I am fortunate to have a box of letters my dad wrote to his mother in the 1960s (as well as the letters she wrote to him). In the earliest letter dated November 28, 1961, my dad had recently joined the Navy and was stationed in San Diego, CA. With his letter to his mother he included a copy of the Thanksgiving Day menu on his ship, the Submarine Flotilla One. He ate well that year, he said: baked virginia ham, candied yams, creamy whipped potatoes, giblet gravy, cranberry sauce, hot parkerhouse rolls, buttered corn, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream, among many other foods. He reflects on his birthday, noting he didn't do anything special "but it was an all right day." And he shares an anecdote about a coworker who points out his calm demeanor. I love that even at 20 years old, my dad was the same humble person I knew him to be decades later. He was someone who found great fulfillment in a good meal and good company, and he was always able to offer the cleverest insights on the things others might not notice. Happy birthday, Dad. I am grateful for all the Thanksgivings I got to share with you.

This is the eulogy I read at my dad's memorial on June 16, 2022:

My dad wasn’t big on group activities, so I’m not sure he would have come to this reception. At first glance, he could seem like a loner, somewhat aloof. But when I think back over his life, I see how connected, communicative, and relational he was. Usually, if he had to go to a gathering, you could find him off in a corner, talking to just one person. I never knew exactly how he “selected” who that person would be, but I knew the lucky person would go home from that gathering feeling heard, and that they mattered. There are probably several of you in this room who have experienced being the “chosen one” at a party with Don. And it may even be part of the reason you showed up here today. Don wouldn’t have wanted or expected folks to gather on account of him - but if he were here, in his unique way, he would have connected with each of us, either through an in-depth conversation, a knowing glance, or a wry joke. Let today be our way to continue conversing with him and each other, as we reflect on his life and how he touched each of ours.

I have always been curious about my dad’s upbringing and the Hein family lineage. We didn’t live close to our relatives, so I was often asking my dad questions about our extended family. I tried to imagine what made him who he was, which ultimately made our immediate family what it was. I know Don was born on Thanksgiving Day, at home, the youngest of five. His father, Howard, had gone to Alaska for work that year, and didn’t return to live with the family again. I imagine my dad in that house on North Sixth Street in Hillsboro, growing up poor but engaged with life. He must have had to develop his observant and resourceful manner pretty early on. He also must have learned to get along with many different personalities from the moment he was born. I imagine his sweet and caring mother, sister and brothers who raised him.

Out of highschool, Don wanted to study optics (telescopes, binoculars, etc.) and worked at a Viewmaster factory. When he decided to join the Navy, he told the recruiter about this interest in optics, but they saw that his grades in Physics weren’t that high. They saw he got excellent grades in English and suggested he get training in Journalism. It was ironic that he was in the Navy but prone to seasickness. He also failed the swimming test in boot camp. But I know he was appreciative of his time in the service because it introduced him to a diverse range of people from around the U.S. and in other parts of the world. Once out of the Navy, he used the GI Bill to finish college and got his Bachelor’s Degree in Communications. His experience and talent in writing led him to the human resources field where he wrote eloquent job descriptions. I interviewed him once about his education and career, and he said he never really planned that far in advance - that he considered each decision as it came to him, and things unfolded the way they did. 

There is a story his family from Oregon tells: when he was around six years old, he walked into the room carrying an empty milk crate. Aunt Patsy asked him “What are you going to do with that?” Don said, “I don’t know but it has possibilities.” In this way, my dad was patient and unassuming. He trusted (and even enjoyed) the process of uncovering new insights. He knew that the answer would let itself be known if given enough time. He let himself wonder and put his questions out there. He coined the acronym “TEA”: the Theory of Eventual Awareness. The way TEA works is: just about the time you forgot you were wondering about something, that’s when the answer appears. Eventually you would come to have an awareness of something you previously could not have known because the time wasn’t yet right. There were millions of places, things and people to know, but he was never in a hurry. He took the time to listen, assess, reflect - and later, sometimes years later, he would offer up his thoughts - a truth that had seasoned. 

My dad loved a good buffet. He liked to be able to see the food before deciding whether to eat it. He did his research. He was a sampler - a person who tried everything once, who knew a little about a lot of things. He tasted his way through life in an attempt to understand it from multiple angles. During his retirement, he once took a community art class and for his final project he constructed a hexagonal globe, and collaged it with found art. It was like a representation of his mind - a hive of ideas and delightedness. We used to have fun making the rounds at all the sample tables at Costco. On more than one roadtrip, we methodically visited nearly every national park within reach in order to get the passport stamps - to collect them all. 

I admired my dad from the time I was little. I would visit him at his office and notice how much his coworkers liked and respected him. I thought it was cool how he could get along with anyone. I admired his keen observation skills, his intellect, and how he could figure anything out. He was never gregarious and did not wish to call attention to himself - he let others be who they were. He was a talented writer and I’m pretty sure I owe my good grades in English to him for all the times he scrupulously corrected my homework. He also edited every resume and cover letter for every job I ever got. He made me want to be a writer, a photographer and ultimately, a parent. 

There was a list of things he went over with me the night he passed away. His mind was holding multiple ideas and plans up until the very end. They were the final loose ends he wanted to make sure were accounted for after he was gone, and it was an honor for me to be the scribe to record these things that represented what he valued. The list included: his photography, his music collection, letters from his mother (Enid), his poetry, his Birkenstocks (he had about 20 pairs!), his tools, the wood furniture that he had made, and his vast collection of books; Also on this list was to let his friends know how much he enjoyed and appreciated them; And to the family, how much he loved them. He also asked that we make sure to always celebrate the birthdays of those both living and deceased. 

He was devoted to his family. When I asked him what moments of his life most stood out to him, he said the births of all the children - Jesse, Lili, me, Kishi (his grandniece for whom he and my mom have been guardians over the past 7 years), and his grandchildren: Ivan, Emi, Chao, Jay, and Simone. Joyfulness in childhood was the most important thing, more so than molding us kids to be any certain way. He told me once he would never tell his kids what his hopes for them were - in this way, we were free to be who we would become.

As I read through all the tributes written on the memorial website, I see how unique each of our memories are of Don, and also how much in common there is in our reflections about his essential qualities – his sense of humor, his deep listening, his warm smile, helpful insights, varied interests and talents, curiosity, caring, cheerfulness, creativity, his perspectives shining a new light, his calm, his sharing spirit. It is clear how he made us each feel we were in the presence of an old friend.

I think of my dad’s life as a kaleidoscope. The longer I look, the more I see the intricate, ever changing colors and patterns in the way he saw, adapted to, and related to the world and those around him. But to really enjoy a kaleidoscope, you have to get up close, to hold it and turn it in your hands, and to allow the beauty and new perspectives to reflect back to you and ultimately to touch your heart.

Once, in one of his “TEA” moments, my dad said he realized that the true definition of a hero is someone who doesn’t allow another to feel alone. I understand now that my dad was a hero - for me, and likely for many of you who are here today. In his presence, I never felt alone. I always felt like I mattered, that I was safe, and on the right path. Everything he did and was, created the conditions for us to be gathered here, together - not alone - as we honor him and fill our cups with a love of life that he reminded us was possible.

On November 13, 2006 - Ivan Hein, my father and one of Don's older brothers passed.  I remember calling Don in that early morning to let him know that the time was short.  Don didn't have to, but he immediately drove from Poulsbo, WA to Hillsboro, OR and came to the hospital.  His quiet and steady presence there was comforting to me.  I will never forget it.

Don contributed this reflection for my Dad's memorial:

November Maples

The golden gift blown to earth
delighted us in all our seasons.

This November - on the thirteenth- we and the maples were stripped, made mere watchers of the treasure-paving of streets here and There.

Was this 24-karat season 'specially selected for your leaving?
Did your fineness require you be weighed now,
with the other gold?

Reveled:  Even spectacular November maples look
fog-bound to us who peer out from the warm circumference
of your radiant life and love.

Now always I will love maples, too.

Donald Hein