Remembering Those We've Lost

As I mentioned in The Scallion, this was a rough year, with the loss of my stepbrother, my dad, and Vic's aunt. They were all so wonderful that we wanted to share just a few of our memories of them.

Larry Schenkel

August 11, 1938–February 14, 2019

My earliest memory in life is of Santa Claus. Santa came to our house not in secret on Christmas Eve, but right out in the open. No mall Santa for us—we had the real deal right in our living room. He would pull us up into his lap and ask what we wanted, and then he would tell us to make sure we were good girls. He even brought us presents right then and there—no waiting until Christmas for us! The year I was four, Santa bent over to place those presents under our tree and ... oh my gosh! ... his pants split open. In my little four-year-old mind, I thought, "Tee hee! I see Santa's underwear!"

The thing was, the more I looked at the underwear (because of course I'm going to stare at Santa's underwear—I might never see it again!), the more familiar it looked. You see, my mom always let me "help" her with the laundry, and she always gave me my dad's T-shirts and underwear to fold. (My dad was in the military‚ so of course his underwear got folded.) Suddenly it dawned on me: Santa's underwear were identical to my dad's. Holy smokes! My dad was Santa Claus! It was years before I realized my dad wasn't Santa because ... you know ... Santa's not real. But for a while, I felt like the coolest kid on the block.

Grandpa, Santa and Grandma

The picture above is of my mom's mom and dad with my dad. (I mean, really—that suit should have been the first clue. It's the tackiest suit ever! Or the cotton-ball beard. Or that belly button peeking out just below the belt—of course this is my dad and not Santa!) Anyway, my dad's mom and dad passed away when Dad was a young adult—long before I was born—and my mom's mom and dad just folded him into the family. They both loved him to pieces, but Grandma in particular spoiled him rotten. This is literally the only picture I have of them smiling. They didn't even smile in pictures with me! But Dad just had a way of making people smile and laugh whenever they were around him.

I could go on and on—about the time he took me to the State Fair even though he was sick as a dog; about our road trip to Chadron, Nebr., to visit my sister in college; about all the nicknames we had for each other—but then you'd be reading forever. Instead, I'll close by saying that my dad was tremendously loved—by his family, his friends, his students, his coworkers—pretty much anyone who came into contact with him. But especially by me.

Don Miller

March 30, 1961–January 4, 2019

My dad married my stepmom, Norma, when we kids (eight of us in all) were grown and (mostly) out of the house, so we didn't grow up together. But Norma would always tell me what her kids were doing whenever I called or visited, and Dad treated her kids as if they were his own (just as Norma did with me and Laura). So over the 36 years Dad and Norma were married, I really felt like her kids were my siblings, too.

Don was only a couple years older than I am, but he loomed large in my mind. Norma was so proud of him and everything he accomplished in his life—all things large and small—so I was proud to have him as my brother, too.

He was truly a mountain of a man—tall, strong, loyal and steadfast, with a fierce commitment to his family. But cancer doesn't care about any of that. When I saw him at my dad's 80th birthday party in August 2018, Don was thinner than I remembered him, but he didn't look sick. Unfortunately, only a couple of months later, Norma called and said he had taken a turn for the worse.

He hung on for a couple more months, but cancer always ends up having its way, and Don passed away in early January at the age of 57. He had four children—two sons and two daughters—who were not ready to lose their father yet. He had grandchildren who were his pride and joy. He had his beloved wife, Amy, who now must be mother and father. His mother lost a son that day—something mothers shouldn't have to do—and my dad lost a son, too. Don's brother and four sisters, in-laws, nieces and nephews, friends—they all suffered this loss far too soon.

And although I was not close to him, over the course of the four days we were in Nebraska for his funeral, I learned so much more about him as his friends and family shared stories from his childhood to his last weeks. I grew closer to my stepfamily and to Don's family, and I got to hang out with my dad for what would end up being the last time. I think Don would have loved that he brought all that together.

Don, Amy, Isaiah and Dad at Dad's 80th birthday party

Etta "Eddie" Jones

October 3, 1933–June 5, 2019

I met Aunt Eddie in California, when we visited her and Uncle Bob on one of our vacations. She immediately took me into the family as if Vic and I had been together forever. Not only that, but she was a pistol! She was always laughing and telling stories on Uncle Bob, and he would always pretend to be annoyed, but you could tell he loved it.

Obviously, Vic met her before I did. 😉 One of his fondest memories is of a trip Aunt Eddie and Uncle Bob took to Disneyland in California with Vic's grandma; their two daughters, Debbie and Becky; and Vic. Vic was about 12, and Disneyland was pretty new, so this trip was one of the highlights of his childhood. As such, I've heard a lot about this trip over the years, but it wasn't until I asked him to share a memory of Aunt Eddie that I heard this: "You know that time when we all went to Disneyland? Well, every time we stopped at a motel, she and I had swimming races in the pool. She was a lot of fun." He's not a gusher, but I know how much he loved his Aunt Eddie.

As for me, this is my favorite memory. Aunt Eddie loved Vic, and she always called him for his birthday and for Christmas. Vic was often not home when she called, so she and I chatted quite a bit. At the end of every conversation, she'd say, "Tell Vic I love him." And I'd say, "I will, Aunt Eddie." And then she'd always say, "I love you too, Honey." I can still hear her voice in my head. I loved you too, Aunt Eddie.

Aunt Eddie, Vic and Uncle Bob

Thank you for taking the time to come here and learn about my dad, my stepbrother and Vic's aunt. They all meant an awful lot to us. 💖