Poetry Tribute to Don Bovaird

I know nowadays a poem is not as esteemed if it rhymes, (that's considered passe) or if doesn't have a certain rhythm with the syllables. A poem this long should be free verse, I'm told from my critique circle. But I like it. It expresses what I feel my father's life stood for. There are a couple of lines I could tweek, but this is the story of my dad's life. So, I guess that makes it a story poem. It's light, and every bit true-to-form. I'd like to put it at the end of my book with a photo of my dad, his truck and his dog.

~ ~ ~ ~

My father lived as he saw fit, kind to all, giving bit by bit,
To his family and children, he seemed to never quit.
The land, his trees and cars were his favorite pastimes,
They made up his life and summed up his fast times;
Missy and Elmo with snoots to the wind brought him great pleasure,
In exchange for a doughnut, some pie, and the parades to treasure.
To children around town he offered rides and great tales,
To his customers, a chance to see Lake Erie and their boat sails;
He kept a family-run trade his kids often part ‘a the crew,
His wife did the accounts and answered calls as it grew.
A long-time tree squad made up of a bunch ‘a guys,
More like monkeys with fun and mischief to devise;
He built up the business with his know-how and two hands,
Some chainsaws, a few old trucks and a trailer of spray cans;
His trucks groaned onto the tree site, leaving a trail a’ oil stains
And a ground man with sawdust to cover or leave for the rains.
Soon Dad would drive up in a rickety truck to give an order or two,
Then chortle off with instructions for the other work crew.
I knew Dad would never retire; he’d simply inquire
Seek yet another goal to acquire and dream to inspire;
Unique and bold to ‘branch out’ on untried roads ahead,
From cutting down trees to stretching out cars with old tread;
A fun loving man to know with a great many stories to tell,
All around people would wave, or sit down for a spell;
From chasing a crook to putting out fire, or dispatching a call –
Just talk to my dad who seemed to have done it all!
He mapped each road and unmarked route in his head,
Assuming his guys’ local geography just as widespread.
An optimist to the end he always started a brand new trend,
It still seems as if ‘The Tree Man’ will appear just around the bend --
With a wave and a smile, perhaps a honk as a sign,
And that trademark black Lab with a bark from behind.

May 21, 2006

Determining the Quality of LIfe

This is a story I started to write for my father's newsletter The Life and Times of Don Bovaird.

The Rich Splendor of My Father’s Shade

My father taught all us children from a young age how to tell the age of a tree. Once a tree was cut down, and the stump was visible, he pointed out the rings that determined its age. He’d wipe off the sawdust with the side of his strong hand, and then count the individual rings with us. He especially liked to do this with huge, old trees that he’d need cranes to help take down. He also liked to show us how you could tell the quality of the tree by the rich color of the rings left behind on the stump. These lessons were such a natural part of our lives that we didn’t even see them as lessons…

I also remember long, lazy afternoons driving home from church with my family and Dad would stop and look at tree jobs. Sometimes he’d let one of us kids go with him when he talked to his customers. I always loved this privilege. They’d point out specific trees they wanted cut down, and invariably ask advice about others. My father was so knowledgeable. He’d gesture this way and that and make suggestions. But one thing he didn’t like to fool around with was “tree rot.” People would ask him, “Don, isn’t there anything I can do to save that tree? It’s been in my family for so many years.” Or “It’s such a lovely shade tree. I’d really hate to lose it.” My father would lean into the tree with a measuring eye. He’d examine the bark, and the leaves to see if beetles had been at them. If he determined the root of the problem to be tree rot, he’d bluntly say, “I’m afraid it’s had it. When it gets tree rot, best thing to do is cut it down, and plant something else.” On a few occasions when they pressed the issue, I saw him bring out a foul smelling canister of greenish black spray that he’d squirt on it but I could tell by the way he did it he didn’t hold much faith in saving it.

Looking back on those childhood memories, I can’t help but think of his recent cancer as a kind of ‘tree rot’ and recall his straightforward advice about how to deal with it. Did he ever think of his cancer that way himself? He faced his cancer straight on. Ever practical, he called Hospice himself the first time he fell out of bed. He didn’t mince words or pity himself. He prepared. Dad believed in quality of life, and not quantity.

But along with that obvious lesson, I also remember how he taught us to tell the age and quality of a good tree. My fatherlived for seventy-eight years. In that time, he provided us with gentle "shade," which came in the form of his humor, his savvy, his easygoing nature, and his love for his profession. People would talk about the twinkle in his eye, and how he loved children. People enjoyed being around my dad because he made them feel good about life.

I noticed that my father had deep roots for family, but the independence that stood alone. He was sturdy, able to survive in all kinds of situations; sometimes he went against leadership when he believed he was right. He didn't back down. He would rather resign a position than go back on the rights promised to him. He did that once in local politics. I admired him for that. He knew himself well enough to run a business, to make it succeed, and to develop other interests in his life, which became his avocation. He always took chances and dreamed big.

So, these days when I envision my father’s life, I always think of the trees he loved so much. We had one large tree in our backyard. In that tree, Dad built us a tree house that became the envy of all the kids in the neighborhood. It was high in the tree with a sturdy base, a roof, and a small section where a tree trunk came through. He covered that with a flat piece of wood that served as a shelf for food.

Our tree house also contained an enormous slide coming down, the kind that big, old-fashioned parks used to have. Dad always knew the right person or had the right timing to get something. So he must have gotten the slide from some park that had replaced theirs with a better one. There must have been twenty or twenty-five iron stairs going up to the tree, a nice wooden platform to cross over on … and then came the slide. With waxed paper, it provided a fabulous ride over two dips that all the kids in the whole area loved to line up and slide down!

Not only did that tree hold a tree house perfect for summer sleepovers – ample enough for two to three people – and a great slide, but it also had a perfect steel pole you could twirl down if you didn’t want to exit via the slide at that particular time. It was one just like the fire companies had, except my father had repainted it green. It was the coolest thing!

But there was more, there was a big branch that stood out from the tree, and Dad had made a tire swing hanging from the end of a long rope that we all loved. It seemed at one time my father had a knotted rope you could swing on, too. I don’t remember if that was in addition to the tire swing or if it replaced it. I just recall swinging from it.

As we grew older and my father built onto our house, he cut off bits of the tree until he finally cut it down altogether. I guess he felt it had served its grand purpose for us and it was time for something else. He replaced the tree with beautiful topiary gardens, which provided such beauty to all those who passed by. He tended those gardens with the same loving patience he endowed to that beautiful shade tree.

My father is like that backyard tree that provided such splendor – so accessible and inviting to children – to both those who knew his familiar “bark”, and to those who had just come out of the sun and into his “shade.” Like the tree, he was very fun and unique, full of surprises. He was also open-armed, and gentle. Strong. Dependable. And always extending or reinventing himself, as with the trees and shrubs that took such unusual forms, my father knew how to carve beauty out of a simple backyard, just as he did with his unpretentious life. He was a showman. A tree of the very best kind. I guess that’s why he called himself “The Tree Man.” The name stuck with him until the end of his life – familiar to all, still beckoning those who knew and loved him in the days of his splendor.

This is his story -- or bits and pieces of it -- wedged within each of those seventy-eight odd tree rings that defined him to his core. But like all trees, some rings vibrantly stand out – wide and dark-hued, while others, chipped and nicked, seem to lightly fade away until joined by another ring. These denote both the strong and lean years of Dad’s life, some tales remaining a bit unfinished or simply trailing away into obscurity, and others boldly imprinted with its rich history clearly waiting to be revealed.

A Whopping Big Oak

This newspaper clip shows my father standing inside a big oak tree that he discovered one day in Conneaut, Ohio. My dad was always on the lookout for big trees.Just a curious outgrowth of his profession, I guess.

The caption underneath the photo mentions that dad (who contacted the Erie Times News about the tree, and Ken Fromknecht, the man in charge of publishing a list of big trees in the area "peer out from inside a giant red oak tree" near Conneaut Creek, not far from the Ohio border. The tree "is big enough for ten people." The writer, Evelyn Anderson, who writes a weekly nature column, goes on quote the two men: "a group of four or five could play poker at a table inside, which looks like a big room, with a ceiling possibly ten feet high." That comment had my dad written all over it. But apparently, Ken made that remark. This must have been in dad's reformed days!

Ken predicted that this was indeed the largest oak tree in the state of Pennsylvania, as it looked at least as large as the states biggest Northern red oak, which grows along Main Street, in Wattsburg, Pa. Ken pulled out a tape measure and measured its diameter; it was two feet larger than the Wattsburg tree.

Although this record needed to be verified by Tom Erdman, a state forester in charge of verifying such information and giving it official credence) it appeared there there was a healthy, whopping oak tree which far surpassed "any oak anywhere else in the state."

This oak was found hidden behind a bunch of scrubby bushes; my dad had to have gotten out and investigated in order to find it. Not too bad for a local tree man named Don Bovaird! He had a keen eye for any tree out of the norm.

Dad's Old Leather Gloves

We started up the wood stove a few weeks ago during a cold spell. We don't burn it every day but we do try to keep mom warm when the temperature dips lower. As always, it brings back vivid memories because the wood stove was dad's department, and he kept it on his turf: the basement.

~ ~ ~ ~

I picked up my father’s old work gloves to tend to the firewood. I always use Dad's old leather gloves, though they now have small holes in two of the fingers. My mom isn't sentimental and earlier this year, she bought a new pair of work gloves. She was ready to toss out Dad's gloves when I stopped her.

"Hey, I use those for the wood stove!"

"What? They have holes in them. They're no good anymore."

"They're okay. The leather is still good."

In fact, I loved the feel of the leather. It was ground smooth by the constant contact with white-hot ashes, the course bark and burnt embers. I took them now. The gloves, some dirty shade of faded red, held my own fingers which felt like mere twigs inside as I gripped the warm, matted cotton that once fit my father’s hands so snugly. As I grasped a well-seasoned piece of kindling, I bent my fingers to lift it and noticed deep creased crevasses permanently etched into the gloves where my father’s own fingers had curled around the wood. I threw in a few pieces of firewood and firmly closed the door to the wood stove.

Before I left the basement, I put the gloves aside behind a coke bottle, so that mom would not be tempted to toss them out any time soon.

Coming Home

“So when do you have to go back to that place?” This time.

“Oh no, dad! I’m not going back! I’m home for good!” I assured him, smoothing the blankets around his feet.

“You don’t have to go back?”

“No, I’m home now,” I said, firmly.

“Good.” And in that one word I could sense relief, forgiveness, and peace.

I was still jet-lagged from the long flight home from Dubai. It usually took about a week before I got my days and nights turned around. The first couple of days I was always wired to see everyone and get back into some kind of routine. So going like some kind of wind up toy, I’d be in a frenzy to be everywhere at once, and then suddenly stop and be dead to the world. But dad’s illness changed all that. I couldn’t waste a single moment. I had to be there for him.

I remembered back to when I first decided to go away. Even though I’d graduated from college, I still went to my father to advise me on the big decisions in my life.

“Dad! Guess what!” I launched into my story without giving him a chance to answer, “I’ve just been offered a job in Colombia!” Colombia.

He halted, a piece of firewood in his hand as he turned to stare at me.

“Yeah, dad! I can start in a few weeks! Can you imagine? I’ll be teaching at a primary school! I’ll be working with missionaries but able to support myself!”

He resumed stacking the firewood, listening to me bubble over with details. “Hmm” he grunted.

“Well, what do you think?” I finally asked, “Should I take it?”

“How long have you been working for the telephone company?”

“Just a few months. It’s something anyone could do!” I forgot for a second that getting that job had felt great, a big accomplishment.

“I’d stick with the phone company if I were you. They have good insurance. You can go places there, work your way up.” His sister was firmly established in a position for Bell South in Florida.

“But, da-ad!” It wasn’t Colombia. A real teaching job! At 24, I longed for something other than living in a small town; I longed to use my college education. I wanted to see the world. Speak in Spanish. Talk about God. Make a difference.

“I can always try it, and if it doesn’t work out, come home, don’t ya think?”

He shrugged, and only now do I realize what it cost him to nod his head and give his approval.

That decision altered the course of my life forever. Because after Colombia came Costa Rica. Then Indonesia. After that, I moved to Texas, which led to a couple of moves to Japan. Taiwan. Egypt, again and again until I even married there. And finally, to the Arabian Gulf in the Middle East where I’d lived for the past nine years

It cost us a lifetime of being apart, frantic visits home fitting in as many people as possible in a short time every summer, talking of places to which he’d never been nor could relate to. His world, which I’d soon rediscover, was so much more stable. Firmly-rooted. Just like my father.

Wayang Golek Puppets

Wayang Golek Puppets
Originally uploaded by EthnoScape

When I see these wayang puppets, I think of my time in Indonesia. This is from my friend's Flickr site.

My Father's Early Years

I'm trying out different ways to begin writing about my father. Most of the facts in this post were taken from my grandmother's diary, which my aunt kindly made available to me. I just want to see how a chronological approach comes across to readers... will it be interesting only to family? Will those who knew my father want to read this kind of background? What about strangers???

~ ~ ~ ~

I feel almost as if my father were born as a teenager because it’s then we begin to hear of his exploits, especially with the cars that he tinkered with. But naturally, my father came with a past that goes further than that.

My grandmother kept a diary of facts about her children so it’s here we discovered the most interesting nuggets of his early years. My father, Donald Thomas Bovaird, was born on December 17, 1928. In her carefully written, distinctive script we found my grandmother’s comments, “Baby Donald Thomas weighed 10 lbs. at birth, 12 at 3 wks., 20 lbs. at 4 mos.” At 4 months, he was learning to sit alone. The third of as many boys and seven children total, he was the first to start teething. “At 5 months, he got his first tooth and his second at 5½ months. By 6 1/2 months, he had gotten 5 of his teeth and at 8 months, 8 teeth.”

As a baby, he loved to eat and my grandmother wrote that he was “awfully fat” as a toddler. Dad retained this enthusiasm for eating his whole life long. Because he always worked very hard, he kept trim although he stubbornly ate whatever and however much he wanted of any given food. Mulish about his eating habits, it is how I most remember him. He liked just about everything and he almost always had seconds. A few years ago when doctors thought he had a heart attack, they checked the fat content of his heart and to their astonishment, found only 5 % blockage. He was by far one of the healthiest patients his age they’d ever seen. In the end, they determined he hadn’t suffered a heart attack at all. He’d simply pulled a muscle!

Grandma Florence also recorded that my father sat alone between 5 and 6 months old but that he still didn’t know how to “catch his head” when he fell. She commented that he didn’t creep much, but pulled himself up by his knees in his bed and carriage. At about 8 months, he started to creep, first on his stomach then on his hands and knees, finally hands and feet “and he surely can fly the last way!” At 10 months he started walking. “He goes nearly across the floor before losing his balance” she wrote. My father loved to “figure things out” by trial and error, it seems even as a baby in learning to walk.

I think my father has always been both independent and content. My grandmother’s remarks confirmed what I’d always thought about him. “I feed him and put him in his bed at about 11 am and he goes to sleep by himself. Sometimes I leave him sitting up in bed playing and he lies down himself. The other boys would never do that.” My father always seemed in calm and in control of his world.

On July 15th, 1928 both my uncle Byron and my father were baptized by Reverend Tait at the nearby Presbyterian church. In an account that seemed to both exasperate and amuse my grandmother she writes, “As usual, Rev. Tait made a mistake. Called Byron “Donald Kearney” [using my grandmother’s maiden name] and the baby – Donald Thomas.”

My grandmother described my father as a “home boy” and wrote “He’s so much better at playing by himself than the other boys were.” Perhaps it’s this ease in being by himself that led him to accomplish the goals he did in his life, building up unusual businesses. My father developed fortitude at an early age.

“He tries to say nearly everything if I insist on it,” she annotated. I noticed he also developed leadership traits at an early age. After watching my father try to put wood in the family woodstove, my uncle Alan, then just a year old, imitated him. My father loved to take charge of things.

On Sept 15, 1933 my father started school. He joined the ranks of his two older brothers while his younger brother, Alan, 2 ½ and 1 ½ year old sister, Mary Jane waited anxiously for their return. Mary Jane, the first girl in the family, was the sweetheart of all her brothers.

Dad’s early years were busy ones. He was an active child, always had something to do and places to be. But when he went to sleep, he slept like a log! My aunt Carolyn recalls the many times my grandmother had to trail through “the girls’ bedroom” to get to “the boys’ bedroom” where she’d attempt to wake my father up for school. He slept deeply like that until just before he died. No matter what was going on in his life, he had the ability to throw it off and serenely get a good night’s rest before tackling the demands of the next day.