Don was born and introduced to the world in a magical place – Canada. The possibilities stretched across wide open plains, floated over giant lakes, wound through apple and peach trees and carried themselves out to a faraway skyline. The area they lived in – because of the climate and rich soil – was later called the Napa of Oregon. Fruit orchards were abundant, summer days turned into warm evenings and for a young boy starting his life the opportunities for adventure seemed limitless. It’s no wonder that years later when I asked Don for his memory of Canada it was one word, Dreamlike.
His father was a pastor and was well known in town and outside of town. Because of the duties of the job, and also because he loved being outdoors, Carl was often doing mission work – bringing food and support to families who lived hours or days into the wilderness. Don’s older brothers, Norm and Paul, were old enough to sometimes accompany their dad on these missions while Don would stay home, looking forward to the time when he could join in It was during one of these times that Don decided to apply some of his school teachings at home. In class they had been discussing the effect of gravity. Hanna, Don’s mom, told me later that she couldn’t understand why the supply of eggs kept running down each day. It had gone on for several days and between the production of the hens and what she using for cooking the accounting wasn’t adding up. But she went around the corner of the house and found that Don had set up a short ramp and was placing the eggs at the top of it and measuring the amount of time it took for them to reach the end and then fall to earth. When Don showed her the list of his results all she could do was laugh and keep the scolding to a minimum.
It was in Canada where Don picked up his passion and began to develop his skill for fishing. To me he was an expert fisherman, whether for trout or pike or sturgeon or seemingly whatever was in the water. I recall several days fishing with him on vacations but two stand out. Once, in the Tetons in the mid 60’s, I was in a shop when I overheard a couple of guys talking about a great day they had on one of the nearby creeks. I reported back to my dad and Don and couple days later the three of us spent a long day fishing that creek while everyone else was off visiting Yellowstone canyon and other places. I caught nothing – not even a nibble, my dad was skunked but Don pulled in some nice trout. It was the first time I had observed fly fishing and it stuck with me how much more technical it was. It was a fine day, hiking along a creek with just my dad and his brother and I remember when we came back to the road my dad hitch hiking back to the car and then the three of us going to check out the canyon. It was toward the end of the day and an afternoon storm had come on. At one point lighting struck close enough so that our hair all stood on end and we laughed and decided maybe we should head back to the car. A couple days later we hiked up the Snake river – a mile or two up from where it comes into the entrance to Yellowstone. I had fished in Canada with my brothers and dad on vacations – often in small lakes that were extremely productive. (We caught way more fish than we could ever eat). But this day came at the back end of a long vacation where we were mostly skunked and we knew it was the last day before we would be driving home. It turned out to be one of the best fishing days of my life and maybe doubly so for my dad. A couple hours in we found some deep holes and the cutthroat began hitting hard on spoons, muddler minnow and black wooly worm wet flies. This was one of those rare days where basically everything we threw in the river was rewarded. Also, importantly for my dad, it was one of those rate days where he caught more fish than Don, an important landmark for him.
From the 70’s forward my time with Don became more sporadic – but a couple memories stand out. I was in Kansas in the mid 70’s for a conference built around teachings and learnings from the first generation church. In the evenings there were 50,000 of us in the baseball stadium. Don lead the prayer one evening and it was very powerful. I remember I could hear several people around me with comments like, “Who was that person?” or “That was the most powerful prayer I’ve ever heard”.
In the mid 80’s Thom Preisinger organized a family reunion in the Sierras. It was fun to see Ruth and Lois and Norm and Don and Fritz and my dad Paul, and their spouses, all together again. It was very clear the respect and affection they had for each other - and their differences. Norm always had one of the most generous and graceful hearts of anyone I have known. Lois and my sister Kris were interchangeable – practical, thoughtful of others, hard-working, and most content when she was around and helping out others – and especially family. Ruth seemed calm at all times and had a quick wit when it was called for – and stayed curious and adventuresome. Fritz seemed most aware of his physical senses. He would describe how the food tasted, would recount the strains of hiking, was often pushing himself while skiing – and always wanted to reserve a little time in the bar during a day of skiing to “take in the scenery”. If there was anyone who was tapped into the Holy Spirit it was Don – and I’m sure others will tell some stories about how that played into his life in the 60’s. My dad relied on his brain – to understand, challenge and push – whether it was his friends or preparing for bible study. More than once I recall the organist (whose husband had founded the church) telling me, I wish your dad was just trust the bible and quit challenging it.
On my last call with Don I recall him saying, “I’m looking forward to dying because I won’t have to learn any more new technology”. He has now moved on to another dimension – but his spirit lives still with his family, friends and the countless thousands he spent time with and whose lives he changed.
