Dad was a quiet leader. He was definitely the patriarch of the home. Whether he took this role seriously, or it was just his personality could be debated.
Dad is one of those people who if you ask him to do something, you know it'll get done. He best showed this in his work and church service. Whether it was a work culture thing, or a personality thing, I'm not sure, but just like clock work, Dad would leave the house at 7:30 in the morning and would walk in the door at 5:30 p.m. It was so dependable and predictable that you could set your clock by it. I don't know if any of us really understand what Dad did for work, but we all have visited his office and we all knew he worked for the county. I know Dad was a CPA and understood numbers and how they fit together on the books. That about it. Dad went to work every day and came home every night. We always had food on the table and clothes on our bodies.
After the prophet, President Benson, came out and said we should be reading the Book of Mormon every day, that became part of our every day schedule. Though it switched a few times, you could count on a knock on your door nearly every morning from Dad at 5:55 a.m. to get us up with a "Jeremy, it's time to read." Again, it was like clock work. If you drifted off to sleep, you could count on a little reminder coming from down the hallway a few minutes later when everyone was waiting.
Dad spent hours in church service. He was always the ward clerk - always. He'd be at church before us, and we'd see him as we walked into the building clicking away on the computer at the church. Then, he'd be in the office counting tithing again after church as we walked out to say good-bye. He was there at least one night during the week. Sometimes Dad would get a phone call, talk for a few minutes, go into his room and come out with a white shirt and tie on. He'd kiss Mom and walk out the door and be gone for a little while and come back. Dad is the epitome of doing everything he is asked to do as asked. You can count on him for anything.
I'm not sure if Dad knows how to do everything, or if he's really good at faking it. Growing up you knew that if anything was wrong, you could go to Dad and he'd be able to fix it. The neat thing about Dad fixing things is that he wouldn't just do it for you, he'd somehow teach you how to do it while he was fixing it. This applied through something being physically broken, or spiritually broken.
Here's a story that I wrote for a book my siblings and I recently compiled of family stories. This is one story I think of when I think of Dad knowing how to fix everything.
In high school my friends and I were involved in quite a few extra-curricular activities. Looking back on it now, I don’t really know how we fit everything in. I was involved in choirs, track and cross-country teams, sports games being the self-designated Super Royal Mascot with one of my friends and seminary council. We really enjoyed our high school experience and made the most of it.
Dad made it possible for me to have a car in high school. As I recall, he and mom bought me a car and I was responsible for taking care of it with gas and insurance. I’m sure dad helped with all of those things as the jobs I carried in high school could have in no way covered all of those expenses and all of the extra-curricular activities I was able to participate in with my friends.
Dad and I spent quite a few hours with cars. I don’t think either of us really knows what we are doing, but we had a fix-it manual and a garage that kept us out of the cold for the hours we spent fixing cars. Dad even helped me in my quest to have great music capabilities in my car despite how loud I played my music in the car. This experience in particular isn’t about fixing cars, but it sure ended up that way.
One night I had picked up one of my best friends, Tim Ashby. We were headed up to what I remember to be a basketball game. A few of our good friends were on the team, and it was the place to be. We figured out all the tricks of getting up to the school quickly. We had to cross a set of train tracks to get up there and it seemed like every time you went up you hit a train either on your way up, or way back, if not both ways. Sometimes you got lucky and hit a train that would stop, another train that would go by, and then you’d have to wait for the stopped train to start going again. Because of this, we got pretty tricky in our driving routes.
We had made it over the tracks on this particular night. Tim and I were talking and listening to whatever music was on that night and flipping through the stations. All of a sudden, the car jolted to the side, flipped around and we were stopped in the middle of the road turned nearly the wrong way. I’m sure a few choice words were uttered. Tim and I were both fine, and the car looked fine as well. There was a set of headlights coming right at us so we put the car back in gear to get out of the way. The car went in gear, but didn’t go anywhere. So, I tried to put the car in gear again – nothing happened.
We got out of the car and walked around it to find that something was wrong with the front wheels and we also found a flat bed trailer that was parked on the side of the road. It was one of those heavy-duty trailers with the big wheel wells that stick out of the side of them and apparently grab little white Chevy Nova’s that are driving down the road. Either that, or I hadn’t noticed it because I was chatting and changing the channels on the radio (the latter would be the truth in this story).
Somehow, we got a hold of dad. We didn’t have a cell phone, so I assume we either went to a house to call, or the police that showed up shortly after the accident called for us. I remember being so nervous and scared. I had done something to this car that Dad had purchased for me. I was going to have to fix it. I messed up someone’s trailer. The police were going to ticket me. I had no money.
The next part of the story is what really characterizes Dad. He showed up all calm and collected. I’m sure that all of Amy’s accidents had nothing to do with this – okay maybe a little bit. He showed up, got a little bit of information, gave me the keys to his car and sent me on my way. That’s all I remember. He told me to have a good time at the game and we’d work things out when I got home.
I don’t really remember much more about this experience. I do remember the time that Dad and I spent repairing that old Chevy Nova. We took some time of our own, and we paid someone to help out with the difficult part. The big thing I remember is leaving that experience knowing how much Dad cared for me. He was worried about me, not the car. He was also worried about making things right with the trailer owner. For some reason, the police didn’t ticket me. The trailer had been parked on the road in violation for parking there during the winter months or something like that. But, Dad made things right with them. Dad never got mad at me for wrecking the car he had spent his hard earned money on. I knew we weren’t made of money, and I knew that him buying that car for me was a stretch.
Though he is a quiet person, Dad understands people. I believe it is because he is a patient man that knows how to listen. Dad was never quick to talk. He rarely raised his voice. Dad is a master of listening and helping someone come to their own solution for a problem without doing much more than nod his head. I recall a few of these conversations when I could be guided to coming to my own solution that wasn't quite right. Dad would let me try out the solution and figure out on my own that it wasn't the right thing to do. I still haven't figured this out. I, like a drill sergeant, bark out orders to my three-year-old and expect instant results. I have little patients for disobedience to my command and rather than take the time to help my boys learn something, I just quickly do it myself. I pray for the patience that my Dad has quite often - usually after a blow up at one of my boys.
Dad loves and honors Mom. Dad always greeted and left Mom with a hug, kiss and pat on the bum. There is only one time I recall fearing my Dad. I was at home I think in high school. Mom and I had had a heated conversation and I had sworn a few times calling Mom some not so nice names. She immediately got Dad on the phone. I did not want to pick up the phone when Mom handed it over to me. Dad was very patient with me and I knew he was disappointed and most likely furious, but he didn't show it and he spoke very calmly with me that we'd chat when he got home. That didn't really make the fear inside of me any better, but I have a lot of respect for Dad's ability to hold his tongue.
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