Oliver Tillman Goodoien 11/24/1929 - 03/27/2005
We all called him "Tony," I'm not sure why. It was probably something between him and his parents, or him & Eunice. He was born Novemeber 24, 1929, in rural Devils Lake. Early on, he moved to Hoople, and pretty much spent his life around tractors and farm equipment. At some point he started smoking, and oftentimes repaired tractors in an enclosed garage. On December 31, 1950, he married Eunice Flatgaard. I found a receipt for a hotel in Park River dated a few weeks later, and came to the realization that this was where my mom was conceived (she was born in early October, do the math). He lost Eunice January 2, 1962, and remarried Joyce Carlson August 25, 1964.
Many Sunday mornings, you could find Tony hosting breakfast at his house, which wouldn't be complete without visitors and conversation. Before Emphysema reared its head, he attended the funerals of not only his first wife, but also his parents, a brother, a sister, and two of his sons. During the funeral, I caught a line out of one of the songs that went, "you were no stranger to graves." I still can't get that thought out of my head.
I got "the call" Easter morning. Later my mom told me he struggled for a while in pain, but at the end, he was peaceful. I felt disconnected at the funeral for the most part, like it was someone else's grandpa, someone else's entire family. The only two distinctly familial moments I felt (the most distinctly human moments, for that matter) were when I saw him in the coffin, and my mom touched his hand, remarking, "his fight's over," and at the end of the funeral when the pall bearers carried out the coffin, when I watched my mom's face as she followed directly behind. She's right, at least. Whatever he might be feeling right now, whether it's floating around in some ethereal mist or fading to absolutely nothing, at least he's no longer in pain.
I would hope in his last moments that he was dreaming of riding one of his tractors in the Spring wind and thinking of those Sunday breakfasts.
Many Sunday mornings, you could find Tony hosting breakfast at his house, which wouldn't be complete without visitors and conversation. Before Emphysema reared its head, he attended the funerals of not only his first wife, but also his parents, a brother, a sister, and two of his sons. During the funeral, I caught a line out of one of the songs that went, "you were no stranger to graves." I still can't get that thought out of my head.
I got "the call" Easter morning. Later my mom told me he struggled for a while in pain, but at the end, he was peaceful. I felt disconnected at the funeral for the most part, like it was someone else's grandpa, someone else's entire family. The only two distinctly familial moments I felt (the most distinctly human moments, for that matter) were when I saw him in the coffin, and my mom touched his hand, remarking, "his fight's over," and at the end of the funeral when the pall bearers carried out the coffin, when I watched my mom's face as she followed directly behind. She's right, at least. Whatever he might be feeling right now, whether it's floating around in some ethereal mist or fading to absolutely nothing, at least he's no longer in pain.
I would hope in his last moments that he was dreaming of riding one of his tractors in the Spring wind and thinking of those Sunday breakfasts.
posted by BoneDaddy at 9:39 AM
1 Comments:
My deepest sympathy.
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