Huntz was a Theta Chi room-mate, an usher in my wedding, and an outdoor adventure buddy for a number of years.  Here are a couple of stories with a hunting/fishing slant....

 

#1 “Weird Turkey Tale”.   Back in the early eighties Huntz called and said that he wanted to come up to my place to do some turkey hunting.  Early one spring morning we headed out to a remote spot located 5 miles from our place on the Highland Road.  After making a few calls on my box call, we heard a strange sounding response.........sort of like a gobbler, but not quite.  Every time I called, the unusual sounding reply bounced back in our direction.  I told Huntz that it was the strangest sounding turkey that I’d ever heard.  He insisted that we get set up because it sounded like the “bird” was slowly moving our way.   So, I had the camo-clad Huntz set up about 20 yards in front of me along an old logging road so that he’d have the first opportunity to pull the trigger on “Uncle Tom”.  I called, it answered.  I called, it answered again with a call that sounded like a turkey with bronchial asthma............MAAAAAAAA, MAAAAAA, MAAAAAA .  I saw Huntz tense up and raise his trusty twelve-gauge just as a big ball of black stepped out of the roadside brush 30 yards in front of him.  Suddenly, he lowered the shotgun and said, “Holy Shit, Bub.  Look at that!”  There standing in front of us was a 35 pound, jet black billy goat!!!  I mean.......we were 5 miles from the nearest home and here’s a damn goat that thinks it’s a turkey coming in to our calls.  We both stood up and started laughing.  The goat must have thought we were family members because it followed us back to my old Subaru and crawled underneath the car.  Huntz had to grab it by the horns and yank it out while I hit the gas.  Huntz sprinted down the road and jumped in the Suby.  We left the goat in a cloud of dust and spent the rest of the morning laughing about our most unusual turkey hunt.

 

#2 “The Humpy”  One fine spring morning several decades ago, Huntz and I decided to do some fishing on one of the premier trout streams in Warren County......Brokenstraw Creek.  “The Brokenstraw” was a beautiful stream that harbored some really nice-sized brown and rainbow trout.  Access to the stream was sometimes difficult due to willow brush that grew along its banks.  Huntz and I followed a small trail down to the stream and ended up fishing maybe 100 yards apart.  We were screened by the willow brush.  I couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see me.  I hooked a couple of nice trout and from the sounds that Huntz was making, I knew he must be having some action, too.  After half an hour or so, I noticed an older gentleman with rod and reel......and walking stick.....slowly making his way down the trail.  He was probably around 70, doubled over from arthritis or maybe some work-related injury.  I said “Hi” as he moved to a spot 30 yards downsteam of me, and between me and Huntz.  (Huntz didn’t realize the old gent was there due to the screen of brush between us).  After 20 minutes or so, I heard Huntz whooping and laughing.  Then he started moving in my direction and yelling, “Bub, look at the humpy! Look at the weird humpy!”

Remember, he didn’t see the old timer.  The old guy really got a pissed off look on his face as Huntz continued to laugh and yell “Humpy! Humpy!”  I was totally embarrassed and shrugged my shoulders at the old guy to indicate I didn’t know what the crazy guy downstream was up to.  Wayne finally broke through the screening brush with an 18 inch, deformed brown trout in his hands(its back was bent into a huge hump).  Huntz was speechless when he saw the bent-over old guy.  Luckily, the older gent had a good sense of humor.  We all had a good laugh down along the banks of the Brokenstraw.

Hello. I am Jennifer, Wayne’s. Daughter. I want to thank you all for being here on behalf of Michael and I.  I know many of you traveled to be here and we are very touched that you are here to celebrate our father’s life with us.  It means a lot to us that you are all here, so thank you.  We have received a lot of support, prayers and comfort over the past several weeks and it has helped us more than words could ever express. A big thanks to my husband Toby who became Mr. Mom in my absences.  A special thank you to my mom, who has been my angel and given me unconditional support throughout this whole process and she has been by my side and my rock.

Many of you may know that my dad studied Geology and was enamored by the natural world and the products our earth provides.  Geodes are sometimes called the Tootsie Roll Pop of the geology world because underneath the hard exterior lies a surprise center.  My dad was like a Geode.  Because underneath the exterior of a troubled soul was a beautifully intelligent man who was kind and gentle, hard working, witty, caring and loving.

I went to see my dad in the hospital after not seeing him for quite a while. We spoke on the phone very often, but our visits were infrequent.  He was heavily sedated, on a ventilator, and had tubes and machines coming every which way from his body. It was shocking, unsettling, and incredibly overwhelming.  The first thing that struck me was the sea of hair and his beard.  He had a full beard… I found it ironic, because it was the day after Christmas and he looked a bit like Santa.  His beard was long and wild and free.  A lot like he was.

It took awhile to take it all in.  And the news that he was very ill and that the prognosis was not good was barely sinking in. It was a rollercoaster of ups and downs and hopeful days and moments of progress and setbacks.  He surprised them and me many days, with his resilience and tenacity.  Sadly, as the time went on, it became more apparent that too many factors were against him.  I will forever be grateful to Jacque and Joe for taking him to the hospital that day and giving him those few extra weeks so we could say goodbye.

The truth is beneath his intelligent and beautiful mind and sharp dry humor and wit laid a deeply troubled soul. I have come to realize that through his death he will escape the cruel and unwavering grip of deep depression and alcoholism. A part of me knew most of my adult life that it would only be a matter of time until I received “that” phone call. But nothing can prepare you for when it really comes.

I believe by telling his story and acknowledging it, perhaps one person experiencing something similar can be inspired and moved to take action within them for positive change. It would be undignified for me to paint a picture of his life being something it was not. I wish to honor him through the reality of his life and what it can teach us –I believe it is through his struggle that I have become the person I am today. Despite possibly thinking the contrary, he has taught me more than you could know.

The love of nature and science, the love and care of plants and gardening, love of birds and wildlife.  The love of astronomy and the stars; When he was moving to Phoenix and I was feeling particularly sad about the distance that would be between us and how often we would likely see each other.  He told me to just look up at the moon and know that he would be looking up at the same moon and we would be always be connected that way.  Saying goodnight to the same moon wherever we were in the world.  Even as an adult, I found myself looking at the moon at night thinking about the reassurance I received knowing he was looking up at the sky and the stars and the moon each night.

Of course, He taught me how fish. He taught me how to unhook a fish, how to clean a fish, and how to put a worm on a hook properly.  There were always “night crawlers” in our refrigerator.  He took me smelting, ice fishing, creek fishing, lake fishing, deep sea fishing, river fishing, pond fishing, heck my brother even tried fishing in the sewer in our basement. He is so happy that I married a guy who loves to fish and have three kids who enjoy fishing too.  I find it incredibly ironic that he just got his senior lifetime “forever”-fishing license.   

His nickname in college was “Huntz’.  It was not because of his love for hunting,  I believe it was a nickname based on the “Dead End Kids”  Movies from the 50’s…. however, I remember when he went hunting and shot his first deer. He brought it home and skinned it himself in our garage in the city.  I am sure our neighbors loved that.   He was careful not to waste any part. We had deer meat in our home for months.  I also remember when he got his first turkey.  He tried desperately to teach me how to use his homemade turkey caller, but I was never successful with that.   

It wasn’t just the hunt. He liked just looking for animals in nature too.  Often we would just go spotting for deer.    When I visited him in Arizona, We went hunting in the desert for snakes, and spiders and rare saguaro (cactus) and dessert flowers.   Really anything he could name that had a fancy long name I could not pronounce. I remember how proud he was when I won the science fair in 5th grade by documenting how to drill for oil by depicting the different rock layers with different colors of sand. Always explaining geology and hoping maybe someday I would “get it”.  For example the trip we took to Penn’s Cave were he taught us about the Stalactites and Stalagmites., or many field trips to creek beds to dig for fossils.  We had many great times and memories together.

I remember him being silly and playing practical jokes and his laugh, which now ironically, my brother has.

And it is through his mistakes in life that I have been able to experience such a profound perspective of life and things that which he struggled with on a daily basis. Even now in his death. With his passing he has left me with a special gift.  I have learned that sometimes it is the journey. The good and the bad.     The happy and the sad.   The hard and the easy.   This whole experience has been a journey, and the destination hasn’t always been clear. The path hasn’t always been a straight line.  But going through the process has helped me learn quite a bit about myself and my family, my spirituality, friendship and love.   He has evoked in me a heightened sense of compassion for those I care about still living. A desire to be better person and more empathetic, and truly appreciate those who are my friends and family and the time I spend with them.

I have gotten to know those that have cared about and loved my Dad better. I have learned that he has a great group of friends that love and care about him.  I have learned that I have an amazing group of friends and family that love and support me.  I have learned that I can lean on and be supported in times like this and can be vulnerable and open up. That isn’t and hasn’t always been easy for me.  And it has opened up a space for forgiveness and peace.

The death of my father has taught me what it means to love my children and make memories with them everyday.  It has taught me to slow down, to enjoy the moment, to find hidden treasures everywhere. His death has invited me to live fully in the present while I remember my past and embrace my future.  His death has taught me to seek a sense of belonging, a sense of meaning, a sense of purpose, in my work, and in my relationships with my family and friends.  His death has reminded me that there is great joy in loving and being loved.

At our church in Chicago, in December at the beginning of Advent, we celebrate Tonefest. It is a St. Paul’s German tradition. We celebrate and give thanks for the lives of those who have died. We give thanks in the time of death.  We remember those whose names are in our minds and whose lives and influences we hold within our genes and our hearts. We forgive them their debts, we forgive them their trespasses, and we remember them for the good they have done.  It is difficult to forgive people for living because of what we believe they have inflicted upon us or upon the world and sometimes it is difficult to forgive people for dying because we miss them and so we mourn them, mostly for ourselves. But we must forgive.  Not for their sake, but for our sake.  We lay them to rest so that we can put ourselves to rest.  I think this will take time, but I hope and pray that this is something we all can do. 

After a long time of suffering, he is free from the path that he afflicted upon his own body through the abuse of alcohol, and he is free from the demons within him that drove him to inflict so much emotional pain on himself and his own family. He is free.  He is finally at peace.      Amen.

Memorial  Tribute for Wayne A. Hall

February 22, 2014 – Neshaminy of Warwick Presbyterian Church

      My brother was a sweet little boy, and while we were growing up together it was a blessing to have him as my primary playmate and companion, along with the two Smith girls who lived across the street (when Bristol Road was a quiet country lane and hardly what it is today).  I remember so well playing cowboys and Indians, hide-and- seek, and  tag with him, reveling in the happy summertime fun of childhood.  Most of the time we’d be playing out in our backyard, but from time to time strayed into the tall  cornfield planted next to our property, stretching far beyond, where the houses built in the sixties by Barness first were erected, several of which were demolished to make way for the new four-lane York Road.  That all was once our playground where we wandered,  explored, and got lost on occasion having to learn how to “read the sun” to find our way  home again.  I was more the ruffian during those early formative years, being four years  older.  Wayne, even at his most mischievous was always gentle and thoughtful,  compliant and shyly fun-loving.

     I remember celebrating his birthday every October 29 with a Mighty Nice devil’s food  cake that Mother was sure to provide, much to his delight.  I remember sharing the adventure with him of traveling across the whole United States out to see my mother’s sister in Seattle accompanying our grandparents Dager.  He was about five years old, and his eyes were wide with curiosity and the thrill of seeing so much of the wider world, as were my own for certain.  He never misbehaved and was such a good traveler.  We’d make a game of trying to spot various wild animals – moose or mountain goats or elk or prairie dogs – or chipmunks!   It was a special time for us to share and learn about nature, geography and the splendid inspiring scenery of our land, out West!

     I remember fishing together with homemade crude poles under the old bridge that we grew up with, which crossed the Neshaminy at perpendiculars unlike the present structure which fairly dismisses the creek’s presence.  We’d wade in and catch pretty sunfish and spiny catfish, throwing them all back to catch again another day.  Mother would not have appreciated it if we had taken them home for dinner!   However, some years later, he brought home a monstrous snapping turtle that he begged her to make soup out of.  She did, and it was awful tasting!   But, he was gratified that he did get a taste of that snapper.  He prized the huge shell for years.

    I remember skating on the creek with him – here by the church and down at Alderfer’s farm, with Daddy supervising and showing us how.  What fun we had!  And, I remember so vividly sledding down Carr’s Hill on Meetinghouse Road together with Daddy by the light of the full moon.  How incredible that was.  I remember always going to Christmas Eve Candlelight Services as a family, all together.  Then, there was the thrilling suspense and delighted discovery to see the tree and gifts arranged prettily beneath.  Mother and Daddy had stayed up half the night preparing our surprises.  You see, back then, Santa did EVERYTHING on Christmas Eve!   What childhood treasures we shared!

 
   Life at home in the fifties and early sixties was simple, somewhat pastoral even, and very healthful for us: our parents, though always struggling to make ends meet, never failed to let us know that their four children were their first priorities.  They showed by example as well as by religious instruction to be generous, kind, unselfish, and humble-spirited.  We all had, I believe, happy childhoods.  And, Wayne was a happy child.

     He was the only one of the four of us who was born in the hospital as he was a breach baby.  I think that that fact in particular contributed to a very special bond between mother and son.  Though unspoken, it was recognizable in their mutual empathies when things went wrong for either:  Many years later I remember getting a call when he told me that Mother had fallen hard on the wooden stairs and had badly injured her back (subsequently diagnosed as compression fractures at the base of her spine).  Wayne had picked her up gently and carried her into the living room sofa.  She was in a great deal of pain, and his concern was discernable in his words and tone.  He helped to nurse her in every way he could to help her recover from that injury.  And, he was always watchfully aware thereafter of the lingering discomfort that she bore stoically for the rest of her life.  Wayne was a loving and compassionate son.

     His reserve, even his introversion, as he grew older was sometimes puzzling, but I never challenged it.  I continued to be his friend and loving sister, accepting him as he was, knowing always his goodness of heart.  When we lived in Edinboro, and he and his family lived in Erie, he would occasionally bring them down to the farm for Sunday afternoon visits.  It was good to be together and let the kids be kids, checking out the ponies, cows, kitties, and bunnies.  At one point there was even a litter of Airedale puppies to play with!   Sometimes, at my husband’s invitation, Wayne came down to do some deer-hunting solo that he enjoyed a great deal.  But, his real passion was fishing!  He loved trying to catch the elusive pisces dwelling in Lake Erie especially.  Ever the solitary angler, he was.

      Sadly, Wayne kept the pain of his divorce to himself and never shared it with me.  He dealt with it in depressed silence and withdrawal essentially, blaming himself eternally for that failure, so irreparably.  And, then he literally flew away and was gone, in self-imposed exile from his family.  One hoped and prayed that he was seeking a new, healthful beginning, rejoining an old buddy out in Phoenix.  That was all we knew for the most part, and we worried and prayed continually for his welfare for years.  And, then, one day Libby called and told me thoughtfully that he needed help and how to contact him.  Shortly, he was back in Hartsville, where Mother and Daddy and I offered him respite, support, and, above all, loving reassurance.

      I remember well having a conversation with Wayne about his welding skills, commenting that he had our father’s hands.  He, like Daddy, who himself had been a master welder and who taught his son the art, could meld flawless seams of bonded strength between metals.  He lifted his hands, looking at them, said, “it’s both a blessing and a curse.”  A bit bewildered, I emphasized that in my opinion he was very blessed that his father took the time and interest to teach him and to provide the equipment for the trade.  He said that he knew it and was grateful.  And, I knew he meant it.

     Wayne seemed to struggle desperately and to torture himself constantly with unforgiving thoughts of his shortcomings.  However, I know he knew that we only cared for his well-being in the present, and in the future.  He alternatively was bright with enthusiasm and gloomy with self-castigation in his loss of hope.  Our parents were steadfast in their encouragement and firm guidance.   Giving up was never an option!

      He nobly chauffeured them to Virginia on the sorrowful occasion of my husband’s memorial service.  He was obviously very sad for the circumstance of that visit as well as fully solicitous of Mother and Daddy who were deeply grieved by Jack’s premature passing.   And then, within the following eight years we lost them as well.  Wayne seemed especially bereft when he lost the solace he’d shared with Mother. And, he went into another period of funk and reclusiveness which pained me to recognize.  I remember going to see him at his apartment to try to get him to just talk it out.  His response was even sadder yet – that he didn’t reach out because he just wanted to be left alone.  He chuckled when I told him he needed to get some help.  He had declined my intervention when he was out in Arizona, but now I felt compelled to force the issue.  He tried to make light of it in a subsequent phone conversation, showing his wit and humor again. But, beneath the delightful banter, I knew he was in pain.  He did get counseling and therapy, thankfully, and, as long as he was good about taking his meds and backing off of some of his habits, he did fairly well.  He was working steadily and seemed content.

     The next time I saw him was at Daddy’s memorial service, when he was heavier apparently from imbibing again.  Jennifer took charge then, and in short order was able to get him into rehab.  He really wanted to please and to succeed at her urging and serious involvement to get him the help he needed.  And, it seemed to be very effective, so gratefully!  When he came to my wedding in 2012, he was hail and hearty, dressed spiffily, and seemed to be happy to be with family on that occasion.  And, that was the last time I saw my brother Wayne.  We only talked a couple of times on the phone after I moved from Virginia to North Central Pennsylvania with my new husband., and I was eager to have him come visit.   

    Over the last Holiday season, I called his cell and left messages, but got no response.  I guessed that he was out in Chicago to celebrate Christmas there, or, I hoped so at any rate.  I should have called Jen to verify that as fact, but didn’t.  It never occurred to me that he was in the hospital fighting for his life!  And, that my chances to ever have another chat with him were gone for good.  I was devastated and felt so sad for Jennifer especially.  What a cruel blow to her.  It was so clear that she loved her dad dearly and wanted to save him from himself.  But, it wasn’t to be. 

     We can learn a valuable lesson from the legacy Wayne leaves us.  When someone is hurting, let him or her know that you are concerned and that you do care.  Be there. Whether in friendship or familial love, whether the problem is big or small, even when that person seems to reject your attention - do it anyway.   It is, after all, the Golden Rule, and it is the right and loving thing to do.  Remember the line “There, but for the Grace of God, go I!”  We all have our failings and short-sightedness, but we really need to look after one another diligently and benevolently.  

     I am compelled to share one last memory.  I have no doubt that Daddy shared with Wayne, as he surely had with our two older siblings as they grew up, the simple words of wisdom and complete love that he spoke to me one Sunday morning sitting on the old wooden pew, about sixth from the front on my right, where our family usually was stationed every week.  He put his arm around me gently and pulled me closer to whisper in my ear:  “See the lamb on Jesus’ shoulder? ….  That’s you.  That’s you.  He will always take care of you and lift you up when you need His help.  Don’t forget that.”  I never have.  I trust Wayne always felt the comfort of Christ’s presence in his life and knew that he was never alone.  He was private about his faith, but I am sure it was there. My own abiding faith allows me to believe firmly that his soul is resting now with the Lord and that he is finally at peace.  Our memories of his wry grins and quiet talk, his challenges and his sufferings, his uncomplaining resignation to a life that seemed to cheat him of happiness and worldly success, nonetheless yield a cherishing love for who he was.  Perhaps not all he wanted to be and perhaps not all we wanted for him, he was a dear soul and a good man.  Thank you, God, for Wayne’s life.  

 Praise be to our Almighty Father, the Author of all of our lives.  Amen.