Happy Father’s Day…..

I am aware there are all kinds of father/child relationships out there. Great, good, so-so, bad, non-existent. I was lucky. My father rocked.

Jack of all trades, master of one - role model. He loved my mother immensely. He loved my sister and I greatly. He loved life. He loved simple. He loved rehabbing anything mechanical, and that frequently meant parts of a different color, brand… duct tape, spray paint… anything he could find to get it back up and running - short of buying the exact new replacement part. And he would/did.

My mother and father were at Winston Churchill’s Iron Curtain speech on March 5, 1946 in Fulton, MO. Kinda-sorta. They were actually on campus where his speech was made - but they were at a dance in an adjacent building. Growing up in the Depression, they deemed themselves “po, but didn’t know it.”

My father worked in sales for a living.. You name it, he sold it. Likable. Friendly. Real name Edward Schultze - longtime moniker “Bud”. Thus, with his gift of gab, occasionally he was nicknamed “BS”. He’d tell a two minute story in ten, simply to finally come around to a punch line… where you realized, all this time he was reeling you in - he got the last laugh, but you too were left with “Oh that Bud Schultze.” Leftfield. I feel fortunate to have learned it’s much more fun coming from leftfield, and I owe that to my father.

My mother suffered a massive stroke at age 58. Dad was a traveling salesman. The two wouldn’t work. He quit. Got “Dealer’s Tags” - sold cars from the driveway, cooked, cleaned, washed clothes, drank an occasional Budweiser, brought a bed to the first floor for my mother, slept on the couch, sang “Mack the Knife” (again and again and again), unmercifully (but funlike) teased my mother. Happy. He was happy.

My father never got a speeding ticket in his life that I’m aware of. If the speed limit was 40, he was doing 30. Sixty/fifty. We rode in the slow lane. No hurry. In fact, on the rare occasions he’d pass another car, my sister and I would clap.

People at work tease me because I wear the old white socks with shorts, and the socks come up to mid-shin. I don’t really care, I like ‘em. My father wore similar socks with shorts, only they were black.. “Oh no dad, PLEASE no!”.. He didn’t care. He liked ‘em.

With no intent to make him out as a legend - my father was simply very likable, and to me that’s a pretty damn good trait. Loved animals. Whenever someone brought up the term “euthanasia” he’d reply “you mean kill ‘em?”.. And that’s been handed down.

He too lived by “I still think I’m young.” Even when left with five, maybe seven hairs atop his head, he still do the ole’ comb over. If I ever needed him, he was there for me. Didn’t matter how many miles between, what the weather was like, I could count on him.

I know I repeat stuff, and I’m sorry for that. I know I repeat stuff, and I’m sorry for that. After mother had passed, and my dad was in the fairly early stages of Parkinsons (maybe age 78 or so)- he started having a bit of trouble getting up out of his chair. Soooooooooo.. We bought him one of those “lift chairs”.. Comfy, nice, helped. The day it arrived, it was accompanied by a representative from the manufacturer who spent well over an hour showing dad how to operate it, explaining everything about it… and at the end of the presentation he announced “and it even comes with a massager”.. to which Mr. BS replied “Does she spend the night?”

I’ma thinking, when it’s all said and done for each and every one of us - the most important thing will be - when you think of that person that’s now gone, how do you react -what kind of emotion do you have? I smile when I think of my father. I know of no better ‘salute’.

Happy Father’s Day Mr. Bud Schultze. I miss you. Love, Victurd (And yes, he is responsible for me having that nickname.)