Remembering Kyle Jay Westover, Sr.

Kyle Jay Westover, Sr. was born on March 20th, 1942 in Richfield, Utah. He was Maurine & Leon Westover’s first born & older brother to Alan, LaRee, Reeves, Stephen and Keith. He spent his first 10 years in Monroe, Utah; Springville,Utah; LeGrande, Oregon and spent nearly every summer of his youth in Gunnison. These places were his playground, where he famously and mischievously dropped baby chicks down the family outhouse and Grandpa Riggs shoved him down into the hole head first by his ankles to retrieve them. These places are where he shot his Red Ryder BB gun at sparrows and where he walked 10 miles up hill BOTH WAYS in the snow to get to school. 

Dad’s family relocated to Concord, California in the early 1950s. He attended & graduated from Mt. Diablo High school in 1960 where he met our mother, Susanne Catherine Begich Caldwell. This begins the biggest part of Dad’s story because talking about Dad & his motivation, desire and devotion always includes his Cathi. 

Dad was lanky, awkward and had no butt according to Mom – and at first she wanted nothing to do with him. Not only was he persuasive, but unlike her tumultuous & often times tragic upbringing, Mom was drawn to this quartet singing, Pat Boone Fan Club President nerd who was centered on his faith and family. Mom’s search for a spiritual path led right through Dad. She found her home in the Gospel of Jesus Christ and her eternal companion all at once. They married almost immediately after high school in August 1960 and with their little pekinese, Tinka moved to Provo, Utah so Dad could attend BYU. They were desperately poor, living on the outskirts of town in a cheap hotel room. Dad worked as a theater usher and as a DJ at a local radio station where, believe it or not, he was told that he had NO future in radio after mispronouncing the name of a local business. 

Mom & Dad were still children themselves when Jay, their first son came along in November 1960. Mom hadn’t been around many babies and while still a girl herself, she was now a mother. Dad’s concern about Mom’s lack of baby experience immediately dissipated shortly after Jay’s birth. Dad has said that she took to it like a natural and nurturing was instinct.  While he had experience with small children, Dad wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at when he first cast his eyes upon his son. But they dressed him up like a little old man which helped with the shock and awe of new parenthood. And Jay eventually outgrew that pointed head of his. Mom & Dad returned to Concord where Debbie followed 2 years later. She was perfect with a head full of curls, a sparkle in her eye and our father wrapped around her little finger. He was smitten the moment he met her and as a surprise for Mom and Debbie’s arrival he remodeled their bedroom with a fresh coat of paint and a new bedroom set that Debbie still has to this day.  Mom’s oven hadn’t even cooled when Jeff took up residence three months later. He joined Jay and Debbie in October 1963. He was a big cryer – never shut up – but his distinctive eyebrows and killer hairline made him ripe for dress up. So if he was going to cry, he was going to look like a cross between Salvador Dali and a Mexican Cowboy while doing it. David showed up in 1965. He was blue eyed with a head full of bright red hair. He made his appearance upside down, was mom’s most difficult birth and has marched to the beat of his own drum ever since. There were two miscarriages in the midst of all these births and the last one after David nearly killed Mom. She was told by her doctor that her chances of conceiving and carrying another child to term were close to zero. Enjoy the kids you already have, they said. You’re done. And it was ok… they were young and as much as they were starting to raise their young family, their young family was also raising them. 

Still desperately poor, Dad was working two and three jobs in order to pay for the house and their growing family. Mom and the children would accompany Dad when he worked nights as a janitor at Mt Diablo High School. The kids would empty trash cans and clap erasers to help him. One time, Debbie found a dollar in a trash can but had to relinquish it to the family coffers because it was so badly needed. Financial help was also coming in from Mom’s parents (Bumpa & Nana), as well as Dad’s parents. Grandma Westover went back to work specifically to help Mom & Dad make house payments for their little home on Crawford Street in Concord. Dad returned to school at Cal Berkley where Grandpa Westover also taught and they both experienced the height of the Vietnam War protests and hippie movement that they didn’t relate to at all. 

After Dad graduated with his Bachelors in Political Science in 1968, they scraped every last dime they had and much to Grandpa’s disapproval at my parent’s frivolity, they took their kids to Disneyland fulfilling a promise Dad had made to that if they could just help him get through school, the Mouse House would be their reward. Dad actually recounted this story to me two weeks ago, saying that even though Grandpa disapproved, he never once regretted taking that trip to Anaheim. 

In 1969, Mom & Dad decided they had outgrown their little home on Crawford Street and relocated their family to Lodi, California. Lodi was the epitome of small town USA where big trees lined the streets with parks galore and where the kids could ride their bikes all around town. Lodi had the best pizza, potato salad, hot dipped beef sandwiches and German Chocolate Almond Ring on planet earth. Mom and Dad called Lodi their “Camelot.” They always said that with an air of mysticism and when they spoke of this place named Lodi you would believe that it was a magical place. It was. Just ask Creedence Clearwater Revival. They got stuck there once…. AGAIN. 

It was a spring day in 1971 when the kids walked into the house after a day at school and found Mom sitting on Dad’s lap – Dad with that dumb, cat that ate the canary grin. They announced that they had news. Mom was expecting again and Debbie, after scanning the room – outnumbered by boys, marched to her room, packed herself a bag and stormed out of the house, exclaiming she was DONE and moving in with Grandma & Grandpa. She was already down at the end of the street by the time Mom caught up to her. Dad liked to tell this story and it was usually around this time of year – for the past almost 50 that I have heard it and since he isn’t here to relay it today, I am telling it to you now. Dad almost unbelievably claimed that he was given spiritual confirmation that their family was not complete. One more would come and Mom would have another daughter & Debbie, a baby sister. He guaranteed it. Bold claim. And he better not be wrong. On December 2nd, their 5th and final child was born. Mom called her their caboose. Kristine Susanne rounded out the Westovers of Lodi. She was the little sister that Dad had promised Debbie, but also the tomboy that knew how to catch the perfect spiral thrown over her shoulder by her big brother, Jay. Jeff’s sidekick at Giants games where they sat in right field and he taught her how to properly taunt Darryl Strawberry. And she was just old enough to get on David’s nerves, his replacement as the youngest and obviously new favorite child. 

I was the beneficiary of Mom & Dad’s parental warm up of the 1960s. My relationship with them and my upbringing was often times very different from what my siblings experienced. But, I was always very envious of the stories of camping, fishing and road trips that they all took. I wasn’t in the family photo albums even though I was probably one of the most photographed children of the early 1970s – those photos were just all on slides. 

After Cal Berkley, Dad started working at the Concord Longs Drug Store in 1968. He was a lowly clerk but also a mouthy college graduate who decided that his degree had earned him the right to write a paper about all the things that were wrong with Longs and how to fix it. The muckety mucks at Longs immediately fired him for being a jerk and told him to shut his college-educated mouth. This aroused the attention of Bob Long, son of one of the founders and it was he who saved Dad’s job and got him “promoted.” But the promotion was contingent upon staying far away from the general offices in Walnut Creek. He and Mom started the new Training & Communications department in the upstairs office of our Lodi house where they wrote their own ads and themes and advocated for the Lodi Longs location to close on Sundays because you didn’t do business in Lodi on a Sunday. That move cost Longs money and earned Dad a reputation. He often proudly compared himself to one of his historical heroes, John Adams who was also considered by his contemporaries to be obnoxious & disliked. When Bob Long took over operations, Dad was brought into the General Office and provided a space to expand his department. He brought in Mom as his partner. She was an artist and animator. Much of Longs’ training programs were designed by her and written by Dad. Us kids spent many an evening placing slides in trays or camping out in Dad’s office while he & Mom worked late into the evenings with their new ideas. Dad spent 30 years with Longs. His little department of two grew to dozens, not only located in the main General Office in Walnut Creek, but also the Antioch General Office and district trainers company wide spanning states from Colorado to Hawaii. The friendships he fostered there still remain to this day.

Retirement from Longs took Dad back “home” to Utah in 1998. Dad put his training & communications experience to work at Kiddie Kandids and American Express. But ultimately after moves to Layton, then Draper, then Lehi, then Pleasant Grove, it was Mom’s declining health that transitioned him into his final chapter, as Mom’s devoted caregiver until her passing in April 2015. After brief stays back in Draper, then South Jordan, Dad’s last few years were a battle between the cancer that had ravaged his body and his longing for his bride, Cathi. Cottonwood Heights is where he passed the time waiting to be reunited with her and today where we say “til we meet you again.” 

Dad & Mom had 5 children, 19 grandchildren and 18 great-grandchildren. They were preceded in death by Dad’s parents, Leon & Maurine Westover; his baby brothers, Reeves & Stephen; Mom’s parents Carl & Winifred Begich; Mom’s step-father Pascal Caldwell; their great-grandaughter, Elizabeth; their great-grandson, Quin; their son-in-law, Michael Fluck and many aunts, uncles and cousins whom they were close to and loved dearly.  They have been reunited with and given stewardship over a heavenly zoo that includes but is not limited to: King, Tinka, Snuffles, Jenny, Molly, Mandy, Mittens, Bobbie, Jesse, Garth, Rachel and Simba . Dad always said that they would be there when he got there. I pray that he is right because Heaven wouldn’t be Heaven without them there. 

And that’s Kyle Jay Westover, Sr. You know him as a husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, son, brother, uncle, cousin and friend. And his story, if it ended there would be remarkable. But what makes HIS story exceptional are the individual experiences. Although you know him as all these wonderful things, his true legacy is what he has taught us all – the good, the bad and ugly. Dad’s humanity is what keeps that pedestal from rising too high. 

He could make you feel special, even when you think you’re not. This week as people relayed their memories of Dad the common theme was how he had a talent for making you feel exceptional. And if you felt that way when he told you, that is because he truly believed it. And if he were to leave one parting message to each of you today, it would be that….You are ALL exceptional. 

Did you know that Kyle Jay Westover Sr. was the maker of magic? The best way to relay this story is to tell it from the perspectives of both Mom and Dad. For Mom, she was in Provo, a new Mother and living away from home for the first time. She did not grow up with happy Christmas memories. In fact, Christmas up to that point was pretty miserable for her. So when Dad went to the trouble of going into the bathroom, shimmying out of the window, and then running out the to trunk of the car wearing a t-shirt & his pajama bottoms in the cold and in bare feet in the snow, Mom was really a child experiencing her first real Christmas of magic. What in the world was he doing? She described what she saw as a ghost streaking by the window. She saw Dad gather those wrapped treasures in his arms and then toss them one by one through that skinny window – over the running shower water. Mom just thought it was cute. And she did not tell Dad for a long, long time that she saw him playing Santa. 

To hear Dad tell the story, the perspective was almost reflective of The Gift of the Magi. Dad and Mom were desperately tight on money. The only place they could find and afford was a cheap hotel room on the end of town. Dad has said that he had less than $15 to get Christmas – and that was IT for gifts, food, a tree, decorations – the works. So the “gifts” were Bobby pins and a new brush, and the big gift – a really cheap pair of shoes that would not really be the best in an area with snow. From his perspective, he was intent on teaching Mom the magic of Christmas, and, of course, he succeeded because once Mom got a taste of what Christmas could really be like, she & he worked together each holiday season to make it magic for us kids. Did you know they invented the idea of Christmas Jammies? Again, Dad told me this story only a couple weekends ago, saying that the kids would beg them to open presents early. He finally relented, asking mom “Where are the pajamas? They can open those!” And so the tradition was born. Every Christmas morning I was sent to their room to wake them – even though they had just barely gone to sleep after spending all night wrapping presents. With five of us, it was not unusual for the gifts to spread from the tree in the living room all the way to the front door. Just the sight of that was too much for us to wait til the sun came up, and it was usually Jay who urged me to try to wake our Dad. Because how could they ever get mad at the baby?

Magic extended to the grandkids… Dad could make the perfect pancakes. From whisking the eggs which his grandaughter, Katy credits her remarkable culinary skills to crafting the cakes into shapes and characters –  he would always ask the grandkids what characters they wanted their pancakes to be. Cleverly, Amy & Matt would try to stump him. That pancake may have looked like your lower intestine but in his eyes, Matt saw his favorite – Princess Jasmine.

Dad was fostering imagination and it was MAGICAL. His pancakes could literally be anything. 

Dad was a fan of a good prank & an even bigger fan of the get even prank. The Great Toilet Paper Caper is family legend….Not long after we moved to back to Concord, word reached us that some kids from Lodi were coming to toilet paper our house. These boys were trouble – bullies who had always gone too far, especially when it came to tormenting Debbie and it was time to get even. Dad equipped the balcony with flood lights. With Jay, Debbie, Jeff & David laying in wait in the shadows, Dad waited for the boys to show and “do their worst.” They papered every tree and bush in our yard and then proceeded to dump bag after bag of shredded newspaper all over the lawn. As they were about to leave, their escape was foiled when the lights suddenly flipped on lighting up the yard like noon day. They ran out into the yard and apprehended the boys, called their parents and told them to come to Concord to retrieve their children. Lodi is 75 miles away from Concord. When the parents arrived, the punishment was swift, clean up every last square of toilet paper and pick up every scrap of newspaper and don’t EVER think of messing with the Westovers AGAIN. 

There is always a fish story but with Dad, I would like to share three… I was about 5 or 6 years old and the whole family had traveled to Utah to camp and visit Fish Lake. I was finally going on one of those famous family vacations. Fish Lake, at the time was stocked with some very frightening prehistoric looking albino trout. They swam close to the top of the water and their pale color and pink eyes were very easy to spot. My brother Jeff exclaimed out loud that he better not catch one. He was grossed out and scared. So naturally, he caught one. Dad said, “you catch it, you clean it, you eat it.” Jeff protested all day yet when we got back to the cabin, he had cleaned the fish and cut off its head all the while claiming it was still alive. “Don’t be ridiculous!” Dad chided. But darned if that freaky trout did some jumping when it hit the frying pan sending Jeff into a full range of panic. Now, mind you this is how my mind processed this memory. I was a pretty little kid at the time and I wouldn’t put it past Dad to pull a fast one on Jeff just to keep him freaked out but ask Jeff later if that fish flipped over without its head in the pan and he probably will insist that it did!

Fast forward about 17 years… we were on a trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It probably hadn’t been since that last Fish Lake Trip that Dad had done any fishing. And he was due! He got us a couple fishing licenses and told me that he was going to teach me how to cast a line. We practiced at a small man-made pond that was near our cabin that was meant for introducing little kids to fishing. I discovered pretty quickly that I liked casting the line. It was kinda exciting finding the perfect spot where you wanted to drop your line, seeing the lure hit the water after the perfect cast and reeling it back in just right as to entice one of the rainbow trout that called that pond home. We caught a few small and respectable sized fish, Dad removed them from the lure and tossed them back in. He said, “You’re ready.” Early the next morning before the sunrise, we loaded up the gear and Dad’s camera and headed into the park to find a stream. It was as picturesque as a centerfold in National Geographic! The snow capped Teton Mountains loomed large over this big meadow, steam was rising off the water and a small herd of buffalo grazed nearby. He cautioned me to be quiet as we left the car as to not alarm those intimidating beasts & we made it down to the water. Dad helped me set up the lure on my line and then said, “I see a moose!” And with his camera clutched in his fist, he turned and took off out of view. There I stood. Alone. Mere feet away from the buffalo that had literal smoke coming out of their nostrils and I lost view of Dad’s head as it disappeared behind the brush. How hard can this be? I can do this. I spotted a calm spot in the water on the other side of the stream about 40 feet away. I crooked the line behind my index finger, drew back my arm and flung the rod high over my head. The line released with a WHIIRRRRRRRR! Thunk! And the lure dropped exactly in the spot I had chosen. My jaw dropped and I looked back to give my Dad that “See what I did there grin” but of course, he wasn’t there. And no sooner had I realized that again when there was a huge tug on my line. I pulled back the rod and reeled in the line a little bit to make sure. The line fought back and then I realized, holy moly this one’s bigger than the practice pond fish! I reeled faster and saw its body emerge from the water with a huge splash. Dad! You’re missing this! I kept reeling until the fish slid up on to the shore at my feet. It was gasping. And it was slimy. 

Ew.

Dad’s not here to do this part for me.  I bent down and picked up the fish with both hands. Ew! Ew! Ew! Did you know fish don’t blink? It’s judgy little eyes stared back at me, his mouth panting. Don’t worry little fella…How hard can this be? I’ll just take the hook out and throw you back in just like Dad would do. Except he’d never see it and he certainly wouldn’t believe my whale of a tale when he got back. I pinched the hook with my fingers and twisted and pulled. That fish was like “c’mon man!” Panic! The hook wouldn’t come out. The fish was slipping from my hands and I knew I was killing this poor creature slowly. I put the fish on the ground… turned, scanned the area around me and found the largest rock I could find. As it laid there looking up at me, its mouth still gasping, I raised the rock in both hands over my head and choked, “I’m sorry!” Then I slammed the rock to the ground as hard as I could. It crashed on to the fish’s head. He stopped moving. Blood trickled from his eye. Then I remembered Jeff’s scary fish from long ago and I slammed the rock into the fish about 5 more times to be sure. 

That fish was dead. Of course, now the hook was easy to get out and as I plucked it from its lip, Dad had returned. I turned to him holding the trout in both hands, the morning sun hitting its shimmering skin and if Dad were to tell it, he’d probably say he could hear a choir of angels praising this very moment! His mouth dropped and he exclaimed, “WOW!! You caught that? What a beauty! Hold that up and let me get a picture of you and your fish!”

My lip curled. My hands were sticky. And I held out the fish away from my body just as the juices started to run down my arm. I gulped in disgust. “Dad?” 

“Yeah?”

“What’s this white stuff?”

Dad looked around from behind his camera. He didn’t pause. He just said it. “Well, Kris….that’s fish semen.”

Ew!

Click!

Would you look at that fish!? 

This memory reminds me of A Christmas Story – one of Dad’s favorites, by the way – when the father in the story is in a constant battle with the furnace down in the basement. Someone had left the floo closed and he was down there swearing up a storm. And Ralphie describes it, “he wove a tapestry of obscenities that to this day, still hover somewhere over Lake Michigan.” I know that if the wind catches that meadow in Jackson Hole, Wyoming just right you will hear my father’s voice whisper, “well, Kris…that’s fish semen!”

The last fish story happened just a little over 6 years ago. Mom had passed away and Dad, Michaela & I had just moved…AGAIN. We were played out, exhausted and just needed some down time so I suggested that we pack up the dogs and go to Fish Lake for the weekend. Last time we had gone was over a bitter cold Memorial Day weekend probably about 4 years prior (THAT is another fish story for another time and involves me, Debbie & Michaela on a pontoon boat, having never piloted one before ALONE!) But I digress.. Too much time had passed and Dad needed to go fishin’… We were out on the water and Dad was at the helm of the boat. I asked him if he’d like to show Michaela how to cast the line just like how he had shown me. He sat back, grinned and said, “YOU show her. I’m just fine here.” Before long she was casting her line like a pro and then the rain started to fall. I was distracted with trying to find us cover as we continued to slowly troll around the lake. 

“I think I got one,” Michaela said. 

“Ok well, just reel it in,” I responded as I loosened the folded up canopy over our heads. Distracted by my task, Michaela continued to work her fish. I didn’t notice that the fight between a girl and her fish had caught the attention of the dogs or that Michaela had pulled the biggest rainbow trout of the trip into the boat. I tugged at the water soaked canopy and flung it closed – JUST as Michaela proudly held up her first fish and the puddle of water from the canopy came crashing down over her head.

As the mist cleared, Dad & I saw Michaela’s grin and just as he had 20 something years prior, he exclaimed, “WOW! What a beauty! THAT’S what I call a fish!” 

Dad couldn’t always be “just Grandad”. The memory plays out in my mind like a scene from a movie. It was a bitter cold evening in early January 2008. As if in slow motion, I fell to my knees in the snow when the reality hit me that my husband was gone. Horrified, I also realized that my five year old Michaela was still in the home where his lifeless body lay, hiding in her room where I had told to go and to NOT come out. 

Dad told the police that it was HE that should go in and retrieve her. He went into her room, scooped her up in his arms and quietly instructed her to hide her face in his shoulder until they were outside. Dad knew the magnitude of this moment – that the life of this little girl was never going to be the same. But he had been there before. He had to toe the line between grandparent and parent for both Matt and Michaela – two fatherless grandchildren with mothers that Dad fiercely wanted to protect. 

It was a solemn responsibility that he took very seriously. But toeing that line of being Grandad and a stand-in father wasn’t always without its risks.  Discipline would come at a cost that meant that Grandad’s relationship with them would be different than his relationship with any of his other grandchildren. By the very nature of their current situation and his loyalty to his daughters to see that their children respected the sacrifices they were making on their behalf, Dad was just a little bit tougher and expected a little bit more from them.  

Believe me, I know what that feels like because Dad demanded the same of his own kids. Disappointing him never felt good. But while individual choices could disappoint him, like it would for any parent, he was and is NOT disappointed in you. Despite the risk of alienation, anger and resentment, he has always expressed his deep and abiding love for you. He respects your agency, he is proud of your achievements and his expectations of the both of you, Matt and Michaela and all of his grandchildren is simply, LOVE YOUR MOTHERS.

Speaking of love…Dad loved a good love story. He may have been a fan of those old westerns and to Mom’s dismay and utter dislike of Charleton Heston’s weird looking mouth in the never ending Ben Hur –  he did have a soft spot for the romances and his favorite was his real life romance with our mother. While, it wasn’t a perfect love story – what love story is? – there were soaring ups and very dark downs, what makes their love epic was its endurance and the ability to defy the odds, beat back the naysayers and stare pessimism in the eye and tell it to get lost.  The very last words I ever heard mom speak were spoken less than 12 hours before she passed away. Even though she couldn’t open her eyes and she hadn’t really spoken for days and it was a struggle, she very clearly declared “I Love You” to my Dad. And there it was. In the end, after everything… There was NOTHING else to say. Dad loved Mom and she loved him. Period.

Death has a way of making memories you may have long forgotten resurface and this past week has been no different as my siblings and I recounted some of our favorite stories of Dad. And nearly every one included Mom. It is because their story is so inner-twined that you would be hard pressed to think of a story about Dad without it also including Mom. 

When we took a family trip to Hawaii in 1977, it was a big deal. We scrimped. We saved. The kids helped pay – Jay from his clerking days at Longs, Debbie from her babysitting, Jeff from his paper route… but they got us all there. And while we were there, we saw Star Wars for the first time, David slept walked into the hotel screen door and broke it and I was slammed face first into the sand by a rogue ocean wave… And Elvis died. This piece of news distressed Mom as she was a big fan. She asked Dad if he’d go get her some aspirin for her headache. He returned a short time later empty handed. “Where’s my aspirin?” she asked.

Dad looked at her blankly. “Oh! I think I took it for you!” He said.

“Well, is my headache gone?” Mom asked. 

They both laughed and while the shock of Elvis’ death surely had rattled Mom, this brief moment in time became a metaphor for their epic love story. For Dad would do anything for her and she for him. Their playful teasing of each other would become chapters in their story that us kids will recount with fondness as we remember them. 

Mom was never shy about letting things fly – she would always say “well, that just fell out of my face” and she would speak her legendary Mom-isms with NO regrets. I had to wonder if at times we were living in our very own episode of I Love Lucy – except it was I Love Cathi where Mom was doing something crazy that would remind Dad why she was the perfect one for him. Like when we took another trip to Hawaii when I was a teenager. Dad and David wanted to golf so Dad rented two golf carts  – one for Mom to drive and one for me to drive. Mom would scoot her cart around retrieving wayward balls that Dad or David would hit into the bushes. They weren’t taking the game too seriously. As we moved down the course, Mom darted out into the middle of the driving range, exclaiming excitedly, “there’s LOTS of balls out here!” while Dad & David yelled frantically to her to “look out!” and “get off the driving range, Mom!” 

Or there were those times when Dad would give us a history lesson during the trips we took, like when he told us about Captain Cook’s landing in Hawaii and how they used “Cook’s nails to help construct a village”. Mom responded, “his nails? Man that must have really hurt.” Just like when Cousin Eddie in Christmas Vacation says in disbelief, “are you serious, Clark?” We said to mom, “really?!” Mom knew EXACTLY what was she was doing. 

Then there was a big cross-country trip by train. It was mom’s birthday and Dad had arranged with one of his district trainers to be at one of the stops with a cake. He snuck off the train, retrieved the cake and came back to the cabin so Debbie, Jeff and I could sing her happy birthday. But Dad neglected to get candles and so he stuck matches in the top of the cake instead. The song started off fine but matches burn a lot faster than candles. In a panic we sang faster ending the song sounding like Alvin, Simon & Theodore and Mom blowing out the matches just in time before we burned down the whole cabin. Mom and Dad dissolved into tears of laughter while the rest of us wondered if they would kick us off the train and strand us in the middle of no where. 

These stories are endless. I can go on and on. And I have…. According to my siblings I tell the longest stories. EVER.  But when you live nearly 80 years like our Dad, there is a lot to tell. And while these memories provide anecdotal evidence of a life well lived, it is important to note that Dad, like the rest of us, was human – capable of making big mistakes and he did. It is difficult to not leave this life with regret. Dad had his regrets. Pride was probably his biggest struggle and it has resulted in a lack of pure closure that some of us will be denied until he meets each of us individually on the other side. I understand this on a personal level with deep frustration. Waiting for absolution is part of our test. 

Dad was fully aware of his short-comings and as I think back on our conversations of the past 18 months, I noticed a change in his tone. It wasn’t sad – although he missed Mom desperately and he spoke of her every time we were together. It was reflective a bit. His words – a culmination of his 80 years of stored up wisdom. 13 days ago I sat down and tearfully admitted to him that I felt like a rudderless ship. I’m lost, I confessed. I don’t know what comes next. I am almost 50. Just like THAT Michaela is grown and doesn’t need me like she used to. And without a partner to share the journey, the road I am taking is foggy… I can’t see the forks that take me one way or the other, I don’t even know if there is a destination. Dad listened carefully as I poured my heart out and told him that I just didn’t know what I was doing. 

Dad tenderly offered me evidence of times where I had made choices these past 14 years that were hard – where I followed a feeling and acted on it. You’re doing fine, he assured me. And Michaela doesn’t need you anymore? Of course she does. It’s just a different kind of need now. You will always need your parents. Given the events of this past week and the gift of hindsight, Dad was telling me again “You’re ready.” It’s time for life’s training wheels to come off and it is time to roll.

Jay, Debbie, Jeff, David…we are the vision that Mom & Dad saw when they looked to their future. Their children are the legacy of their growth, their grandchildren and great-grandchildren the recipients of the wisdom that WE have gained by learning from not only the things that we think that they did right but what they may have done wrong. We will make poor choices. We will face additional trials, sadness and despair. We don’t always get the send off we want or the proper goodbye. But isn’t that what the Plan of Salvation is all about? That this isn’t the end? As Westovers we are not very patient. The waiting… well, it’s gonna suck. It will be hard but it WILL be worth it. I think it was Grandpa Riggs that said and it was one of Dad’s favorite quotes, for he said it to me just last Sunday, “that’s when you know you’re really living.” 

Our job is to keep going. Don’t give up. Wake up each day and try a little harder than the previous day. Our responsibility is to return to our Father in Heaven so that when we’re reunited with our earthly parents, we are even better people than when they left. 

The training wheels have come off…. Let’s roll.