1953/59/64/70/81/87/92/98...‏

'Fmy source is correct, 'Stainless' had eight birthday anniversaries fall on Thanksgiving. So right for such a cook, such a gourmand.
Drinkin' a salute to him!
-brad

The Ceramic Insulator

I have been wanting to share this story for awhile but wanted to wait until the found the item it was about, which I did during my last trip to Eastern Oregon. This story is from a couple portions of email's sent to me from Jenny Gomez, one of Dad's long term girlfriends who he lived with for many years. It is about a ceramic insulator. One of the first entries on this blog mentions the insulators. For those unfamiliar with them, they are ceramic, glass, plastic, etc material that can resist electrical currents check out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Insulator_(electrical). Glass are what I was most familiar with and what Dad mostly collected. Next time you are driving by power lines out in an older area check out the lines - I bet you'll see the multi-colored glass insulators. Growing up they were paper weights on my Dad's desk, or lined up on shelves.

Here is how the email from Jenny goes:

"There is one story of an obscure item that keeps weighing on my mind. I
think your Dad is pushing me to tell it. It's about an insulator.


As you know we went far and wide hunting for antiques. Every weekend or any
time we had a weeks vacation together. Years ago we went camping and our goal
was to hit every ghost town listed on the map (of Oregon). We ended up in the
town of Cornucopia somewhere over near Eastern Oregon. As we were walking around the itty bitty town your Dad looked up into a tree and said something to the effect of "OMG" and began to climb it.

I was pretty dumbfounded. He took a knife out of his pocket and began to dig
into the trunk of the tree. By then I could see what he was after. Somehow
an insulator had been embedded way up into the trunk. It was probably put
there to string the lines at one time. I thought for sure someone was going
to call the cops on him. He finally got it out after a while and came down.
I said something like "run like hell" so we ran back to the car and took
off. After we were done laughing he handed it to me and said "I got this
just for you". And we broke out laughing some more. We used it to prop open
the bedroom door and so we could keep it separate from the others. It still
did until a few years ago."

She explained in that same email that after Dad had moved back to Huntington and
had collected all his various collections from the different places he had them
stored over the years that she had wrapped it up with the others for him and was
unsure if he even knew that she had done so. She added this last bit in another
email when I asked to post this,

"I remember you dad did make the comment after we left there that no one would
have called the cops because it would have taken them 2-3 hours to get there
depending on where they were in the county. There usually is one sheriff per
county out in the middle of nowhere. So the joke was on me!"

I really loved hearing this story since it was a perfect Dad story. I have a vague memory of him telling me about it as well. It really embodied his love of exploring and antiques, his sense of adventure and his constant playfulness. I was so glad when I found it packed up with several other insulators.

Dia de los Muertos

Halloween is my favorite holiday. Every year I host a pumpkin carving party and sometimes and sometimes a costume party as well. Since I was 18 I have always gone as someone who had died in an unusual or corny way. Morbid I know, but that is the kind of sense of humor our family has.

It all started when I was 18 and went as a Dead librarian who had Died of Boredom. It was so well received and also considered so odd that I was hooked and each year planned my costume at length, sometimes taking months to settle on a good idea. Over the years I have been Dorothy Parker after a Suicide Attempt, The Wicked Witch of the East (who gets smooshed by Dorothy's house), A Dead Dominatrix who was Strangled (by one of her clients), A Twisted Sister Groupie Who Overdosed, A Gypsy who wasn't so lucky with Snake Charming, A Flamenco Dancer Who Tripped and Broke Her Neck, Goldie Locks If The Bears got Her, Little Bo Peep Stampeded By Sheep, Little Miss Muffett Bitten By Spiders, and many others. I have won contests and confused and amused people for years.

Last year Dad died five days before Halloween. I canceled my pumpkin carving party because I was basically a zombie. I was functioning, but was in no place to put on a happy hostess face and encourage adult pumpkin carving like I had since 1997 (my first carving party). I was so numb I considered not celebrating Halloween at all but knew that was wrong. I learned after losing my mother at a young age the worst thing you can do after a terrible loss is to stop living, to stop doing the things you love to do. The best way to honor the dead is to live because by living they continue to as well through you. I was a little worried people might think my usual dead theme would be to much or even inappropriate, but I had already planned my costume and even talked to Dad about it (he always got a good laugh out of my bad pun costumes). So I joined my good friend Darnell and his boyfriend and other friends and went to West Hollywood where the big Halloween stuff goes down in Los Angeles (its a hard and fast rule that when in a major city the best Halloween party will always be in what is considered the gay district). I went as a College Student who had Studied Her Brains Out. We ran around the very crowded West Hollywood for several hours and while I can not say I was totally present or completely enjoyed myself, I am glad I went.

From the moment Dad died that week I had become obsessed with getting a tattoo that I had said I would get for him one day. Three years after my mother died my full sister Rhea and I got "mother" in Japanese Kanji tattooed on our left shoulder on Mother's Day. We had wanted to get a sister tattoo but could not agree on what to get, so had settled on the Kanji symbol after much debate. Rhea and I are so different we couldn't figure out anything else we both wanted on our bodies forever linking us as sisters other than our mother. We chose the Kanji because we thought she would have liked that more than the heart with the ribbon through it (though we were both very tempted to get that instead). When we showed Dad the tattoo he had liked it and many times over the years had asked when he'd get his, as in when we'd get "father" in Kanji. I had always said, don't worry, you'll get yours someday. So, the day after Halloween last year, on Dia de los Muertos, I went in and got "father" in Japanese Kanji on my right arm. Later both Rhea and Krista had said I should have waited for them, but I was overwhelmed with the need to get it and to get it on Dia de los Muertos. It is a day that we are suppose to honor and remember the dead, and that is just what I had to do.

This year I continued with my annual traditions and had my pumpkin carving party as well as wen out on Halloween. This year I went as a Dia de los Muertos doll, rather than my usual f/punny deaths that I like. Again, for whatever reason it was the only thing I was drawn to and wanted to be. This time of year will always be bitter sweet for me now, but I hope to what both my parents would have wanted me to do: to keep on living and celebrating life.

Happy Halloween

I usually saw my father over the summers and major holidays as a child and on holidays and other vacations as an adult, so I have no memory of my father dressing up for Halloween. Last year when I was putting the large slide show together of his life for the memorials this picture was emailed to me, so obviously he did at least sometimes dress up! If anyone else has pictures of other Halloween's I'd love to see as well as share them! Either way, happy Halloween.

Dad's Pictures of Huntington & "Down the River"

Two sides of my family have ties to the property down on the Snake River near Huntington in Eastern, Oregon. Several of my family members were born down by that river and it seems just as many have died there, or the very least will have their ashes scattered there.

A couple times as a child we lived in Huntington and spent time down the river, but I never felt the connection to that land the way my father and grandmother and others felt. In fact, for some of us younger generations we actually feared the river road and property. It didn't take a genius to see that the road was old and dangerous, and the stories of close calls or actual deaths only reinforced it. And while I have always loved nature, camping and hiking...the city girl in me (even before I realized I was a city girl) always thought being so far from civilization was very undesirable. Of course this and so many other things are why my father loved it.

After Dad died and we first started going through his things, we found a ton of pictures he had taken of Huntington and the river property the last few years of his life. There are hundreds of them. He also painstakingly chronicled his re-model of what we call "the blue house". He really had a wonderful eye, even what should be the most dreary of construction pictures are expertly framed and in perfect detail. Here are just a few of the pictures, and even I (the city girl) have to admit the land is just gorgeous. Dry as hell and still isolated, but absolutely beautiful.

Last Conversation

When a death is unexpected you do not get to choose what your last words were to the person who died. Your last conversation may have been brief, long, boring, or so ordinary you cant even recall it exactly, or perhaps for some unlucky souls, it was an argument or out right fight. If you're lucky, it was a good one.

The last time I spoke to my father was the Thursday before he died, so October 23rd, 2008. I was on my way home from work and though we often talked every week I had not talked to him since I had returned from the family reunion that had been held three weeks earlier. I had been overwhelmed with my full time schedule at school and work. But I called him that night like I often called him or my sister Rhea when I was driving home (I try and utilize every free moment fully!). We didn't talk long, maybe 20 mins or so. We were both tired. Me from my hectic schedule, Dad from cleaning up the debris from a fire that had burnt a whole trailer, and part of the trailer court and hill behind it on my grandmothers land. I could hear how tired he was in his voice.

What we talked about though was Christmas and how he had hoped he could come down to California to see Josslyn but thought he would have to wait till the next year. We both agreed she'd be even more fun at Christmas in another year but expressed hope that maybe things would fall into place for that year. Then we talked about me and when I was little and how he'd never forget the Christmas he and my mother got me a bouncing rocking horse. He said I had come out that morning and seen the horse by the tree and my eyes bugged out of my head and for a moment I stood like that, arms out, mouth open, as if in complete disbelief. Dad said once I recovered I made a bee-line for it and basically refused to get off of it for the next several hours (technically, the next several months - a few of my earliest memories involve it!) completely uninterested in any of the other gifts. I was 22 months old. My sister Rhea would be born just a few days later.

I know we talked about a few other things. I remember talking about school and how old I felt in all my classes packed full of 19 year olds. That I was aghast at some of the things they said and also wore. Dad laughed at me and said how he loved hearing me talk about being old and all the obnoxious young people. I know we talked about the particulars of the fire clean up and I remember cautioning him to take care of himself and to rest. At the end we wished each other a good night and said we loved each and promised to talk soon. I am so thankful for that. Of course had I known I would never speak to my father ever again, I would have added a few more things...maybe kept him on the phone just a little longer. But I am happy we had one of our typical bird walking funny conversations that we always had, and that we said we loved each other at the end. We usually did, but not always...but I am so glad we did that night.

I had been busy at work on Monday the 27th and my boss had never allowed personal calls at the office (i.e. no one had my office number) so when I left at 7:30pm and looked at my phone I had 5 or 6 missed calls. Most were from my sister's number, and one from my father's number. I remember knowing, immediately, that something bad had happened since Rhea knew my schedule and would never have called that many times unless something really urgent was going on. My immediate reaction was, well, at least Rhea and Dad are okay if they are both calling me. Rhea's message was first and she was obviously in real bad shape, she said something terrible had happened and she needed to talk to me. The next message should have been from my father since it was his number that called...but it wasn't him, it was my Aunts voice that came over the line. She was also vague but sad sounding in the message and as I hung up the phone to call her I remember begging in my mind that Dad would only be just hurt, hurt enough that he couldn't talk, but not so bad that he wouldn't ever talk....please, please, just be hurt. But of course, he was a lot more than hurt. By time I found out, he had already been gone for almost 24 hours.

In all the grief and rage that followed (I literally swore like a sailor in my Aunts ear for 30 minutes that night) days and weeks later, I went back to that final conversation many times, trying to retrace it and to remember it. Like I said, bits of it were so ordinary I cant recall them, I just know the main juicy bits of it. And I guess those parts will have to do and are much more than even my sisters have. Both had gone much longer without talking to him but have their own stories of their last (unknowingly) conversations with him. Ours just happened to be about me and my love of a rocking horse.

A Few of the Rynearson Daughters Contributions Part 3

This final installment truly is all Rhea. The only thing I contributed was encouragement since Dad was always so proud of Rhea's work (I found boxes of her printing he had kept while going through his things after his death) and the picture on the front. Rhea printed a really beautiful and completely perfect tribute card to be given out at both of Dad's memorials. I still can not look at it without tearing up.

I love everything about it. It is so Rhea and also so Dad and really reflects our playful sense of humor. I think my favorite part about it is Rhea's signature on the back, calling herself "daughter number 2". Since I was the first born and for many years was first child to grow very close to him many of his friends would always assume it was me when Dad introduced Rhea as his daughter (I lived in NYC for many years and visited less often, though spoke to Dad every week by phone). Rhea started saying, "Nope, I'm daughter number 2". She really owned it, making it sound as honorary as the silly "first born" title I had received.

My contribution to this was the photo of Dad holding the two Josslyn's. Dad's girlfriend Mary has two granddaughters. Josslyn and Grace. Our Josslyn was born on Grace's birthday and Rhea was unaware until after she has picked Josslyn as a name that not only did Mary's 2nd granddaughter bare the same name, but also the same unusual spelling! This picture was taken the day of our brother Eric, Dad's only son, funeral in late January 2008. We had all braved a snow storm to attend Eric's funeral and it was the only time in my then 30 years that I distinctly remember Dad wearing a dress shirt and tie. It was possibly the saddest thing I had ever seen, seeing my father dressed in black and grey standing in the snowy graveyard holding the flag the army had given Dad at my youngest siblings funeral. While he had changed back into more comfortable clothing, this picture was taken at Mary's sons home. Dad had both the Josslyn's on his lap and the two were hugging and pawing at ear other and Dad thought it was hilarious. We all did. Those children were a bright light in an otherwise bleak and heartbreaking week. While this picture isn't the best, it definitely captures Dad perfectly and is why Rhea picked it for her tribute. I am proud to be a part of it.

A Few of the Rynearson Daughters Contributions Part 2

To continue where I left off...since our 2001 collaboration went off so well, Rhea and I decided to give it another go the following year. We wanted to do something that honored our entire family, not just the Rynearson name. Rhea thought maybe we should mix up the various family names and make a new one.

One of the incredible facts about Rhea becoming a printer is that she is severely dyslexic. Her hand writing and spelling looks like a child's and she reads with great difficulty. Despite this, she is a wonderful printer - she can set type faster than anyone and has a low error rate since she can mimic what she sees and easily convert it upside down and backwards.

So despite how much Rhea has over come with her disability, she often turns to me with things requiring words. So she gave me the task of coming up with the new last name. I cant remember which of us first thought of creating a cross word puzzle, all I know is I also created it with impute from Rhea and sent it off to her for printing. The cross word wasn't actually printed on the letter press, but below is the final result of our work.

(please note you can click on any of the images in this blog to see the image larger!)

A Few of the Rynearson Daughters Contributions Part 1

Many of you know that my younger sister Rhea is a master printer at Studio Z in Northern California. I'm about to show you some of her work, but if you haven't seen it before you should check out Studio Z's website: http://www.studio-z.com/ Rhea's boss,Zida, does the design work, Rhea the print work. It is old world style letterpress printing, as in, they set type by hand and run the paper through presses, sometimes multiple times for a single piece of paper. It is highly specialized, labor intensive and rare. They use only the highest end paper and Rhea will painstakingly work on each project, ever a perfectionist. There are only something like a dozen such companies in all of the United States. Any one who knew our father would already know without me having to say that he was pretty impressed by this. When he visited Rhea he would spend hours at the shop with her mesmerized by all the equipment. Rhea says he also had a bit of a crush on Zida, but that's no surprise.

Ever since Rhea and I were young we have occasionally collaborated on projects together. We are very different in so many ways - but when it comes to creativity we both inherited our parents artist eyes and often what I can imagine but can not create, Rhea can, and visa versa. I wanted to share some of these collaborations we did for Dad's benefit. I'll post it in a few parts, Rhea really is the mastery behind these as she did all the printing - I only added small touches to help her along the way.

Dad turned 50 in 2001 and he threw himself a four day party on the coast of Oregon at an inn right on the ocean over Thanksgiving weekend. That weekend is a story in itself but what I'd like to share now is the menu Dad asked Rhea to print of the food that would be prepared for an actual sit down Thanksgiving dinner (very rare for our family - usually our Thanksgivings are endless cook-offs and constant eating with no real formality) on one of the nights. Since it was Dad's 50th and decade birthdays always inspire practical jokes, Rhea and I wanted to add something funny to it as a surprise. At some point I had come across one of Dad's old high school ID's with a rare picture of his teenage beardless goofy dimpled face. Rhea and I conspired. I sent Rhea the ID, it was scanned and a picture of Dad was glued onto each menu card. Rhea had printed the menu and then created a menu card that held the menu and was sealed with a place card saying "Thanksgiving Dinner At the Oregon Coast 2001 - Family and Friends of Steve Rynearson". What no one knew was once the seal was broken and anyone went to open the menu the picture of young Dad would be revealed. It went off perfectly and Rhea and I were pretty proud of ourselves. If I remember correctly, Dad gave one of his famous giggle laughs that he gave when he was truly amused.

(please note you can click on any of the images in this blog to see the image larger!)

Deb's Ode to Dad

I have been really busy with school but want to get a few new things up. I found more photography, etc. during my last trip to Oregon...so stayed tuned. I promise to get it out soon.

In the mean time, I recently was able to aquire a new printer/fax so I can scan some things more often/easily. I have always meant to share Dad's friend Deb's ode to him that she brought to his memorial last December. Deb is married to one of Dad's best friends, another Steve, who we always refer to as "Steve the Brewer". It's a very touching tribute. Double click on the images so they enlarge for you to read.

Why Stainless?

Why---beyond the fact that he was an artist and craftsman who could do anything both pragmatic and beautiful with and to steel---was Steve known to many of us as just 'Stainless'? The nickname came about during the time that another artist, the wizard brewer of the ales in The High Street cellar, was also named Steve. Many was the time, during sessions at the pub one would have go into an aside explaining which Steve was being addressed or spoken about. 'Brewer Steve' (or 'Steve the brewer') was the shortcut I heard most often. Inspired by the name 'Painless' for the dentist in the film, M*A*S*H, I began referring to Mr Rynearson with the one-word moniker.

-Brad

The Skate Board

After news got out about Dad's unexpected death emails came pouring in from everyone who had ever knew him. We are pretty sure his address book was in the van with him, so it was lost in the accident. I had emailed and called everyone I could but asked others to contact anyone they could and published my email with the obituaries that I had run in Oregon and Idaho. Over the following weeks and months I was contacted by many who had known and loved Dad. While it was very overwhelming and emotional for me to be a receiver of so much grief from all who contacted me, there was some joy in it as well. People I had either never met, some even knew of, contacted me to say such nice things about my father and shared some touching or just plain incredible stories.

One of my favorites was from one of Dad's teenage girlfriends, Valerie. Here is a portion of her email to me:

"Steve was my first boyfriend. I moved to Huntington around 1968. My Dad worked for the UP RR. Shelley, Paula, Steve and I were like the (4) musketeers. When I met your Dad is when skate boarding was popular. Oh how I thought he was the coolest guy around. He gave me a ring and we went steady. I think I still have the ring. As I was telling Shelley the other day now that skate boarding is popular again I can't see one of these young men with their long hair and tight skinny pants with out thinking of your Dad."

The Shelley mentioned in the message from Valerie also emailed me and later sent me a picture of Dad on the skateboard mentioned and had this to say:

"I'm sending you a picture of your Dad I took years ago, 1965 and he was 13 years old. He was VERY good on a Skateboard back in those days. We all had a grand time together. He also had a hair style at the time like the Beatles (which at that time was ALL the Rage) . Every time I see a kid on a board I'll think of him."

In time I will share other pictures that friends of Dad sent me but this was one of the first that came in and when it first hit me that there was so much about my father I still did not know...and so many memories of him I had yet to learn. I had felt this way over the years about my mother, but the notion of it seemed less surprising to me since she had died when I was only 15, basically a child, so I never was able to have an adult relationship with her. However, I was very close with Dad and felt like we had shared a lot of ourselves over the years. But like with anyone, any relationship, you never completely know someone...there is always more to discover and learn. I had seen lots of pictures of Dad in his full fledged hippy days when he and my mother were first married. Thinking of Dad as a skater boy, it just seemed to punk rock to me! I so wish I could talk to him and tease him about it.

Later when we were going through Dad's things it made finding the actual skateboard mentioned in these two women's messages mean more to me. I could put it in context. It also made me laugh, because of COURSE he had kept it!

More Than One Of Everything

I have been working on some new pieces but they are not finished yet so thought I'd post a small but fun one for you. While most of Dad's friends and family were aware of his obsessive collections, I am unsure any of us knew just how much so. Everyone knew he collected shot glasses, stamps, canning jars, various antiques, etc. We found some hilarious and baffling things in April when we first started going through his belongings. Here are a few:

I am not sure if Dad kept every whiskey bottle he encountered, but he sure kept a lot! When I opened this large box full whiskey boxes/bottles I could hear Dad say "But they'll be worth something someday!".


There should actually be quite a few more of these: insulators. These were used on old power lines, etc. I remember seeing these on Dad's desk over the years. These are a perfect example of something that has little to no functional purpose any longer (in Dad's home they were often use as a paper weight or door jam if not only admired), but what Dad valued in spite of that. They are beautiful.

Some of you will recognize these: Dad's pencil sharpener collection. These are the kind that mount to a wall and are most often seen in classrooms. Some time in the last decade Dad started collecting them. At one house he had them lined up on the highest shelf of one of his many book cases. During when of my visits from NY I spotted them and asked what on earth was he collecting them for. He said they would be worth more as a collection, instead of by themselves. That is what some of Dad's collecting was I think, a sense of bringing purpose or value to something he found interesting that was over looked by others.

Many of you will also recognize these: beer mats. I have always snagged them as well, but actually use them at home. When ever I traveled I would often save them to send to Dad since I knew he collected them. We found more than one container full of them, and various scattered in other files and boxes.

Martha, Krista and I laughed out loud when we discovered a container full of bottle openers. Some were antiques, but many were just regular old bottle openers. Dozens and dozens of them!

We also laughed when we opened this up. This container is bigger than this picture indicates and its packed full of old bottle caps. It was discoveries like this that made me want more than anything for Dad to be able to explain to us. What was he going to do with them?

There was a ton more but some things I am saving for other stories. We found boxes and boxes of old newspapers and magazines. Of course, hundreds of canning jars and shot glasses. I promise to share those in coming entries.

Jenny's back-yard [year?]

For no particular reason except that Stainless felt an urge to cook, drink, eat, and smoke cigars one afternoon, he sent out a call the day before. He, if I remember correctly, expected a few more people; the weather was drizzly. I think we were photographed using a tripod & timer. Behind the camera, a huge spread. Way too much cheese, ale, meat, for a mere quartet, but we managed. I never felt so full in my life.
-brad

Three Beards

Another of the many wonderful e-mails that Brad starting sending shortly after Dad's death:

That's Leroy Hershberger to your father's left. After I introduced them they became fast friends. Leroy and his family I've known for 40 years; he was about 9 then. They are Amish-Mennonite. Leroy is a remarkable guy---a Kansas farm mechanic with a BA from Yale in English Literature. When this photograph was taken he was again adopting a traditional old-order Amish look in tribute to his grandfather who had recently died.

Flags on Independence Day

The two holidays that will always be synonymous with my father are Thanksgiving and Independence Day. There are so many Thanksgiving stories, those will no doubt take up several separate entries...but since today is the 4th I thought I'd write about Independence Day Stainless Style.

Dad and my mother divorced when Rhea and I were still very young and since we lived with Mom in California for most of the year it was summer that we saw Dad the longest. Each summer we'd spend a month or two with him in Veneta, along with Kathy and later Krista and Eric when they were born. Dad definitely had a little kid excitement about many things, and one of them was fire works. Each year he'd buy all sorts of fireworks and invite neighbors and friends and put on a good show for us. I think that's what Dad liked the most - putting on a good show. He liked to be the reason or at least play a role in everyone having a good time.

Dad liked traditions in general, and after his father died in the 80's he started a new tradition. Grandpa Ray had been a war veteran, having been in the Korean War, so when he died Dad was presented with an America flag. Every 4th of July since Dad always hung Grandpa's flag in honor of him. As the years passed Dad hung the flag whenever there was a big family gathering, reunion, or party (i.e. the flag was hung at his 50th birthday bash). When Eric (Dad's only son) died in a motorcycle accident in early 2008 Dad also received a flag since Eric was in the army. In October of 2008, just a few weeks before Dad died, we tagged our family reunion onto the Tucker family reunion which Aunt Mary and Uncle Charlie were hosting at there place in Ontario. It was the first time Dad hung Eric's flag along with Grandpa Ray's flag. He had intended on continuing that for all family get togethers.

Eric's flag at the Tucker-Rynearson reunion in October 2008

Grandpa Ray's flag at Rhea & Marcos wedding in 2000.

Apparently during that weekend, which would be the last time Rhea and I saw our father, he had a conversation with Rhea where he indicated that "when his time came" he wanted us to hang a Rebel flag in honor of him along side Eric & Grandpa's American flags. I did not learn this till after his death and groaned. He would! I immediately understood why though - to him the flag stood for going against the grain, of being an outsider, for struggling to live a life that was his own and not dictated to him. Unfortunately the Rebel flag stands for a whole lot more to most people, and in no way are the positive associations. The civil war was about far more than just freedom of the slaves, and anyone who has really dove into all that it was about understands that the north really wasn't some night in shining armor for the end of slavery - that it was a very complicated and political fueled war much more about money than human rights. Many historians will tell you the winners of wars get to write the history of the war, and the winners aren't prone to point out their faults, or to confess that wars are often for political gain. So, regardless of facts, the summary of that war will always be rebel flag = proslavery.

For example, when I was talking to some friends recently about it during a dinner party one of the other guest who I had only met once before and who knew nothing about my father very sarcastically interrupted my story by saying "Oh, yeah, might as well hang the Nazi Flag!!" I ignored him, but really should have pointed out the irony in what he said - the swastika symbol was stolen by the Nazi's from Buddhism. The symbol originally meant prosperity or long life. It shows up in many cultures from several Asian countries to Mayan, Scandinavian, and Navajo, all meaning positive good things. What that symbol means to those people means something very different than what it has come to mean for most around the world: "white power" and oppression, WWII, genocide, skinheads, hate. So while the rebel flag meant one thing to Dad, hanging it at all our family gathering could give any outsider a very wrong idea. Rhea and I have argued about it ever since and I really don't know what we'll do in the long run. I tend to want to hang the "Don't Tread On Me" flag which is another kind of rebel flag, but one not as politically charged. I would have debated with Dad about it if given the chance, but of course that is not possible now.

That is one of the many the complications of life after a loved ones death. There is a balancing act of honoring them, but also honoring yourself. Rhea and I have many tattoos, some of which are memorial tattoos for our mother. I also already have one for Dad. While Dad was okay with us being tattooed Mom would have flipped the you know what out...so while I will never get a tattoo on my face, or pierce my face, I had to do what I thought was right for me and my body in the long run - even if it meant it would have disappointed my mother if she were alive. The same will go for Dad, and anyone else I love who dies before me. Time will tell.

What I do know is, no matter what else the 4th may mean to some, or what flags we hang to honor our lost family, this day will always be a Dad day...a day I honor him by cooking good food, having a drink or two, and enjoying whatever fireworks display I am privy to. Happy Independence Day.

Stainless to the rescue

Once, round the turn o' the century, whilst using the clutch on my '66 Chevy 'Crummy' I broke the under-structure of the driver seat. I was thinking I'd have to search and lash out for a used one at a junk yard. Stainless to the rescue. Your father's repair remains the shiniest, strongest thing on the entire trusty old vehicle. Detail to soon follow.

-brad

Smooched Pennies

Some of Dad's Smooched Pennies

When I was little I use to think I was most like my mother. Perhaps if she had lived longer and I was able to have an adult relationship with her I might still think so. However, over the years I became aware how hard pressed I'd be not to admit how much I am also like my father. I clearly got the collecting gene from him. My mother was a minimalist and over and over again in our lives forced my sister Rhea and I to toss the bulk of our belongings each time we moved. At age six I have a clear memory of sitting in front of my dozen plus My Little Ponies all lined up next to each other, sobbing and conflicted, because Mom was limiting me to keeping only four for our move to Hawaii. I started collecting rocks and shells as far back as I can remember. My mother did collect a few things, like marbles and postcards, which I also started collecting. When Mom died it took us only a few days to go through her things, with Dad it will take a lot longer. I am a good mix of both my parents though, and while I have collections I keep them at a minimum and try and keep things that don't take up a ton of space. I few thinks I collect: I have a bowl of rocks from all over the world, matchbooks from outings and travels all in a jar, striped socks, children's books, and oven mitts from my travels.

What made me realize over the years how much like my father I am is funny little moments we had when our mutual but unusual interest collided. One example is our smooched penny collecting. My first memory of starting my collection of smooched pennies involves Dad. We were in San Francisco's China Town and I begged Dad for a smooched penny with a dragon on it. I was probably five or six. I have collected them ever since and will search each city I travel to for one, begging pennies off friends if I don't happen to have one. All my friends consider me a nut when I wait impatiently in line with all the 5 year old and their parents waiting to make my own smooched penny. No one has ever understood my fascination with them. Except Dad.

Several years ago on Dad's 50th birthday friends and family gathered on the Oregon Coast for a four day party over Thanksgiving. That event is a whole story itself but this story is about the penny collecting. We partied each night but took day trips during the day. One of those trips was to the Oregon Aquarium. Dad and I were in two separate groups that toured the park. I noticed right away several smooched penny machines of which I partook freely. Then, further into the park, I found a machine that smooched quarters and I thought my eyes might bug out. I didn't have enough change for the machine having used it on all the other smooched penny machines in the park. So, much to my groups amusement I broke off on my own to make the trip back to the gift store at the front of the park to get more change to walk all the way back in to get myself a couple smooched quarters. Well, on the way back I ran into my father who explained "Did you know they have a smooched quarter machine here!?!?! I'm going to get more change!" It wasn't till that moment I had any idea that Dad too collected those smooched pennies and my memory of him getting them for me in China Town all those years ago had been a mutual excitement, not just my own , and that there was a reason he had always indulged my request for them year after year.

Dad later told me he started his collection by leaving pennies on train tracks to get smooched. We both prefer having either new pennies smooched, or discolored aged pennies, since they look more interesting in their new form. We also prefer the hand crank machines rather than the ones that do all the smooching for you. This is just one example of the silly collecting spirit we both shared and our fascination with the smallest things. It is this kind of discoveries that gave me a better perspective of not just myself, but of the complex nature of my father.

Some of My Smooched Pennies

How and Why

The idea for this blog was sort of a collective thought that happened in April of this year when my sister Krista and I joined our cousin Martha, who is the executor of my fathers will, in Huntington, Oregon to begin the process of going through Dad's things.

Anyone who knew Dad, even a little, knew he had A LOT of belongings. He was a life long collector of anything and everything. As several of his friends have said, he saw value in everything. Long ago I nicknamed my father a "hobbyist" since he wasn't just a rock, jar, stamp, shot glass, etc collector, these weren't just hobbies...the collecting itself was the hobby. When he took an interest in something he did so 110%, learning the history, and the hows and whys of the item(s). He was extremely sentimental, keeping what appears to be almost all correspondence from friends, wives/lovers and also his children. There is boxes full of kids art as well as various little models and our various early craftsmanships. He also had a great sense of irony (or maybe insanity) which was found in some of the odder odds and ends that we discovered.

Going through Dad's things was frustrating (boxes and BOXES of 30 year old newspapers), emotional (finding the lei Dad was given by the army officers at his son (my brother) Eric's funeral), mind racking (a huge bag full of cracked walnut shells), touching (he had kept his fathers old hard hat) and also hilarious (a giant whisk). We started taking pictures of some of the more memorable items to share with friends and family and the idea of a blog came from those initial pictures.

There are so many stories I have of my father, and so many that friends and love ones have started to share with me, that I decided to start this blog and at least share my stories with the hopes of others contributing as well. For me this is a way to keep the spirit of my father alive and share the joy and humor it was to know him.

Much love,

Ona