Respect for speed & simplicity -- remembering my father

I grew up in the seat of a Morgan -- the Roadster, 4x4 and Super 8. My father's second love, after my Mom, was the English Morgan, its speed and simplicity.  And one of my delights was to slump down on the leather passenger seat with him behind the wheel. The  engine would ignite with thunder and the exhaust pipes tremble.  And we'd be off.  It might be merely a trip to the hardware store or an excursion along winding mountain roads, but it was always an adventure.  My long hair would whip across my face adding thrill to the escapade.  

One of my father's hobbies was making car trades and getting a good deal on a second hand British car. Following our annual trips to Vancouver, Canada, we'd often return home with new wheels. We had Triumphs, a Lotus Cortina, Morris Minors, even a Sunbeam--the first British car to win the Grand Prix! (though our Sunbeam was a tiny coupe).   And then there were the Morgans -- green, white, yellow, 2 seaters, a 4 seater,  left-hand and right-hand drive.  

I remember...squeezing into the front  passenger seat with my good friend Kathy for a weekend excursion accompanying my father on a student retreat in the mountains of California.  That was before the days of compulsory seatbelts...were there even seatbelts?!  The sun set, the shadows lengthened and darkness descended upon us, the world, and the Morgan.  The top was up.  The headlamps shot beams out piercing through the trees lining the road -- we sat too low to see the road ahead; even the bonnet was above our view. Out the side window, only inches, it seemed, above the ground, road surface whizzed past and disappeared into a trail of darkness.  Then...the lights on the dashboard cut out! Kathy and I gasped.  Now my dad, unencumbered by dials, could speed through the night.  The simplicity of raw power bursting through the night -- exhilarating to an eleven year old.  How lucky I was to have such a cool Dad!   (43 years later when I mentioned this memory to my father he explained that he turned off the dashboard lights to minimize glare on the windscreen! Funny thing about a Morgan, you can be going the speed limit and feel like you're about to break the sound barrier!)

I remember... heading out with the family (five of us and a dog) for a holiday, loaded to the gills. The food cooler in front of my mother's feet in the long deep space stretching out in front of the passenger seat.  A large military canvas bag bulging with shoes tied to the wing (front fender), and bags piled on a roof luggage rack.  I sat between my two big brothers in the back seat, sunken deep down into the black leather.  Mitty, our dachshund, sat on my lap.  I think the top was down for my long hair flew uncontrolled around my face blocking any view of the surely dramatic California coastline.  Finally realizing my predicament, my father pulled over and we organized a rubber band for my hair.  

I'm thinking of my father this week, and his transition a year ago into eternal simplicity.

I remember...when my brothers and I were teenagers my father brought us to Great Britain for a whirlwind holiday. Two hightlights of the trip for me were a visit to the Methodist Hall standing proudly opposite Westminster Abbey (proud of my Methodist roots) and visiting the Morgan factory in Malvern.  This visit to the factory of his beloved Morgan was, I think, the highlight for my father.  He wanted us to witness the craftmanship, the love, the tradition, the art, the care.

A full page article about the Morgan appeared recently in the Evening Standard.  http://www.standard.co.uk/lifestyle/london-life/capturing-the-morgan-spirit-and-character-10073537.html

I’d seen an Aero Coupe on the street recently, but wasn’t sure what it was, no recognizable logo – quite sleek and James-Bond-looking – beautiful – simplicity at its finest. http://londonmorgan.co.uk

To top off  the Morgan-memory- lane, here’s a video of the factory, still cutting the bonnet with a pair of shears!  I so well remember the factory visit with Al. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4c9i250pc4  Never knew the fenders are called “wings” – so now my story can be that we tied a bag of shoes to one of the wings for our family road trip.  And so we flew through the night with my Dad at the helm!

Saying good-bye to my Father

With my father in hospice care at home with my Mom, my thoughts turn to what it has meant to be his daughter, what he has meant to me. As he peacefully "transitions," to use his term, even now he is teaching me, modelling dying well.

My father once said to me, "The only thing we can give you is our faith."  Not the words I was hoping for from my parents as a worldly and wayward teenager.  But words that mean everything to me today.  Both my brothers and I have followed in our father's footsteps and taken vows as Christian ministers; two of us are married to ministers, and one grandchild is recently ordained. Maybe my father didn't just paint prophets!  His faith, a living faith, compelled him to protest Apartheid in the 1950's, to march against racism and injustice throughout the 60's, to proclaim the horrors of war in the 1970's, and to stand at the Bellingham Friday vigil every week for the past 20 years.  I learned what faith means as I accompanied him in my stroller and later held his hand on Market Street in San Francisco, as he introduced me to the numerous ministers, all in their clerics and regalia, standing up against the corrupt and corroded powers of cities, states and nations.  I am so grateful today for this inheritance, the faith of my Father. 


SoSo, who is my dad?  The one who rides the bright yellow Triking three-wheeler!  Who stands vigil each Friday for 20 years at the Bellingham Federal Building holding up the placard-of-the-week.  Who loves to wear his fire-engine-red Doctor of Religion robe. Who attends weekly Kiwanis lunches because he believes groups committed to helping young people are essential to a healthy society.  Who gives his teenage daughter a pin declaring, "Question authority."  Who, in the 1950's and 1960's, teaches his children that love transcends colour, ethnicity and nationality. Who is fascinated with warriors of history, serves in the military, then witnesses as a Veteran for Peace. Who loves chocolate malt balls and hot caramel popcorn and A&W root beer floats.  Who loves Morgans, movies and solitaire.  Who loves Turner and Brubeck and bagpipes. The man

who paints oversize oils of scary prophets and writes lengthy verse.  The man who is a good friend, steady and true. That's my Dad.

One can list accomplishments and pedigree to describe my father: Methodist Minister in Illinois, California, and Washington, Doctor of Religion from Chicago Theological Seminary, Provost at Central YMCA Community College in Chicago, United Methodist Missionary to Poland and Fiji.   But he is so much more: a minister committed to justice, a student committed to living out his learning, a Provost committed to opening doors and windows for disadvantaged urban students, a missionary excited to be on an adventure.

But most importantly he is a husband who has remained devoted to his wife of 60 years, a loving father supportive of three offspring who have surely challenged his trust, if not his love, over the years.


Thank you Al for being my father.

Al died on Monday 3 March 2014, peacefully at home surrounded by his family.