Memorial Service

Thoughts shared by Bob's family during his memorial service at First Presbyterian Church, Kalispell Montana on October 16, 2006, 10:30 am...

“The Measure of a Man”
In loving memory of my Dad, Robert Valdemar Andersen
by Richard Park Andersen
October 16, 2006

I want to thank you all for the stories you’ve shared and for joining with us in celebrating the life of my Dad – Bob Andersen – who lived his life as son, brother, friend, husband, and father in a very special way.

I’m really not sure how – what I’m about to share – is going to go today. I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster all week. As many of you know, both Dad and Mom died this year. John, Dad, and I had some idea that Mom’s condition was worsening, but I can’t say that we prepared all that well for her passing. We certainly didn’t prepare at all for losing Dad, so we’re still trying to adjust to a new reality in many ways.

Yes, it’s been a turbulent time. I’ve been angry at God many times during the past week, felt sorry for myself at other times, and have been in many ways rudderless like a ship lost at sea.

I had a wake-up call yesterday in this very church. A couple things dawned on me.

First, I realized that it really isn’t fair to have prayed the Lord’s prayer so many times, saying “Thy will be done”, and then to say that I’m now mad at God when things aren’t just as I’d like them to be. I don’t know why Dad vanished instantly from this earth on Sunday night, leaving a grieving family behind. He was feeling and doing great. I do know that he was in this sanctuary earlier that day, enjoyed the jazz band here and the potluck to follow, and was incredibly upbeat about his life. I spoke with him the night before and we had a great talk. I am certain he was feeling vibrant and was looking forward to an adventure-filled year. I can quickly count four or five trips he was planning on my hand. They weren’t to be, but maybe there is another plan. He went with complete dignity, and I know he would have wanted that. He also left behind a legacy, an example – a definition of what it means to be a man – through his life that I’m going to speak about further in a minute.

Secondly, the sermon yesterday was about goodness, even in a world when things seem all messed up. The recent spate of shootings in schools – especially the one room Amish school in Pennsylvania where five young girls were killed – was called out. What struck me was how dark that moment was and how clearly I could contrast it with the life of my Dad.

What raced through my mind was that my Dad, who was a beloved family member or special friend to each of you gathered here, was and stood for the exact opposite of all that happened on that dark day in Pennsylvania. Dad was a very honorable man, and he stood for all that is good in this world. He was and is an inspiration to many. Yet, I don’t think he spent a lot of time worrying about whether or not he was “successful” by the world’s standards. He lived his life as if success was defined by the amount of life in his days, not the amount of days in his life. He wasn’t exceptionally tall by physical standards, but by some of what I’d call a few timeless standards, he was among the tallest of men.

The world often tells us that success is about the state of our balance sheet, professional accomplishments, or number of admirers. I think there may be a simpler way to define it, and this definition resonates for me because it echoes from the footsteps of my father.

I think success has to do with four basic things: Head, Heart, Hands, and Humor.

My Dad had a brilliant mind. He never boasted about it, but he had an insatiable curiosity for many things, especially electronics, and he absolutely excelled academically in this area. He was self-taught as a teen-ager and encouraged by his dad to tinker with radios, took correspondence courses, and later went on to further formal studies in technical school and the Navy – excelling all the way along. He was a natural born engineer and inventor, just like his dad. There are countless stories about him fixing things that were unfixable, figuring out new ways to do things, and just plain getting things done. In recent years, he assembled and refurbished an amazing collection of antique radios – even though he couldn’t hear very well himself!

Dad had an enormous heart and he loved helping others. He had an almost sixth sense when somebody needed help – it might be when a car wouldn’t start, or when a friend was moving, or maybe when the audio system wasn’t working right here at the church. He jumped at the chance to help. As you’ve learned from Pastor Glen, he even saved a friend’s life at one point in a heroic gesture of composure and compassion. He was also a long-time, active member of the Flathead County Search and Rescue. He had a tremendous respect for fairness and a real distaste for injustice. He always put others, including his family and friends, before himself.

Dad was also incredibly trustworthy and had tremendous integrity. I believe his long time business partner, Teri Maki, summed this up well when he said, “Bob was one of a kind. He was the guy you could leave the keys to your house, a stack of $100 bills on the kitchen table, and come back a year later. You’d find everything in order, and more $ on the table than when you left.”

And, he got stuff done! Dad had very strong, capable hands. He had a firm warm handshake and he worked countless long days – sometimes even in the middle of the night on mountain tops at 40 below. He was a builder and a doer at heart. I worked with him a lot over the past couple decades on many projects – especially the cabin we built in the North Fork – and learned so much from him that I could speak for hours. (Don’t worry – I won’t!) I learned much about putting in a long, fulfilling day’s work and getting things done to a high standard. I also learned to drive a tractor during the few moments when he wasn’t driving! He really liked using them out there and I think it took him back to his roots, growing up in Westby, each time he did.

Dad also had a great sense of humor. He was a very happy person – almost all the time – and he loved spending time with friends. He also had a quick wit and liked to tell stories about some of the outlandish things he experienced growing up in Westby or in the Navy. There was one story he loved to tell, from when he ran all the ships radios on the Destroyer he served on in Korea. This included the broadcasting of entertainment radio and recorded music throughout the ship. The cooks used to send a treat or two his way from time to time – to encourage him to play some favorites and so forth. One new baker came along and said “you only get food in the mess hall” and wouldn’t give him any bread for some peanut butter he had stashed away. All of the sudden, the radio in the bakery didn’t work any more! Next thing you know, the baker showed up at the radio room bearing bread and a little contrition. Music and bread flowed freely from then on!

He liked westerns, corny TV wrestling just like his dad did, and I fondly remember him giggling while repeatedly watching his favorite movie, “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, World”.

I don’t know exactly when I realized that my Dad was a really special person, but I must have figured out quite a bit about 15 years ago when I wrote him a letter. I’m going to share that letter with you now. I had forgotten that I’d written it to him, but discovered it this week. He had kept it all these years in his dresser drawer.

[Letter]

Yes, the young man from Westby who loved fiddling with radios as a kid on the farm, who later served his country in the Navy, who became an entrepreneur, who became a wonderful dad, loving grandfather, and a faithful friend to many… had many gifts. He had a sharp mind, a big heart, helping hands, and a warm smile.

He put them to use every day to make the world a better place when he left it than when he entered it. To me, he was a giant of a man, the kind of man there are far too few of in this world.

And in his passing, we are all learning a lot about what success truly is, what it means to be a man, and what we can do to put what he taught us into practice.

I had the tremendous pleasure of spending many months over the past fifteen years working side by side him, and I’d like to share some of my feelings in the form of a poem.

Dad

The season is changing,
this year so much more it aches
and I want to turn it back.

Turn back the season,
bask in the long joy filled days of summer,
Aurora Borealis, warm nights, projects,
tractors, unexpected visits from friends.

Frost lays in wait, lingers,
weighs heavy on the meadow,
bends first light as it claws up the aspen,
igniting,
leaf by leaf.

Steady hands behind this scene,
strong, purposeful, eternal.

I remember our first days here.
Charred remains of the fire,
ash, mineral earth, fallen spruce and fir.
The face of the moon.
Without a vision, nothing.

This change of seasons unfolds as tapestry.
Layer upon layer,
branch aside branch,
gold into rust into yellow.

Leaves twist in the autumn breeze,
pages turning in a book,
timeless story,
finite pages.

I feel the warmth of this sacred place
hewn from the land,
forged from dreams,
drenched with sweat and memories.

Beneath it all, a pulse.
Like the river,
one that spawns life, carves a path,
carries us on broad shoulders.

We are born to limits,
cast small shadows, then long ones, then smaller ones,
then no more.

And yet, by Grace, even we create,
teach,
embrace,
celebrate,
complete.

And well I know.

The forward march of this season,
inevitable,
unexpected, cruel,
drums on
as I listen.

Much more to be done.
Rest later.
Thoughts on others.
No simple patterns, shortcuts, half ways.

Nothing fancy.

Start early.
Finish late.
Maybe plant a crop.
Peas, potatoes.

Integrity.

The long days give way to night.
Winter encroaches.
Geese hauntingly make their way, again,
as always.

The apprentice takes a first slow trembling step.
Early light on Rainbow, Numa, Kintla in the distance.
Too soon, too cold, too quiet,
yet never alone.

-RPA ’06