Three years ago today, I received a phone call that my father had committed suicide. After returning to Iowa to be with my step-mother Kathie and my brothers and sisters, I learned that my biological mother who was suffering with the final stages of Alzheimer's was in the hospital with pneumonia. After my father's viewing on the following day, the hospital called to inform us that my mother also passed away. To say it was a bad week would be an understatement.
As a tribute to my father, I am publishing the eulogy that I gave for him on that Saturday.
"Sort of funny…
A person lives 67 years and 243 days and someone is supposed to stand up here and expound on their life in just a few minutes. 24,363 sunrises. 24,363 sunsets. 584,712 hours. 35 million 82 thousand and 720 some odd minutes.
After a while, 24,363 days or 584,712 hours seems as constant as time, as dependable as the changing of the leaves in the fall, the freezing Iowa winters, or fields of tall corn in August.
But it really isn't. Unlike eternity, we are humans and we are born and we die.
Life itself is ephemeral, it comes and it goes.
Today is the day we ask, Who was Karl Frederick Wolfe?
Karl was born to Dwight and Wilma Wolfe right here in Des Moines, Iowa on May 22, 1938. He grew up on Marella Trail near Witmer park, graduated from North High School and studied briefly at Drake University. He enlisted in the Air Force in 1960 and served his country for two years, including a stint in Newfoundland, Canada. After leaving the Air Force, he went to work at the Post Office in 1963 where he worked for nearly 40 years, until he retired in 2002.
That is what he did, but it really doesn't tell us who he was. To each of us, he was someone a little different.
He was "Husband" to my Mom Kathie.
"Dad" to me and my brothers and sisters--Chris, Cory, Shawn and Shelley.
Father-in-law to Monica, Molly, and Julie.
Son-in-law to Grandpa and Grandma Lawrence.
"Grandpa Karl" to nine beautiful kids and two buns in the oven.
He was "Yellow Cat" to those who shared a boat, a bridge, or a lake shore with him in the many years that he sought his nemesis—catfish. He fished the rivers, lakes and ponds of Iowa, Missouri, and Canada.
Karl was also known as "Zip Code" to his friends at Isaac Walton League Club—or simply Ike's as he called it--where he ate, drank and played pitch every Tuesday after work for twenty some odds years. He got the name Zip Code because he always went directly from work in his uniform with his US Postal Service cap.
In good Eulogistic form, I'm supposed to sprinkle somewhat memorable, insightful or humorous anecdotes about my father and his 24,363 days on this planet. I leave the judgment about whether anything I say is memorable, insightful and especially humorous to you, but in the little time I have today, I hope they touch on aspects of who he was.
Some fifteen years ago, Dad was cleaning a record-sized catfish that he had dragged out of Lake Ahquabi when the knife slipped and he gashed through his index finger nearly removing it from his left hand.
Luckily, Mom rushed him to the hospital where a skilled surgeon saved the finger. Now you know how close he came to becoming known at Ike's as "9-Digit Zip Code."
Back to the list.
He was "Brother" to his sister Virginia and her husband Bill.
He was "Can Man" to those who knew him during the period that he spent all of his free time collecting refundable soda and beer cans. Sometimes he even spent your free time picking up cans. You could be with him on the way to Iowa City for one reason or another and if he spotted, with hawk like precision—pun intended—a can on the side of Interstate 80, he insisted you bring the car, truck or van to a screeching halt to collect the can and the five cents that it would bring to his endeavor.
Sure, he spent $1 of gas to go from 65 to 0 and back again, but you knew that any debating the point was useless.
The nickel was his, the gas was yours!
Back to the list.
He was the "Ex" twice over to my biological mother who followed my father and succumbed the day after he died to her own fight of debilitating health issues of her own, including Alzheimers that had destroyed her mind to the point that she thought that I was the father of her children.
Maybe her fading mind saw a glimpse of a younger Karl in my face.
I prefer to think that people mistake me for Brad Pitt, but I, like my father, am a realist.
He was the "Passport guy" to the hundreds or thousands of people he helped with their passport issues during the time he ran the passport desk at the Post Office.
He was an anonymous Good Samaritan to many people. He was always willing to spend his time and energy to help people that he didn't even know. When we lived on Lincoln Road, he would dig people out of a snow bank during a blizzard who were foolish enough to think they could traverse that hill. Watching for them was a pastime during blizzards (this was before cable t.v. and the Internet). Helping them was his calling.
Once on a trip to my grandparent's house in Forsyth, Missouri, we came upon a car accident that had obviously just occurred. Much to our chagrin, Dad volunteered to take the injured people to the hospital some 20 miles in the opposite direction from Grandpa and Grandma's house even though we already had 2 adults and 3 restless children in our five passenger Mercury sedan. Not only did he deliver these people to the hospital, we waited until they had all been treated and released, so we could take them with the tow truck back to the accident scene to retrieve their car. The number of times this happened was literally countless.
Back to the list.
He was a "Cribbage Guru" to anyone who dared sit across a cribbage board from him. A fierce competitor who never let you win out of pity or to make you feel good. If you beat him, you earned it.
He was a devout democrat to those running for public office. Independent to those seeking donations for their campaigns.
He was a collector.
His collector gene dominated his being. From the time I was little, he collected signatures, record albums and paraphernalia from country music stars.
He built and collected covered wagons.
Then covered bridges.
Then he collected covered bridge post cards,
Then hats.
Then Jim Beam car decanters.
Then slot machine tokens.
Then miniature semi trucks and race cars.
He was a collector.
Our house is a testament to this—it could be a museum. Maybe not a museum that anyone would pay to go through, but something in line with the World's second largest free standing mud dwelling from National Lampoon's Vacation.
My dad claimed to be an atheist. He really wasn't. His God created the earth that he loved. The rivers, the streams, the ponds and lakes where he loved to fish. The fields, woods and ravines where he loved to hunt. He was one with God on his boat, by himself in the middle of a lake. That was his chapel.
Only he knows for sure exactly what his true faith was, but his doubt about God surely stems from his deep-seated belief in the plight of the little guy. Rage against the machine. Common man's fight against the proverbial Man.
He also struggled with the eternal question of why would the God of mainstream Christianity, who is supposed to be so good and so benevolent, bestow so much suffering in this world on those who love and worship Him.
He trusted religion about as much as he trusted the government or corporate America.
His policy: keep them out of his wallet and out of his boat.
My father was a bright man with a quick, sardonic wit.
He was hard working and honest.
Some would say too hard working.
Many would say too honest.
He told it like it was.
His passion for accomplishing a goal would have made him a great entrepreneur, except he lacked the self confidence to make the leap from the security that he knew and was comfortable with and that provided for his family into what he probably would have loved.
He was a good father, not a great father.
He wasn't the most patient man with children, whether his or others.
He didn't spare the rod or spoil the child that's for sure.
Nonetheless, I think we all knew that he loved us for who we are and the adults we have become.
Karl Wolfe loved his family, NASCAR races, fishing, and Johnny Cash.
In what order, only he knows for sure.
My Dad was the "P" word.
Pragmatic.
For those of you who thought the "P" word was "patient," well you didn't know him very well.
In the end, he wasn't even patient enough to wait for death to come to him.
I could spend hours with stories about his lack of patience, many hilarious others not so much.
For those of you who were thinking of another P word, you'll get your chance in a few minutes to share that with all of us.
My P word is Pragmatic. He did what needed to be done. When I was three, we had a dog named Lassie. Very original name for a Collie.
We loved Lassie as only two, three and four year old children could.
Lassie loved us…but hated everyone else in the world.
Lassie bit the paper boy, the meter man, the mail man and finally, the landlord.
We were on the verge of being evicted from our house on Lower Beaver Road.
Dad knew what he had to do.
Today, we would take the dog to the pound, drop him off and let someone else handle the dirty work.
On a long, hot, Iowa summer day in 1966, Dad got out his 22 rifle, loaded Lassie into the car, took her into the country and shot her in the head, twice.
He didn't want her to suffer.
Lassie's time had come and my father did what he thought was necessary and best for his family.
That night and for many days to follow, I saw my father cry and mourn Lassie's passing. In fact, he bawled.
On his 24,343rd day on this planet, Dad felt it was his time. I'm sure he did what he thought was necessary.
Now, we cry and grieve his passing.
He was indeed pragmatic.
That's the end of my list.
If I left anything out that won't offend women and children, feel free to speak up now.
I believe that the true measure of your life on earth should not be the number of breaths you take, but the number of times your breath is taken away.
I hope his breath was taken away many, many times.
Please don't mourn my father's passing.
Of course, we will all miss him, but he left this planet on his own terms.
Instead, celebrate his life.
Celebrate that your life is richer because you knew and spent time with Karl Frederick Wolfe.
When you catch a big ass catfish, say "this one's for you Yellow Cat!"
When you pick-up a refundable can on the side of the road, say "this one is for you Can Man!"
When you shoot-the-moon in a good game of pitch and actually pull it off, say "this is for you Zip Code!"
When you teach your kids to play cribbage, say "this is for you Dad!"
He will appreciate it.
Dad, we all love you and will miss you greatly."
