My dad at college.
I have not yet written of my father’s illness and death here, because I wanted to remember him and mourn him in private and a blog post was not the way I could do that. Now there’s distance and closure and some lightening of the mourning and it’s easier to write about.
He received a diagnosis of terminal cancer in November, on his 77th birthday. Must have been the worst birthday ever. He tried chemo, got pneumonia, and swore it off and spent the last months of his life being driven around by mother and brother to the places in Missouri he knew well.
He died on March 25th and I wrote and posted this on Facebook shortly after:
He was born during the Great Depression in the kind of poverty few of us will understand and most of us will never know.
When he played basketball for the Glasgow, Missouri Yellowjackets, he wore Converse and at other times he greased his hair and rolled up his jeans until the cuffs were three inches thick.
An avid fisherman, he fished bluegills from the Gasgonade River, redfish from the Gulf of Mexico, catfish from the Missouri River, small and largemouth bass from Lake Pomme de Terre, and perch from the lake where he built his dream home— a log cabin filled with the Griswold ironware he collected.
A great storyteller, he always had a good joke at hand and was particularly fond of ones that disparaged lawyers.
Married for 54 years to Charline, she was the only woman he ever loved.
A life-long prankster, he led a pattie-depositing cow through the halls of his high school. He regularly changed the white light bulb outside the women’s dorm for a red one at Northeast Missouri State Teachers College (now Truman State University.) When he was in the Army, he served dog food surrounded by a fan of crackers at an Officers’ Club and labeled it “For Pilots Only” to ensure the non-pilots would eat it. He visited his daughter and son-in-law in Aggieland armed with tiger paw stickers and with his friend Jeff Pepper, stuck them on every available surface to show their Mizzou Tiger Pride.
His eyes were mercurial— green or blue or sometimes flecked with brown, changing with the light. He gave these eyes to all three of his children.
He had an enviable vocabulary, but never showed it off. Unless you were a lawyer and then he’d pontificate just to prove a point.
He didn’t wear jewelry, but had fine tastes in watches.
He was a Vietnam veteran, a Green Beret medic, a Cobra Helicopter pilot; he could fly a plane. Algebra eluded him.
One of his favorite songs was White Bird by It’s a Beautiful Day. He liked the Carpenters and Toto and played Mannheim Steamroller every Christmas. He sang in a beautiful baritone.
He smoked expensive, high-quality cigars and drank crap beer.
He had one son and two daughters, three granddaughters and three grandsons, one great-granddaughter and one great-grandson.
He wrecked more cars than most people will ever own. He raced Porsches and owned a Shelby Cobra. He knew regret when he sold the latter before the factory burned down.
He outlived most of his friends.
He was known as Gary, Dad, Wineteer, Old Man, Grandpa, and Crazy Uncle Gary.
Gary Wineteer was born on November 19, 1937 and died on March 25, 2015. He was 77 years old. He had a good run.
Waiting on the mechanics in his Cobra Helicopter. I see my nephew Schaefer in him in this pic.
We had a memorial service for him on May 20th, a nice Quaker-style send off followed by Military Funeral Honors.
My dad was irrepressible and, in many ways, fearless and that goes a long way in helping those he left behind. Still, I’m keeping most of it to myself and mine. Needless to say on that matter, part of the lack of consistent posting is due, in part, to my loss.
The post A Death in the Family appeared first on Because Yum.