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| 2815 H Street |
Tuesday the twentieth of August 1963 would have been my fourth birthday and the next Saturday found Dad and I lining up in front of the Hollywood Theater in Portland for a matinee showing of "How The West Was Won". It was a rare event in those days to be alone with one parent and to be treated to a "Smarties" candy at intermission. And even a young heart like mine could not help but go pitter-patter anytime Debbie Reynolds took the screen. But I remember the movie mostly because I was so taken with the music. I asked to get the album of the soundtrack and must have received it as a Christmas present. Over the years the well-worn and warped vinyl was lost to time but the album made a reprise on CD years later and suddenly I was amazed again with the improved fidelity and actually hearing the tubas and bass drum on the Main Theme. Many times I thought about Alfred Newman imploring them for more. OK, it was actually me conducting. What I wouldn't give to have been in the MGM Studios that day.The Portland Rose Parade
The Rose Festival in Portland, is a great time for kids, with parades, rides on the Portland waterfront and every kind of snack food a mid-way vendor might offer. But one year was different because we went for one specific purpose; to see Dad march. In 1964 the US Air Force Marching group participated in the Rose Parade. Knowing none of the details of how this group was formed I assume Dad volunteered to march that day. It was a proud and hectic moment as we looked for Dad in the group from the sidewalk, then after catching a glimpse of him, we ran around the corner to see him one more time. Mom knew the parade route and certainly knew every street in Portland having grown up there since childhood. He was in his element as a stoic Second Lieutenant in a seamless parade march, looking straight ahead in his signature black-rimmed glasses. The longer coat and Air Force patch on the arm curiously come back to my memory in black and white, along with the sidewalk and streets we ran through. But his uniform must have been the Air Force blue winter uniform (shade #84).
Hough Elementary
Hough Elementary was a mile away on Daniels Street and I watched both my sister Terri and brother Steve make the trek to kindergarten and offer various reports on the trials and tribulations of "going to school". My sister Terri has a flair for the dramatic and got me thinking that kindergarten might not be the cup of tea I bargained for. When it was time for me to go to kindergarten, I told Mom of my worries about going to school one evening as she stood at the sink and washed the dinner dishes. She suggested that I go upstairs and talk with Dad. I ran up the stairs to the office he had fashioned in a large walk-in closet in the master bedroom. As he sat at the desk with a green metal desk lamp offering the only light I approached him somewhat trepidatiously. He must have heard me run up the stairs because turned as if he needed a break and put his hand on my shoulder and asked me what was on my mind. I shared my anxiety with him and he very assuringly told me I would do fine. A year later we had the exact conversation about the first grade in the upstairs bathroom as I got dressed for church one morning. I think at that time I still needed help putting on my belt. He was just as reassuring and said "the first grade will be just like kindergarten." He, of course, was right. Over the years we had many conversations about school. Perhaps the most difficult was when in my early college career I told him I was thinking about majoring in Art History, which left him speechless. Luckily for both of us, that desire only lasted two quarters. I took an Art History survey class and did enjoy it immensely. At Portland State, I took the real thing for two quarters and transferred my major to Art History. In the first Design class, I knew I was sunk when the teacher said, "from your portfolio...". So it was Business Administration for me as well.
My artistic skills were on full display during one of those kindergarten classes, as I fashioned a frog out of clay, painted it green, and at the suggestion of Mom presented it to Dad as a paperweight for his desk at work. A cost accountant in the 1960s would certainly need more than one. After a time I inquired about the frog paperweight and Dad solemnly reported that the janitor had knocked it off of his desk. The truth is lost to history but it did not diminish my pride that he took it to work and must have at some point placed it on his desk.
The kids occupied bedrooms on the second floor. Terri and Karen slept in a double bed in the east side bedroom and Steve and I each had a single bed in the southeast corner room. Bedtime was typically orderly and involved brushing teeth, putting on pajamas, saying prayers, and a kiss goodnight from one or the other parent. Seems like Terri had the best benediction list as the end of her prayer included "God Bless Mommy and Daddy and Grandma and Grandpa and..." on and on and on. I kept my list rather short and didn't mind going to sleep except during those long summer evenings that seems to linger forever. One of those summer nights we heard the Goodyear blimp through an open window and all four kids snuck out to investigate. The blimp seemed to almost hover right above H Street and 29th for a moment as it made a loop turning to the west. All four kids crossed H Street and headed down 29th following the low-flying dirigible. I mention this incident because it was significant that there was no intervention by either parent. We did not even meet them on the way back in the house. I can imagine now that they were otherwise occupied and I guess it just speaks the innocence of the time and the safety we all felt in that neighborhood.
The Burning Barrel
In the 1960's a common sight in the backyard of any home was a rusty fifty-gallon barrel with holes on the bottom to promote airflow and keep a fire going. Trash, newspapers, yard debris were all dumped in the barrel and burned. Lots of rain would put it out, or if the kids were lucky, keep it just smoldering for days. A nearby stump and a stick would allow us to "play with the fire", something that was strictly forbidden, but nonetheless did occur. During one particularly adventurous session, Steve stuck the stick down in the barrel and drew back a newspaper that had just caught fire and launched it into the air and watched the flaming missile drift to the ground to the delight of the kids in attendance that happened to include most of the next door neighbors. Unfortunately, we forgot it was Saturday and Dad and the neighbor's dad Jerry were just walking around the south side of the house toward the southeast corner where all the action was taking place. I had never seen an adult move so quickly as Dad did that day and he did not miss a beat with the mass spankings that ensued. All 7 kids got some form of a swat or another in an epic display of disapproval and probably fear by the young fathers.
Vancouver Lake and other fishing holes
There is a season for fishing in the Pacific Northwest and at Vancouver Lake the trophy-size fish are carp. Not known as a delicacy but great fertilizer for young trees in the yard. Dad had recently removed our holly tree and planted 6 Eastern Poplars on the 29th Street side of the front yard. So why not "take the kids fishing and see if we can feed the trees with the catch" might have been at least part of the motivation for a couple of those excursions. Not needing a license until your twelfth birthday might be another. Burnt Bridge Creek when it slows down to exit through a conduit beneath Lakeshore Drive to Vancouver Lake was one such fishing hole. Hiking down a mostly overgrown dirt trail and standing on a narrow patch of sand to cast out lines was a bit of a trick in itself for a 5-year-old. But there I was and very quickly I was reeling in a large for me carp. Dad grabbed the line and helped me land the lethargic, probably ready-to-die anyway carp and then the question of how to move the large fish to the car came up. Very quickly I realized it was my task. Soon I was throwing the fish over my shoulder like a bag of flour and heading back up the narrow path to the car. It was just getting dark when we were headed up the steps from the sidewalk to the side yard and the girls made it to the kitchen before me and I heard something like, "Keep those fish out of my kitchen". Hearing Mom's instructions from the porch Dad turned around and directed me to the desired tree and we buried my catch without ceremony.
The next catch I remember was at a slough further out on Lower River Road. It was an easier walk from the car but a muddier bank which proved slippery I am certain we brought more mud into the car. But this catch was cleaner. It was a catfish and knowing how that species might survive for a while Dad brought out a bucket when we got home. I named it Sam and it had a home in that bucket outside for several days. Sam was eventually floating whiskers up and I thought Mom might endeavor to fry up the catch but once again she did not allow the catch in her kitchen.
But the "Big Fishing Trip" in the offing would be a classic adventure. Steve and I woke up early and were joined by Dr. Paul Palmer and his kids for a ride to Ilwaco, WA, and a fishing expedition on a boat. The Palmers were Air Force friends from Eglin AFB. I might have said "Deep Sea" fishing but I am not sure we made it out of Baker Bay. The boat was old, might have been a 30 footer and was bouncing like a cork on the incoming waves. I can remember swells well above the freeboard of the boat, and a curious concrete pier in the middle of the bay that must have been a marker of some sort. But Steve and I both became seasick before we could land a fish. Relegated to small benches below deck I did look out to see Dad and one of the the Palmer kids land a couple of nice size salmon. Dad expressed his disappointment at our inability to stick it out on deck, and I might have, but since I did throw up on myself the crew wanted the loose cannons below deck. Classic adventures many times have casualties but at least this time it was only pride.
The Break-Up
Funny how you get a sense of what money was about even as a 7-year-old in the 1960's when no one even discussed the price of a house in polite company. But there was tension between Mom and Dad that was evident if only superficially. Terri explained in an elementary way how Dad did not want to spend money and Mom did. There was a myriad of problems between Mom and Dad but this is the one that my young mind could cling to. The only argument I ever saw was an episode of voices raised one day and within a week or two Mom and the four kids moved to a house down the street on East 24th Street. I was in the car with Dad one day soon after when he picked up some mail. In those days Mom was "Mrs. Roger E. Becker" on most correspondence. I read it out proudly as I examined the letters in the stack. He very deliberately but somehow casually explained that there was now no "Mrs. Roger E. Becker". I am certain I did not understand the distinction and certainly had no idea of how that fact would haunt him for many years. Mom was bequeathed the 1956 Cadillac Coupe De Ville that was ten years old and tired so Dad had to car shop. We made a couple of trips to Union Avenue in Portland and closely examined a 1958 Cadillac Coupe De Ville. Note the trend. Dad would have a Cadillac in his driveway until his 1979 Cadillac Coupe De Ville was towed away in 2019. But back to the '58. It was white and the seats were white leather with contrasting black cloth inserts. There was a fold-out armrest in the middle of the backseat and of course, the outboard armrests had ashtrays. These features alone were enough to sell me and there was a look of delight on Dad's face as he jumped in the car and said "It's ours".
Dad made the decision to leave Alcoa since staying would have meant a transfer to Pittsburg and yearly trips for the kids to visit. He said very often that that move would make him "feel like I was not a dad". He took a job at a small accounting firm in Portland initially and then moved on as the accountant for Chown Hardware in northeast Portland. He also worked part-time as a bartender at the Quay in Vancouver. I don't remember him not having at least two jobs, three counting the
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| Summer 1967 |
Typically each kid's birthday involved a "date" with Dad for a kid's choice dinner and it seems like $25.00 cash. Dad was punctual for every one of my birthdays and very often my choice was Hill Villa in SW Portland. One of those evenings found us silently watching the cars travel over the Marquam Bridge in the distance. He made a very philosophical comment about observers only seeing a glimpse of light but a very complicated machine and people and their story being the true picture. On the way home as we crossed that very bridge I commented, "And now we are just a glimpse of light". He glanced my way as he drove and said, "Exactly".
Weekend Dad
When I think about having divorced parents a name automatically pops in my head. Warren Mecham. We were in the 4th grade together at Marshall Elementary. When we found out both of our parents were divorced we looked at each other for a moment knowingly. We had a chat about it one recess and described our visitation schedules. His being very different from my own. Dad picked us up on Thursday evening. We ate dinner, watched some TV which very often meant Adam-12 and Star Trek. Took us back home at 8:30 or 9 PM then picked us up on Saturday for a sleepover and church on Sunday. Warren alternated two weeks with each parent. Yikes. I described this to my bother and sisters and they were appalled. And it was probably all Dad could handle and just enough of a break for Mom. Dad was working on his CPA and Masters Degree which he completed the same year. Must have been 1970 or so.
During this time he was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel in the Oregon Air National Guard. He spent 35 years as a meteorologist and many years as the commander of the 123rd Weather Flight in Portland, Oregon. I was always proud of his service and loved going to the airbase. It was a serious moment when we were waved through at the guard shack. Almost like crossing a border into a new country. My dad was recognized by most of the airmen pulling guard duty. But on one occasion he was asked for ID. We held our breath as the guard examined his card and then quickly waved us through. Many trips consisted of going up to his office which overlooked the fighter hanger. The plane I remember seeing in those days was an F-4 Phantom. Sitting there so serene it seemed more like a work of art. Metal bent and stretched over a massive engine. The F-4 was dubbed a triumph of thrust over aerodynamics because of its mass and bulk. The more cynical critics declared that it proved "anything could fly if you put a big enough engine on it." To me, it just looked cool. I also remember several dinners at the officers club. And once during a birthday reception, a pilot walked in, his orange flight suit looking casual among the blue dress uniforms. The room seemed to quiet down a notch, or maybe it was just me imagining myself asking for a ride. As I sit here now some 45 years later I realize that taking his four kids out to the airbase was not an easy thing to do. And a steak at the officers club might have been a value but feeding his family there was a treat when McDonald's still had a burger for 35 cents. I remember ordering anything I wanted.
Bonny Doyle
I have been trying to remember how we met Dad's first post-marital girlfriend, Bonny Doyle. She lived with a roommate in Hazel Dell and was just a few years younger than Dad. Things must have been Ok between her and Dad because I do remember going out to see her parents at least a couple of times in Amboy. Imagine showing up at your parent's house with your boyfriend and his four kids. But I remember her parents as friendly and they had even kept a toybox around of Bonny's old toys. I grabbed the Yo-Yo and Steve and I kept ourselves busy outside looking at the creek that ran through their backyard. She also accompanied us on a hike up Beacon Rock. I was met with some disdain as I descended the path down more quickly than everyone else when Dad's instructions were to stay together. Bonny gave me quite a disapproving look, that seemed quite motherly, as Dad scolded me about leaving the group. On the way home that day Dad was tired and wanted to close his eyes for a few minutes. So we stopped on the edge of Highway 14 and Bonny dutifully took the wheel of the 1958 Cadillac Coupe De Ville and steered it down Highway 14 toward Vancouver. Bonny was petite and I was impressed that she did not miss a beat driving that huge car, full of four kids and her snoozing boyfriend toward home. Bonny was always a good sport about having four kids around but the issue was that she wanted kids of her own and Dad, I am sure, was already looking into a vasectomy.
Ann of Portland Towers
Ann lived in Portland Towers, a large high-rise apartment complex in southwest Portland. There were a few dates and a notable trip to visit her parents in Longview, Washington. Their house was on a bluff overlooking the Lewis River. Seems like it was an informal dinner and afterwards the kids were seated on the floor in the front room watching television. Then something very odd happened. I didn't see it, but Dad and Steve both reported that Ann's' father poured beer from his glass on Steve's head. This was so strange that after we got home I said, "But he just spilled his beer accidentally, right?" But Dad emphatically described the gentleman casually pouring beer onto Steve's head. I am not sure if this incident disqualified Ann, but we did not see her parents again. There was a lot of buzz around the space program at this time and I remember Ann giving me a puzzle of the Moon. Pretty cool actually and Steve and I delighted in the detailed pictures of both sides of the Moon and list of Moon facts in the corners of the completed puzzle.
Enter Caroline and my future Step Brother David
Columbia Presbyterian Church might not be the most likely place to meet your second wife, but that is what happened to Dad. I first noticed Caroline as Dad chatted with her after choir rehearsal. The choir practiced after church and many times the kids were stacked in the back of the room and I really do not remember getting into too much trouble, but for a time we did go to an elderly couples home close by during choir practice. This might have afforded Dad time to chat with Caroline after practice without his kids interrupting the view. Sometime in the next few weeks we went out to Caroline's house on the Old Columbia Highway for dinner and met Lynne, Caroline's daughter. Caroline explained that her son David would not be joining us for dinner. He had wheels so I am sure he did not mind making himself scarce for a dinner that included his future step brothers and sisters. This and the fact that he had a '34 Ford hotrod project in the garage made him the coolest person on the planet in my world. Lynne, I believe was 4 years older than Terri, close to driving and in high school. This made her quite the sophisticated lady in my eyes and I remember her being as affable as she possibly could be with four kids invading her once-serene domicile.
Dad and Caroline had what I would consider now a brief engagement and were married at Columbia Presbyterian in December, I want to say 1969. As astonishing as it sounds Dad and Caroline knelt in the aisle as he sang "I Love You Truly" to her. For my taste he should have played the trumpet but her raptured look as he sang to her face-to-face was something to behold. Dad rented out the house on H street and
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Lynne disrupted my image of the serene domicile one evening as she gathered the four of us around the record player. She said, "I am going to play you a song, because I know you went through this too.." The song was Glenn Campbell singing,
You Better Sit Down Kids.
This was the first time I considered that Lynne and David went through a similar difficulty in their lives. And as the consequences of divorce linger we were all dealing with it still. I had met their dad, Richard Stanton, when the kids were invited to inspect his new Porsche 914 at his home which coincidentally was just a block from the house Mom and my stepfather Lee had purchased. Lee had a 1969 Porsche 912 and considered the 914 an abomination, but I would put the 914 in the "cool" category nonetheless. Mr. Stanton seemed rather distant, even stoic, but he had some fun with me as he explained that they had not found the engine in the car yet. Amazed at this revelation I curiously watched as he opened the front bonnet and rear trunk to the empty compartments. He then delighted at opening the mid-engine bay lid to show me the small partially hidden four-cylinder engine.
I don't remember spending much time at all with David but one evening did find us together in Caroline's front room, throwing things at each other. He also had a Samurai sword he liked to show off, but also wisely would not let me handle. We ended the session with him throwing a small couch pillow toward me. It missed low but succeeded in hitting a crystal candy dish that on its way from the coffee table hit me in the knee. The impact on my knee shattered the rim and lid of the candy dish. We cleaned up the shattered glass and placed the intact but now damaged article on the coffee table. David dutifully took responsibility for the calamity when Dad and Caroline returned. Caroline's concern was for my knee and when it was understood that I was uninjured she commented, "I never really liked that candy dish anyway". This was very gracious of her and diffused what could have been more discipline coming my way. There was also an instance while we were waiting for dinner one evening when we were both seated on opposite sides of the family room hearth, watching a glowing fire. David had disassembled a .22 cartridge and was dispensing small doses of gunpowder in his palm and tossing them in the fire as we both admired the small sparks and pops. Dad with the utmost deadpan incredulity expressed his displeasure by saying, "You are throwing gunpowder in the fire." David said just as deadpan "Yes". But the message was received and David desisted. There was a .22 rifle and a 12 gauge shotgun in the house that dad taught us to shoot and I remember tucking a .22 cartridge in my pocket. I don't believe I had the courage to show it to anyone and several weeks later I was in charge of the 12 gauge hunting for moles. Lynne was more than just a little bit nervous with an 11-year-old, toting a shotgun, wandering around the backyard. However, I didn't see even a blade of grass bend so there was no reason to discharge the weapon. During this assignment, I put the .22 cartridge back in the appropriate ammo box.
When I was 11 or so, Caroline, realizing how proud Dad was of his four kids, commissioned a local artist, Mary Ellen Cecil, to compose a portrait as a surprise for an occasion I think was his birthday. Somehow she arranged with Mom to get the four kids to the artist's house for initial sketches which were used for the final composition. It was a headshot of each child with a green background. The results are still in dispute. The likeness of me, of all people, was perhaps the most accurate and flattering but something was or was not captured in the images of the other three kids that left us all kind of scratching our heads. At the unveiling, Dad was trying not to be incredulous but Caroline immediately picked up on his lack of enthusiasm for the images. Despite this, the portrait hung on a wall in Dad's den for many, many years. Its significance would only grow with time, and I give Caroline full marks for the attempt to delight her husband.
A Tender Heart That Could Not Be Expressed
Tragically the wedded bliss of Caroline and Dad did not last long. For all my father's strengths, Caroline was perhaps the first person to truly understand and experience what a problem Dad's drinking had become, and raise the issue with him. With Dad at his National Guard duty one weekend Caroline drove us home after a visit. She expressed her concern and dismay exclaiming to all four kids that she "did not want to be around someone that was intoxicated all the time". Dad's explanation for the break-up was Caroline's controlling nature. She did like things a certain way, and taking Caroline and Lynne to the house on H street had to be an adventure for all three of them. They did separate for several months and during that time Dad did get a vasectomy. Somehow Caroline heard this and convinced him that her use of a particular prescription had played with her balance of hormones to the point that she was culpable for some of their incompatibility. So for a time, they were back together but ultimately did end their marriage.
Dad spent a great deal of time depressed and even "swore off women" for a time. But then there was a succession of girlfriends that might have caused me to accuse him of being indiscriminate. By this time I was in junior high, trying to figure out what having a girlfriend might entail and by the eighth grade I determined that this was a personal goal. Coincidentally the summer after the eighth grade I happened to see a girl sitting on her front lawn surrounded by neighborhood kids, mostly admiring young boys. I was on my bike and circled back on the next block to get another look. Love, at first sight, doesn't cover it. It was complete infatuation.
This: "a feeling of foolish or obsessively strong love for, admiration for, or interest in someone or something: strong and unreasoning attachment." The textbook definition expanded to absolutely overwhelming infatuation. For the next four years I was in her orbit, the gravity fading only a couple of times, and even months after our final breakup the last time I ever spoke to her I said "I love you".
My compulsion and love for this young girl are evidence of an unspoken inheritance from my dad. In quiet moments he very often told me how much he loved Mom. And in quiet moments Mom told me the reason she left him was the need to be loved. Thus Dad's heart that was full of love for his first wife, his high school sweetheart, could not be expressed. Perhaps his soul did not even recognize it as love at the time but something stronger. Something that made him weak in ways he was unable to admit. He could not express the reality that his need for her was even greater than his love for her.
Back home
Late in my senior year of high school, Steve and I moved back with Dad in the house on H Street. Dad was genuinely happy to have his boys back home. But he would soon take a job in Coos Bay, Oregon and live with his girlfriend Joyce in her mobile home that was moved from Oregon City. The next school year Steve was off to the University of Washington in Seattle to pursue his degree. This left me in a mostly empty large house, so Dad agreed that I could try renting a few rooms to friends. Somehow my grandparents had been made aware of the plan and my grandmother Edris asked me directly about taking in friends as renters. There might have been a few out-of-control parties and things did come to a head when after one over-the-top New Years' party there was a fist size hole in the living room wall. I was ready to give up the parties and college weekend chaos so, Dad wound up renting the lower level of the house to my friend from next door Scott Miller, who was recently married.
In early 1980 Dad purchased a new to him 1979 Cadillac Coupe De Ville and gave me the use of a 1969 Cadillac Coupe De Ville that he had driven since 1972 or so. A big comfortable car no doubt but as happens there was a gas crunch on and $5.00 worth was just enough to get me to Portland State and back. And having 130,000 miles on the odometer gave it one or two glitches that might need a screwdriver once in a while. However, it was great for a drive-in movie so one evening saw me, my date, and Terri and Jack at the drive
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| 1969 Coupe De Ville |
in enjoying whatever the movie de jure might have been. Unfortunately while driving over the "bumps" on the way out of the drive in the exhaust pipe came loose and exposed us to the low rumbling sound of that 472 cubic inch motor. Then a few miles down the road the headlights started dimming due to a loose wire on the alternator. I knew how to fix the loose wire but Terri was hysterical over the bomb the had '69 become. I was rebuilding the engine on my 1953 Chevrolet at the time and when that was complete the '69 went to Steve in Seattle. It saw limited use before the transmission went out, which was fixed but the death knell was a subsequent engine failure.
Dad, Joyce and Nuptials
Dad did wind up marrying his girlfriend Joyce in a ceremony that was witnessed by my sister Terri. Their drive out to another county for the ceremony and lack of invitations and announcements added to the curiosity if not the infamy of the match. Joyce was always as nice as she could be to me and she had a 1976 Chrysler Cordoba that I had the occasion to drive a couple of times. I think that was the smoothest most comfortable car I had ever driven, all of Dad's Cadillacs included. But she was a dedicated chain smoker, maybe a little rough around the edges and seemed to know what buttons to push during an argument. But, she was also the first reformer that saw Dad quit drinking for several months.
Dad and Joyce attended my wedding in June 1981. Dad as the Processional Trumpeter. He had not played in years and did ask me at least twice if I really wanted him to play. I assured him that however it came out it was fine with me. During the rehearsal, he was warming up and displayed a brilliant tone in the higher register on that Silver King horn and I was really impressed. Made me wish I picked a piece that showcased that range. In any case, he did an excellent job on the
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| Ed and Edris 1981 |
Sadly when Dad's job in Coos Bay was done so was his relationship with Joyce. There had been several "incidents" at the mobile home while Dad was away. He bought a motorcycle and on one occasion drove it back to Portland only to find that someone had mysteriously put sugar in the gas tank of his 1979 Cadillac while he was away. He took the car out to get looked at and fortunately the sugar had turned into a piece of hard candy in the gas tank. On this trip, someone vandalized the seat of his motorcycle. A pretty curious turn of events for a quiet trailer park in Coos Bay Oregon. I am not accusing anyone of anything but getting out of Coos Bay seemed like a great idea.
Soon after Dad took a job as CFO of Steinfeld Pickles in Portland. He was immediately involved with a revamp of a computer system that he proudly called "very user-unfriendly". I was working on my bachelor's at the time and asked him if I might interview a production manager for a paper I was working on. One of the Steinfeld sons was in charge of production and I spent a few hours chatting with him and viewing the production line. They happened to be bottling mustard that day and he spoke of the risk they faced as industrial accidents were on the increase. I considered this as a subject, but due to not wanting to dig for and then reveal details about my dad's company I chose to write about my experience at Ford Motor Company a few summers before. Either way, Dad was more than willing to help proofread my papers and gave me some vital information, especially on one case study. He read the case study which had the original company names masked, and said "Oh this is a Tektronix case study". He came up with the quintessential thesis statement and it was cake from there. During this time Dad also completed the complete curriculum for the Air War College, the senior Professional Military Education school of the U.S. Air Force. Basically the Executive MBA of the Air Force.
Dad and Kathleen
During this time Dad was involved in a few dance clubs and did enjoy going out and shaking a leg on Friday and Saturday nights. On one of these evenings, he met Kathleen. He was very taken with her especially when he found out they shared the same birthday. She seemed a very stead and capable person. She worked in a nearby clinic in Vancouver and liked to drink beer. Well, you can't have it all. After another short engagement, Kathleen and Dad were married in the front room of the house on H Street in front of the now three kids and a few people from the Unity Church they attended. The family portrait that day saw me smiling a big smile that included a prayer for Dad that Kathleen might be the one.
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| Roger and Kathleen's Wedding Day |
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| Family Portrait 2008 |
Recently Steve let me know that Kathleen's remaining days were probably few so I booked a flight to Portland to be there for what might befall the family. Amazingly Kathleen rebounded as many times happens and I was able to hold her hand and to her bright blue eyes tell her how happy I was that she was Dad's companion for these many years. Steve and I then sat down with Dad and shared many things about the family happenings. Though his memory is all but gone he is friendly and asked me the appropriate statistics on my family and current events.
Making my home in Houston I have avoided many of the gritty duties, details and conversations I am sure took place between Steve, Terri and Dad of late. I owe them a debt that cannot be repaid, so for now I will say thank you to Terri and Steve for being trailblazers throughout my life and to Dad and Mom who gave me this wonderful journey to experience.
Dad, Steve and Dave sing a hymn
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