Saying goodbye to Dad

It was different this time. Instead of getting an early morning telephone call that took me by surprise, I got one I expected. I learned that my father had passed away after a long history of health struggles.

James Heldt, who died this week at age 93, had long battled mental and physical decline. He spent the last several years in assisted living and the last three without my mother, his loving wife of 70 years.

It was difficult watching him fail. When I last saw him, on January 17, he did not recognize me. Nor was he able to speak in sentences. He was not able to do much of anything in the twilight of his life.

That is not the man I will remember. I will remember instead the younger man, the father who supported a family, succeeded in business, and set a wonderful example for his four sons, two daughters, and ten grandchildren.

Born on the Nebraska plains at the start of the Great Depression, Dad learned responsibility, hard work, and patience at an early age. The youngest of six sons, he moved to Eastern Oregon as a boy and became active in his church, his rural community, and his high school, where he served a year as student body president.

After attending a year of college and marrying my mother, he started a family and a career in small business, mostly as the manager of Sherwin-Williams and Montgomery Ward stores in Oregon and Washington. He won numerous business awards, the respect of his colleagues, and the loyalty of countless customers.

He also invested time in his family. Though he did not have much time to give, he gave it generously. He attended the games, the church programs, and the school activities and crowed about his kids at every opportunity. He took pride in raising thoughtful human beings.

Though Dad was generally a serious man, he had a quirky side. He loved playing Santa Claus at Christmas, watching comedies on television, and showing off Pepper, his beloved Dachshund.

I will remember him for the little things, such as the times he taught me to drive, took me to pro sports events, secured my first job, and drove me to and from college. He beamed in 1985 when I graduated from the University of Oregon and did something he had wanted to do but could not because of family and economic circumstances.

Though I have many stories of Dad, one will always stand out. It will because of what happened and because of what did not.

In July 1976, we went fishing. We pursued salmon off Westport, Washington, with a dozen others from our church. No other family members attended. It was a father-and-ninth-grade-son sort of thing. Dad didn't make it an hour before giving up his early breakfast to the creatures of the sea. He didn't catch fish either, at least at first. Like most of the others on our small charter boat, he set his line at twenty yards, as the skipper had instructed, and waited patiently for a bite.

I didn't wait for a thing. Convinced that the fish, like all fish, congregated at the bottom, I dropped my line another ten yards. Never mind that we were 20 miles offshore. I dropped my line — right into a large school of salmon. Within minutes, I reeled in 38-, 33-, 31-, and 28-pound kings. The others on the boat soon did the same. They lowered their lines and drained the Pacific of tasty fish. Dad and I each caught four and gave our extras to others. We brought home 200 pounds of salmon. My biggest fish was the third largest caught off Westport that day and would have netted $750 had I invested a measly buck in a fishing derby.

Sadly, I don't have photographs of that day. I didn't take my Kodak, and my usually trusty Bell & Howell movie camera jammed. No others on the boat took pictures. One of the best moments of my adolescence went unrecorded. My "big fish" story exists only in memories.

I would give almost anything for snapshots of that trip. I would love to see the salmon and Dad's happy face as we weighed our catch.

But I don't need the photos. I know we caught the fish and had the experience of a lifetime. If Dad was not present in pictures, he was still present in person. Like so many other times in my life, he was there, supporting me, encouraging me, and sharing the fun.

I hope things are better now, Dad. Say hello to Mom. Thanks for the support and the memories. I love you. I miss you. Until we meet again.