Builder of Dreams

 My father was a remarkable man.  Today is his birthday, so I am honoring his memory. He passed away three years ago, three days before his 96th birthday.We had a family picnic at our home and sang "Happy Birthday" to him as he looked at the lit candles on the cake, surrounded by grandchildren and great-grandchildren and clapped his hands in delight. He died peacefully in his sleep that night, having apparently received the send-off that he had been waiting for.

He was a kind and generous man, but what was most remarkable about him was his spirit of adventure.  When he was 16, he and two friends embarked on a walking adventure, from Buffalo to the Adirondacks. He forgot to tell his mother and as you might imagine in the days before cell phones or even reliable phone service, she was beside herself with worry. His friends gave up and turned back, but he persisted, by himself, and ended up with little money and no food. He continued on to the Adirondacks and was eventually taken in by a Native American family, with whom he lived for a month, while exploring the nearby forest and mountains.  He kept a journal detailing his adventures and when he returned safely to my grandmother, I've heard it was like the Prodigal Son's return, with much rejoicing.

During the time that he lived with the Native American family, he learned much of their culture, legends and prayers and always kept these things close to his heart, much later sharing them with his children and grandchildren.

When the United States became involved in World War II, he enlisted at the age of 19 and signed up for one of the most challenging branches of the Army: he became a paratrooper.  After rigorous training, he was sent overseas and was required to jump out of airplanes into enemy territory, fighting on the ground in some of the most famous battles of this war. He never spoke about the war when we were growing up, but as he approached the end of his life, he had frequent dreams and many of his memories surfaced, which he shared with his family.

After the war, he earned a degree in Psychology, tried to work in an office environment (where he met my mother), but decided he really wanted to work with his hands, outdoors.  He learned the trade of carpentry and became a successful builder. He and my mother married, had a family, and the rest is history, so to speak. 

So what is enduring about this man?  What do people remember about him? For me, it is life lessons that he taught me: love of nature and all living things; respect for planet Earth and Native American culture; the value of hard work; how to till the soil, plant and grow vegetables; how to walk silently through the forest and feel the spirit of the trees. He instilled in me a love of books and music and taught by example how to be kind and honorable.  

As I remember him today, I would like to share a beautiful Native American prayer that my son Jeff read at my dad's recent memorial service, when we finally laid his ashes to rest:

Great Spirit Prayer

Oh, Great Spirit,
Whose voice I hear in the winds
and whose breath gives life to all the world.
Hear me! I need your strength and wisdom.
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes
ever hold the red and purple sunset.
Make my hands respect the things you have made
and my ears sharp to hear your voice.
Make me wise so that I may understand
the things you have taught my people.
Let me learn the lessons you have hidden
in every leaf and rock.

Help me remain calm and strong in the
face of all that comes towards me.
Help me find compassion without
empathy overwhelming me.
I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother,
but to fight my greatest enemy: myself.
Make me always ready to come to you
with clean hands and straight eyes.
So when life fades, as the fading sunset,
my spirit may come to you without shame.

- Translated by Lakota Sioux Chief Yellow Lark in 1887