Thank you all for being here today to help remember my dad. For those who don’t know me, I’m Eric, the oldest of Craig and Linda’s children.

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When I volunteered to speak today, I immediately realized I didn’t know what to talk about. My dad and I didn’t have the type of relationship that led to dramatic moments. I need less than one hand to count the times when we truly clashed. I’m not sure he even asked me to turn down my music as a teenager more than a couple times.

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Instead, his love and support were abiding; they were always there. Sometimes, that’s easy to take for granted. But it’s also all you want in a parent—to know they’ll always be there to help you. He and my mom were always there for us.

 

From the time I was young, he tried to nurture my interests. My dad and I didn’t have big “Field of Dreams” moments where he tossed the ball around the backyard much with me—that didn’t really fit him or me well.

 

But I do remember him watching airplanes with me as they flew over our backyard when I was a little boy growing up in the suburbs of Los Angeles. That led to him helping me wire up a Radio Shack kit that allowed me to listen to the air traffic control chatter. That joint project led to my lifelong interest in listening to faraway radio stations.

 

He also was an involved dad when I was in Indian Guides and then Boy Scouts, which introduced me to hiking and camping. Eventually, both of my two brothers and I all earned the Eagle Scout rank. I’m lukewarm on camping now, but we still love to hike.

 

He encouraged me during my years in school without being overbearing about it. As I got ready to go to college, he didn’t flinch much when I declared I wanted to major in communications and be a journalist. He questioned me about that goal a little. But he never tried to dissuade me, even though his own father was not happy with his choice to go into banking.

 

As my wife became part of the family, he welcomed her warmly. It helped that she sometimes baked pies for him, as my dad always was a fan of cookies and pies. And he became a wonderful grandpa—our kids called him “Pop Craig”—as my wife and I grew our family. He drove my mom up to our house in Snohomish County for several years so that they could both spend time with our kids once a week while I worked and my wife escaped the house for her freelance writing. He painted much of our first house during those times when we were overwhelmed with three young children.

 

His generosity and time toward us as young kids and then as adults will not be forgotten. He displayed that toward others, too, as he served on church committees from before I can remember and well after his retirement. He also was a fixture at the annual Christmas tree sale put on by the Mercer Island Lions Club.

 

While I was looking through a folder of my dad’s old papers for details to put into his obituary, I found a list he made in the mid-1990s when he was laid off during tumultuous times in the banking industry. He made a list of his general strengths, presumably to show potential employers. Reading it provides a glimpse into how he saw himself, and it was accurate to my experience as his son.

 

He listed his common sense as a strength, which is something I think I’ve inherited. He taught us to use our heads and avoid offers that seem too good to be true. He inspired us to learn practical skills that might help out during life.

 

He said he was fair, which is important when you’re the father of three kids. And he indeed did his best to be fair to us and others at all times.

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He listed that he “leads by example,” which is an undervalued trait in everyday life and especially in parenting. He was good at that. And it’s something I strive to do every day as well.

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A couple of things he didn’t list were kindness and curiosity. He modeled kindness and politeness to just about everyone. As The Message version of Romans 12:16 says: “Get along with each other; don’t be stuck-up. Make friends with nobodies; don’t be the great somebody.” While my dad led a successful life, I never saw him put down anyone because of their position. Instead, he was prone to say “hi” to people he passed by, and he’d strike up conversations with complete strangers at times and learn more about them. Despite my introverted tendencies, this is something I do all the time, sometimes to the chagrin of my teenagers.

 

Even in my dad’s final months, as dementia took over his mind and personality, his caregivers here at Emerald Heights frequently commented on his politeness, which endured to the end.

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Our middle son mentioned my dad’s respect for others, too. “I always felt like pop was able to command a room without demeaning others. There was a mutual feeling of respect toward him.”

 

It’s been comforting to think about these qualities of his and how he did his best to pass them on to us.

 

And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention baseball. I have memories from my earliest days of going with him to Dodger Stadium; I even dressed as Dodgers great Steve Garvey one year for Halloween. We also sometimes went to Angels stadium back then.

 

And then we moved to Seattle, where he immediately adopted the Mariners as his team. The Kingdome was shabbier than Dodger stadium and we went to so, so many games where the home team did little to inspire our fandom. And, yet, in between those family outings to the ballpark, the Mariners became a common love that continued. We continued to hold family gatherings at Mariners games after his grandchildren were born, and our oldest son’s love of baseball led to him playing Little League baseball for years.

 

The latest baseball game was frequently a topic when I would call him and my mom. If a game ended with a spectacular walk-off home run or similar circumstance, we’d sometimes race to call each other and celebrate.

 

Many, many writers have compared baseball to life, and I don’t need to add much to that well-worn metaphor. But part of both baseball and life is playing for the long term and being ever hopeful; and that’s how my father lived his life.

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Talking about the Mariners with him is one of the things I miss. Because my dad’s dementia sneaked up on us, we didn’t fully realize until it was too late that we could no longer chat about that, the economy and the stock market, or commiserate about the weather or how traffic was on the way to my parents’ place.

 

It’s those little things that have hit me hardest now that they’re gone. On that day in June when he breathed his last breath, we’d already been grieving for months for the man he was before dementia. But the good memories we have and the knowledge he loved us all help with that.

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Our youngest child, Kate, wrote a poem about her memories of her Pop Craig, and she allowed me to read part of that today:

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Blueberry pancakes and Thanksgiving turkey

is what my memories of you taste like.

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Comfort, family, and happiness.

 

Pool chlorine and summertime

is what they smell like.

 

Fun, laughter, sweet love.

 

My memories of you feel like

fist bumps and smiles.

 

They sound like

your gentle voice,

the clink of baseballs on bats,

and long family chats.

 

There’s a quote usually attributed to “anonymous” that says, “no man is indispensable, but some are irreplaceable.” That sums up well what I’m trying to say today. Thanks for being here to help remember him.