Category: Dad

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Two Sides Of The Same Coin

[Yup, another Valentine-y re-post.]

With its random bandaids, Tie o’ the Day represents love and the pain love inevitably causes us. We’ve all needed to heal our hearts when they have been broken. If we allow ourselves to love, our hearts will break many times while we live. Family members and friends pass away. Our pets meet death. Maybe someone we fell in love with fell out of love with us. Maybe we lose hope, and our dreams die.

If we choose to, we can empathize with each other’s broken hearts, because most kinds of losses happen to everyone. If they haven’t happened to you yet, they will. We’re part of the human race, and our lives follow similar trajectories. Birth. Relationships. Work. Aspirations. Death.

Loving is worth any pain that might accompany it. A broken heart is often the cost of a full heart. And broken hearts can be instructive. We have the power to look inside that broken heart at all the mistakes we made which caused the heartbreak in the first place. We can learn from those mistakes, and we can get a little better at the practice of love.

Two months after Mom and Dad graduated from Delta High School, they got married in the Manti Temple. Dad had barely turned 18, and Mom didn’t turn 18 until two months later. They were youngsters. Nobody should get married that young, in my opinion. The odds of a couple that young—and, therefore, that dumb—staying together are miniscule. Mom and Dad somehow found a way to kick the odds and stick together. They lasted 59 years together before Dad died, in December 2007.

Dad suffered horrible, constant pain for the last two years of his life. He stayed with us for as long as he could—for all of us, and especially for Mom. During the last two weeks of Dad’s life, Mom often told him it was okay for him to let go. She told him she would be okay. She told him we would all take care of her. Dad knew we would. But I believe one of the reasons Dad held on for so long is that he was trying to make it another few months, to be with Mom on their 60th wedding anniversary.

Of course, no matter when Dad died, Mom’s heart was going to break anyway. And when he finally did let go, her heart did break. Thirteen years later, it’s still broken. But Mom’s heart is also still full of memories and time and the adoration Dad gave her. It’s impossible for that kind of splendid stuff to ever fall out of even the most broken heart.

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Huggin’ The Stuffin’ Out

[Here’s another Valentine re-peat.]

Tie o’ the Day is one of my fave Valentine’s ties. I like the lips and hearts covering the teddy bears’ scant clothing, and of course I am enamored with the bow ties. In the photos, Mom and Dad are around 16.

My dad was a burly bear of a guy. In fact, he seemed larger than he actually was. Ronald Edmond Wright had a gigantic presence. He had the “it” factor. And he was one of the most gentle men I’ve encountered in my life. If it had been possible for him to do so, he would’ve hugged every one of his millions of bees to show them they were loved. That’s just how he rolled.

But Dad stuck to hugging Mom and us and our pets. Dad was protective of Mom in ways large and small. They were in a restaurant once, and some dudes at the next table were swearing while they talked. Dad gave them “the look.” They continued on, as if to show they’d speak any way they wanted. Dad then said as nicely as he could, while giving them “the look” again, “This is my wife, and I won’t make her to listen to that kind of language.” They continued spewing their profanity. Finally, Dad stood up. They immediately apologized and cleaned up their language. Chivalry was alive and kicking when Dad was with Mom.

I’m sure you don’t believe it, but I wasn’t a rebellious kid. I don’t think I ever had a real “fight” with Dad when I was a teenager, but I remember loudly arguing with Mom a couple of times. The arguments were about my hair, believe it or not. Mom was never happy with my hair. Well heck, I wasn’t happy with my hair either. But it’s her fault I inherited her lifeless, style-resistant locks.

Anyhoo… One day after school, Mom and I were having one of these battles, and I finally hauled off to my bedroom in tears. Dad got home from work and heard the tail-end of the yelling, as well as Mom’s version of my whole, overly-dramatic teenage outburst. After a while, he came into my room to see how I was doing. I launched into my side of things—about how Mom was always on my back, and she was always unfair, and she was always wrong, blah, blah, blah. The usual teenage crapola.

Dad listened to my tirade and let me get it all out of my system, then he said, “I love you. But no matter who is right or who is wrong, I am always on your mother’s side. I will always stand with your mother.”

At the time, what Dad said to me made me even more angry. How could “right” and “wrong” not be what matters? And then I grew up, and found myself working to forge a lasting relationship like my parents had. I now understand exactly what Dad meant about the importance of standing by your spouse, against all conflict.

Big. Huggy. Chivalrous. Wise. That’s my dad.

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I Learned Love From These Kids

[My bipolar head is still squealing, so here’s another Valentine season re-post.]

Red hearts Bow Tie o’ the Day is ecstatic to be chosen to present this picture of Mom and Dad. They were probably 15 or 16 when this photo was snapped, and I’d bet bigly money this is a selfie taken by Dad.

If you ever saw my parents together, you saw something wild with life. They played their humor off each other like a perfectly timed vaudeville comedy team. They took joy in each other’s whims. When they looked at each other from across a room, even in public, you could see absolute brightness in their eyes.

In a time when it wasn’t always socially acceptable for women to work, make important decisions on their own, and speak their minds, Dad thrived on Mom being her spunky self. He encouraged her in her endeavors, and he watched with pride as he saw her conquer thing after thing she attempted.

Once—again, way back before women were people😉—to her friends’ amazement, Mom went to the car dealership in Delta and bought a new car on her own while Dad was in California working with his bees. When she told him, during their nightly phone call, that she had picked out a car and bought it, he had no problem with it. He figured she must have needed it. They trusted each other to make bigly decisions individually, if need be, even when the decision affected the whole family.

Of course, Mom and Dad had their disagreements and bumpy times. Of course, they huffed and puffed at each other, here and there. But it was always obvious Mom and Dad were in a deep, wide, tall, true love.

There are billions of things in the universe I will never know. But I know at least this one truth: I am the daughter of a grand romance.

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The Bees And The Bees

[My head is in a bipolar tailspin right now, for no real reason other than it’s just how my head is sometimes. Worry not. I’ve been in this state of mind before. I will probably be repeating some posts for a while. Re-posting is better for my crazy head than not posting at all. It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, however small. Thanks, y’all, for bearing with me.]

Tie o’ the Day is content to hang in the background, while Mom stars in this morning’s pix. These are evidence of Mom’s alluring ways. Dad was born into a beekeeping family, and bees were his thing. He was crazy for bees from the minute he could toddle. Based on that fact, I have no doubt Dad thought the photo of Mom dressed up in beekeeper attire was the sexiest of these two pictures. Mom does have nice legs though.

Dad’s family lived in Delta. Mom was from Oak City, a small town about 15 miles away. In Oak City, at that time, the kids went to school there until high school, then the Oak City-ites rode the bus to Delta High School every day. Mom and Dad didn’t know each other until that came to pass.

But they had sort of met once before high school. One summer day, Dad and his pals happened to be at the swimming pool when Mom was there with her friends. (I think it was the Oak City pool.) Mom was standing by the edge of the pool when Dad walked by and pushed her in.

Mom was ticked off, turned to her gal pals, and said, “Ignernt Delta boys!”

Dad smiled, turned to his friends, and said, “I’m gonna marry that girl.”

And he did. And she wasn’t even a bee.

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A Man Of Few Bad Words And Many Christmas Balls

I rarely heard my dad use profanity around the family. The swear-y word I recall hearing him say on occasion was “balls.” It always made me laugh. I’ve never heard anyone else use it as a “swear.” These 9 Ties and 4 Bow Ties o’ the Day are for Dad. I’m missing him extra bunches today for some reason, and so I’m wearing my striped overalls—as was daily his custom.

There is a Christmas story that lives in my family lore, which I have heard many times, from many of the actual participants. I have never heard the story told the same way twice, by anyone who was present when it came to pass. I had not yet been born when the event occurred, so I am only figuring as to the “truth” of what happened. I have listened to all the versions of the story, and this is what I have settled on. The gist is true. Some details may or may not be. But this is how the story sits in my as-told-to mind.

Mom wanted a flocked Christmas tree one year, probably sometime in the late-50’s. Dad invoked his belief in the principle of “happy wife, happy life”—and swiftly brought home, not just a Christmas tree, but some flock-goo and a hand-pump flocking gadget. With the bare tree on the sidewalk, just off the front porch, Dad began to spray flock onto its branches.

Mom watched. The kids watched. I’m sure Lyman’s peered out their windows from across the street to watch. Let me just say this: This was back before any real tree-flocking technology had been perfected to even the teensiest degree. The gooey flock kept getting gummed up in the pump. As Dad pumped the gadget, the flocking spit at the tree in streaks and glops and splotches. This was not the pretty tree Mom or Dad had envisioned.

Dad’s patience with the project was thinning. And even as Mom could see it unfolding, she was powerless to stop the inevitable. The frigid air on the entire street was getting prickly, as Dad became—how shall I say it—”vocal” about the clogged flocking gadget. At some point, Momo even emerged from her house next door to ours, to investigate the ensuing holiday hullabaloo in our front yard. As the anticipating crowd grew, so did Dad’s irritability. Dad said some bigly bad words as he tried to complete his flocking mission. I am fairly certain, based on the many retellings of the story, the bigly bad f-word finally flew out of Dad’s mouth at some point. And I don’t mean the word “flock.” I heard that Momo scurried back to her house to find Popo. Mom made sure my siblings made a bee-line into our house.

I am sure Mom and Dad had a brief, tense two-person family meeting out there in the cold, after which Dad likely went coyote hunting for a couple of hours to re-set his blood pressure, and to think of how to make proper apologies to his mother—and to mine.

How did this story end? I have heard that my dad finally managed to passably complete the flocking o’ the tree, and all was made right with the world. (I highly doubt that version.) I have also heard that my parents used the tree in its as-was imperfection. (I don’t think that is believable either.) In the most Ron-and-Helen-Wright-esque version of the story I can imagine, after Dad took off in his truck, Mom dragged the half-flocked pine behind the house and set it on fire—and later, Dad showed up with a freshly cut, naked, better-than-the-first-one X-mas tree. Now, that’s the kind of home I was born into, give or take a fact or two—and I’m proud of it.

Holiday Tie Tally: 128 Neckties. 39 Bow Ties.

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Reindeer For Dad

I decided to honor Dad—master hunter o’ all critters—by displaying six of my reindeer Christmas Ties o’ the Day, but I chose to actually wear the tie showing Santa and a reindeer fishing for Santa-hatted green fish. I got to go deer hunting with Dad on opening day long before I was old enough to do the required trekking. For the first few years I accompanied him and my brothers on opening day, I tuckered out early and ended up riding on Dad’s shoulders for most of the day’s hunt. I can still see the view of various mountain ranges from atop Dad’s shoulders, and I distinctly recall once laying my head on his head and falling asleep on his shoulders while he walked to find a deer he had shot.

As for fishing with Dad, I have vivid memories of packing up the camper he built himself to house us on camping trips. I recall driving with Dad and his dad, Popo, to lakes to fish, always intending to stay overnight. I recall that I always asked Dad or Popo to put the worm on my hook. I recall catching the fish, cooking the fish, and eating the fish that we cooked over the campfire. But I do not recall ever leaving a lake or driving home after a fishing adventure. Magically, I always fell asleep in the camper at the end of a day o’ fishing, and opened the camper door the next morning to find the camper was parked on our own front lawn, right outside the picture window. I recall always fussing at Dad at the breakfast table for not letting us stay overnight at the lake. Dad had to be away so often to work his bees that he really, really, really liked to sleep in his own bed whenever he could. He always said he couldn’t sleep well without his personal mattress and his personal pillow. Honestly, I think it was Mom he couldn’t sleep well without. Miss you, Dad.

Holiday Tie Tally: 99 Neckties. 22 Bow Ties.

Holiday Face Mask Tally: 7.

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No-tie O’ The Day

Today marks 13 years since Dad left us to go to The Painless Place. I still miss kissing his bald head. The coyotes he loved to hunt continue to howl in the raw cold of dawn. The bees are dancing their various jigs in their winter playgrounds. And we’re all still down here just holding up the sky, and missing the old man who taught us how to work with joy, and how to love each other with laughter.

This pic of my beekeeper dad was snapped long before I was born. I’ve titled it, ST. RON OF THE BEES. I don’t remember what I was being punished for as a wee kid once, but Dad kicked my butt with his work boots. He did it so softly that only my pride felt it.

#dadwouldwearthedangmask #dadwouldgripeaboutitbuthewouldwearit #daddidnotseeconspiraciesundereveryrock

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Mom Mugs For Dad

I forgive Mom for wearing no Tie o’ the Day in this photo. In fact, she gets a complete pass on any missing neckwear until she turns 90 on September 26.

As far as I’ve been able to calculate, Dad took this snapshot of Mom some time in 1948, a few months before they got married. The location is somewhere on the Utah west desert—probably close to Baker, NV. They were both 17, and they were ga-ga for each other. Mom says they still are. I have no doubt. Smitten, the both of them.

After Dad died in 2007, Mom received a sympathy card from “one of the Lyman girls” (I’ve temporarily forgotten which one.) who grew up in the house directly across the street from our home. She wrote that watching Mom and Dad as she was growing up was like watching a love story unfold. “The Lyman girl” wrote that once—when she was well past middle age herself, and Mom and Dad were old and gray—she had been at Top’s Cafe in Delta, where Dad sat at the counter chatting with his coffee buddies. When Mom happened to walk in with her gang for lunch, Dad’s blue eyes immediately lit up. It looked to “the Lyman girl” like all Dad could see at Top’s was Mom. I saw that very look between them more times than I can count. It was the tenor of their way with each other.

I was lucky and blessed to grow up in a house with parents who were so clearly and openly in love. So many of my childhood friends weren’t raised amidst the security that comes from watching their parents take good and constant care of each other. From my vantage point, even in their rare bickering, Mom and Dad never said or did things that diminished each other’s dignity. Their respect for each other always ruled the day.

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Hemingway Or Connery?

For the past 12 1/2 years I’ve been under the impression Dad passed on to the Great Coyote Hunt In The Sky. And then today, I’m flipping through the trillions of tv channels, when I come upon movie evidence that he has simply run off to be a monk AND the captain of a submarine. Wherever he is, I hope he’s happy. But if he’s not really dead already and Mom finds out he’s traipsing around in the pandemic world without her, she will surely hunt him down and see that he does indeed go to that Great Coyote Hunt In The Sky for real this time.

When I was working on my Master’s in Creative Writing at the University of Utah, my friends were all writers. When they would see a picture of my bearded dad in my apartment, they always commented that he was a good likeness for Ernest Hemingway. Of course, that’s what writers would see. Everyone else who saw him—especially in person—thought he was a near-ringer for Sean Connery. I can’t argue with either choice. He was a handsome fella, either way.

BTW Dad’s beard was all salt-and-pepper, not white as it appears in these pix. Blame my brilliant photographic skills and the disposable cameras I used back in the day.

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Well, If It Ain’t The Goose Whisperers!

I can forgive Dad for not wearing a Tie o’ the Day to go goose hunting. Dad is the taller dude on the left. His hunting buddy is Joe Barney. They were friends from practically the minute they were born, and it shook Dad horribly when Joe died far too soon. This slide is undated, but a safe bet would be that it was snapped in the mid-50’s.

See how Dad and Joe apparently mesmerized the geese into letting the mighty hunters tromp right into their little geese gaggle. Golly! It’s as if the geese practically leapt up into Dad’s and Joe’s hands. See how the geese look exactly alike. If I still hunted, this is how I’d do it. But I’d be wearing a bow tie while I hunted. One of my camo bow ties, of course.