High Level

This is a story about our stay in High Level AB. Dad shared parts of it at various times with friends. I've tried to tell the parts of the story that Dad used to tell. This all happened in '85/ '86.

Before High Level

We were living in Victoria, on Helmcken St. in Victoria. This is the place where Sophia was born, and is the place where Dad felt poverty and touched desperation so many times. He was working odd jobs and contracts as a journeyman carpenter but wasn't making ends meet. He worked hard over the previous years to get his teaching certificate and finally attained it - but he couldn't find a job for a brand new trades teacher. A few factors would come together and lead to Dad moving our whole family 1,800kms to northern Alberta, for a free house that wasn't actually free and a teaching job offer that was retracted after we got there with all our belongings.

It's not what you know, it's who you know....

Mom (Patricia Vickers) has an older brother, Matt, who the year before had stayed with us while he was going through medical treatment. He and Dad bonded around tennis and other things, and they became closer friends. Uncle Matt also loved us kids, and would later, along with his wife at the time, see us as a true extension to his family. Matt knew that Dad was looking for work, and he was living in a small town in northern Alberta called High Level. He asked around and learned that a teaching job was just opening up at the local High School. He lobbied hard and got Dad an interview... and ultimately was an important part of Dad getting offered the job.

Dad would sometimes defend his decision to move us to northern Alberta: They offered a rent-free house. He'd have a high school job teaching what he was trained to teach. We had family in High Level. And no one was hiring teachers in BC at the time.

The Move, the Condemned House, and the Teacher on the Run

After what seemed like endless months of poverty and stress Dad was happy. 

He had a job offer, and he had a small moving allowance. Things were looking up, way up. I had the pleasure of riding with Dad in the loaded up "Budget One-Way" moving van, which had one seat for the driver, and one seat for me, the passenger. I was six at the time, almost seven. Mom and the littler kids including baby Sophia would follow behind in the Volkswagen van. Dad was truly happy on that trip. I remember all his smiles, and his energy seemed infectiously happy. We stopped to look at mountain goats. He treated me to ice cream. Life was about to get a whole lot better and after many years of struggle he'd finally "made it."

I remember, quite clearly arriving in northern Alberta. Dad was euphoric as he leaned forward over the steering wheel for the last few miles. We drove the moving van down a dark road, as Dad searched for the address. "This has to be it" he mumbled. We turn down the driveway, and the headlights highlighted a small, run down house that was completely boarded up. I remember dad just leaning against the steering wheel, staring at the house as if looking at a disaster happening in slow motion. He got out and checked. Yep, that was our house, all boarded up.

Dad's happiness turned to anger, and embarrassment, but he didn't give up hope. Despite it being late at night, Dad drove to the principal's house to straighten things out. I remember sitting at the dining room table, staring around at all the brown decorations on a mostly brown wall, and feeling Dad's anxiety go up. 

The house had just been condemned. The principal gave a half-hearted apology. Sorry, we didn't get to let you know it had been boarded up. Apparently the fire department inspected it and deemed it unfit for occupation. No, there wasn't another house. We'd have to find one and rent it - even though Dad didn't have money for rent. But there was more bad news coming.

In Dad's telling of the story, and I've never heard it disputed, the teacher who had the job had committed a serious crime (like murder) and gone on the run. He had not been apprehended yet, and therefore hadn't been served his termination papers. The teacher's union wouldn't allow the school district to fill that position until they'd gone through "due process" which included doing paperwork with the accused teacher in person. Dad was informed that not only did we not have a place to live, they couldn't actually hire him. We were in High Level Alberta - no money, no house, and no job.

Moving in

With help of uncle Matt and some pavement-pounding, Dad got a job teaching grade three at the school on reserve at Meander River, a First Nations community at least 45 minutes north of High Level. As he'd point out, he didn't have any training teaching primary school at all. The job also paid less as it was on Indian Reserve - as Indigenous schools were underfunded then as they are today.

While the free condemned house wasn't available, we were offered a new fully furnished teacherage. It was a typical CMHC box house of the 70s and 80s. It was a prime location for us as it was short walking distance from school. It was one of the nicest houses we'd ever lived in, and had a lot of room. The only problem with the house was that it cost money to rent.

Mom recalls that it was here that they verged on bankruptcy and were under orderly payment of debt. I remember that we were clothed entirely with donated clothes. There wasn't too much to complain about though, as we had a roof over our heads and Dad finally had a full time job - even if it wasn't at all what he'd trained for, and was about an hour drive away each direction.

Teaching at Meander River, being humiliated and deciding to leave

Dad had taught First Nations students before, in Kitwanga, but it was in High Level that he'd be galvanized through his experiences teaching on reserve. The school was government run, and Dad recalled that it was designed to not teach the native students anything. In the Alberta public system, you were expected to read and write in grade two - and if you couldn't, you'd be put in special education. In Meander River, Dad would say that not a single student could read or write in his grade three class.

He'd become convinced that the government-run native education system - at this time only a few years removed from the formal end of residential school - was conspiring to sabotage and hold native people back. He would years later express similar frustrations in other teaching jobs where he saw that native students were not only not getting a fair shake, but that they were being oppressed by the education culture and system.

Dad described text books and a curriculum that seemed designed to keep native students from learning anything [I seem to remember him mentioning a useless textbook called rocket ships and raisins?]. Frustrated, he went to his Principal and submitted a new curriculum that would teach his students how to read and write. The principal signed off on the proposed curriculum and Dad worked hard to teach his students. He took a huge amount of pride when after only a few months of love, attention, and an appropriate curriculum, almost all of his students could read and write. He would always underline this point - there was nothing wrong with the students, it was all in the system.

One day the Superintendent came in to Dad's classroom unannounced. He told Dad to stand aside. In front of Dad's grade 3 class, the superintendent raged - and cleared off Dad's desk, pretended to look at papers and then threw them in the air, and dumped out his drawers onto the floor. He then told Dad to follow him to the principal's office.

The Superintendent yelled at Dad and told him to either start teaching the government curriculum immediately or be fired. Dad was humiliated and embarrassed. In Dad's recollection the principal sat back and didn't say anything, despite signing off on the changes. He never forgave him for that. After this experience he decided we had to leave Alberta as soon as possible.

Living in High Level, and leaving High Level

There were highs and lows living in High Level. It was blazing hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. There were some very harsh people and also some very generous people. I remember coming come and finding bags of food hanging on our door handle, once a few grouse, another time some moose or beef. We went for a while to a "Reformed Free" Mennonite church, the most liberal church in town. Mom and Dad made friends with mainly two families in town, the Reedykes and the Quists. Mom ended up working as a part time bookkeeper (even though she had no idea how to keep books) for the Reedykes.

You could choose between two churches in High Level: the regular Mennonite, or the Reformed Mennonite. Mom and Dad chose the reformed one. We got excommunicated after singing a Jewish song and encouraging the congregation to dance when it was our turn to share at the front of the church. Apparently dancing was not permitted - even in the liberal church.

Sophia learned to walk here. Jonathan was little, and stayed at home with Mom. Rebekah and I went to the elementary school, which was a couple blocks away. We usually walked except when it was too cold out. Mom ended up taking a part time job to make ends meet. Dad played his mandolin and still loved to sing psalms and other songs from the bible. He also opened our home a couple times to people who needed a place to stay. We also adopted Doe II, a shepherd wolf cross dog - the dog that battled the bear in the log house. 

Dad made us homemade sleds in the winter. He also taught me to skate and swim here - I have a very clear memory of him literally throwing me in the deep end. I was cautious and he had grown impatient. I remember panicking, telling him I was drowning, when I in fact had my head clear above the water and was doing a fine dog paddle. I remember him smiling and laughing, saying "look - you are swimming!!"

I should add that people in Meander River seemed to appreciate Dad and his efforts. He took us kids out there a few times for community events, and he received some gifts from the community in our year there.

The last time I asked Dad about our time in High Level, he finished the story by saying "as soon as I had two dimes to rub together we got the heck out of that place." Uncle Matt had moved to Two Mile near Hazelton, and had found a job for Dad teaching at the two-room alternate school there. The vice-superintendent really liked Dad and between Matt and the vice-super they made sure he got the job. It wasn't his dream job but at least it was teaching high school. We packed up, moved in with Uncle Matt again, found a small trailer to rent, and Dad went into his first proper teaching job of his life.

Maybe why you've not heard this story before...

I recently asked Mom for her memories in High Level and she basically said she doesn't remember much - only that it was not a good time of our life. Dad essentially said the same thing, but I think he was galvanized by some of his experiences there. A lot of those experiences were negative and cut so deeply that he was only just starting to see the humour in it before he died. He'd tell his close friends some of the stories, especially his teaching experience.

Thanks

- Thanks to Mom for scanning the photos
- Thanks to Uncle Matt for finding Dad the jobs all those years ago!
- Thanks to you for reading this whole story to the end!

-jacob

Dad's Eulogy, from his "Kids"

​​It was 1am Friday night, or rather Saturday morning, and the four of us "kids" were ​still up, grappling with Dad's Eulogy. We were giving the extra rough draft a first audition, reading it out loud and collaborating on it as we went. We were exhausted, and we got to the part about how many of us kids there were, and Rebekah cracked a joke about how only her and I were planned - and we all started laughing. We kept reading and all of a sudden we saw the incredible humour in being excommunicated in High Level, of Dad finding us a cheap place to live in an abandoned log house in the middle of nowhere, and of the always breaking down Volkswagons. We laughed so hard we couldn't talk. We laughed so hard we couldn't sit up anymore. It was the first time I remember laughing since Dad died, and it was the medicine we needed at the time.

We drove up island together for perhaps the first time in many years, one of us drove and the other three rehearsed. We stopped at one of Dad's Serious Coffee stops, and then dropped by a dollar store for some trademark cheap sunglasses. We were really hoping to find some gaudy neon glasses like the kind Dad used to wear, but had to settle for gaudy party glasses instead. We also packed some of his favourite old t-shirts and we thought he'd be happy with us honouring him in this way. Sophia remembered Dad saying "when I die I don't want black at my funeral, I want bright colours!"

We put our trust in each other and the process and the Eulogy went off better than I had hoped - by far. Some were surprised and ultimately thankful that we addressed his struggles in the Eulogy. We believe that the miracles of life are richer when you are connected to pain and process of getting there. I remarked afterward that Dad had turned his crap in life to compost, and managed to grow a wonderful garden of flowers... and knowing that makes the flowers all the sweeter. 

We were all very surprised to get the standing ovation. Wow! It felt like a wonderful confirmation of Dad and a lifting up of us. Thank you to everyone who came and supported us. I am happy to provide you a copy here of the Eulogy we wrote, exactly as we prepared it on Saturday. You can click here to view it in Google Docs, I have also attached it as a PDF.

Warmly, -Jacob

The "Kids"
Jacob, 35, married to Jessica and with two sons Noah and Ezra
Rebekah 33, engaged to Kevin
Jonathan 31, engaged to Tara
Sophia 29, married to Russell and with two daughters Blanche (in the photo above) and Amelia

Thanks to Mom for helping with some of our dates and fact-checking, and for the photos of our rehearsal at the Church. 

Thanks to the Donors

Thank you!

  • Roy Henry Vickers
  • Castlemain Group - Cash donation and printing costs for funeral programs
  • Barbara Emery
  • Craig Beaton
  • tamera madden
  • Doug Trembley
  • Eberhard Albrecht
  • Shannon Warwick
  • Michelle Wagner
  • Brian Gibbard
  • Cindy Talwar
  • Steph Graetz
  • Derrek Hutchings
  • michele cieslik
  • Madden, Ink
  • jessi williams
  • Sandul Joanne
  • Ivan mishchenko

How we ended up in the abandoned log house, and some of what happened there

It was the late 1980s. Dad was finally teaching as a full-fledged post-secondary teacher. We'd escaped High Level Alberta (another awesome story). Thanks to a few connections and one of the vice-superintendents being a fan of Dad's, he'd managed to land this fringe job teaching at the tiny 2-room alternate school in Two-mile. We first lived in a single-wide trailer on a hill in Two-mile, and after a year or so we upgraded to a double-wide trailer very close to the alternate school. Shortly after moving the teachers in the district went on strike, and Dad had to find us an affordable place to live. 

Up until High Level, Dad had been teaching on a "letter of permission," meaning he did not have a degree in education or a certificate, but was allowed to teach by the Terrace district, and was also paid as little as possible. At the alternate school Dad was a "proper" teacher but he felt unsupported at the school. He enjoyed his students and taught them life skills such as cooking and cleaning - but even to this he added flair. I remember he taught students how to cook Oolichan fish when they ran in the spring, he made exploding homemade root beer (I think the stains are still on the ceiling in that building), and delighted in teaching woodworking when he got the chance. 

When teachers decided to strike I remember him supporting the strike, and explaining to me that at the time, teachers were expected to personally bear too much of the cost of education. One of his issues was that the district refused to reimburse him for ruined clothes as the result of breaking up fights - something he could barely afford. I should say that this being Dad's first strike, and perhaps with him being an idealist, he supported it; however, he never really felt supported in his teaching career and ultimately became jaded and indifferent to strike action. He didn't know it at the time, but this strike would end up going down in BC history as one of the longest and ugliest, ultimately wiping out an entire school year in the District, and Dad was going to have to figure out how to live and feed his family on meager strike pay.

There are varying accounts on how we ended up at the abandoned house exactly - I remember that the owners of the double-wide were repossessing it and Dad was forced to find us a place to live, Mom remembers that Dad proactively went out and found the log house as a cost saving measure. Maybe both are true? I wish I could ask Dad the story one more time... 

Anyhow, I do remember a lot of it. I would have been about nine years old. Dad did a deal with I think the Carleys, a logging family out in the Kispiox Valley. They owned a quarter-section of land on the Kispiox River that used to be owned by the Salvation Army. The Sally Ann had operated a correctional facility for boys called "Miracle Valley" that was abandoned after it was revealed that the man of the cloth running the facility was sexually abusing boys there. Not long after shutting down, locals went and trashed the place. The log house was supposed to be the staff residence, but allegedly was never finished and never lived in. The old "school," a 2-story structure down the road where the abuses happened, was almost completely destroyed. 


​​Area map: Dad taught in 2-Mile, in between New and Old Hazelton. We moved from there to the Log House to save precious dollars in rent.

The deal was that Dad would fix up the Miracle Valley log house in exchange for rent. Mr. Carley would supply materials, Dad would supply labour. We were being home-schooled this year. I was in grade 4 and Rebekah was in grade 2. I was lucky because Dad decided to bring me with him as he went out to the log house to prepare it for us to move in. We had roughly a month to take it from an empty shell to... something before we moved in. I remember pulling hundreds of nails. Dad was able to recruit a small army of helpers. Fellow trades teachers, also on strike, donated their time. Mr. Bill Blackburn was one of the volunteers, as was Mr. Jones. A local church-going electrician, Norman Watt, also cheerfully came and helped with the wiring.

Did I mention the time of year? This was all happening in December. We were set to move in January 1st, come hell or high water. The house was actually in the middle of nowhere - there was only one reclusive person living on that road, and it was seldom used and a dead-end. I remember Dad had to go pay a fee to get the driveway plowed, and he put a marker at the end of the driveway for the plow. I also remember being there once working when it snowed heavily. All the vehicles got stuck, including the landlord's backhoe, and we were rescued only when the 6-wheel drive grater came along and towed all the vehicles out.

Rebekah remembers going out to work on the house once, and crying because her feet were so cold. Dad sat on some stairs, called Rebekah over, took off her boots, and warmed her feet under his armpits. Dad seemed impervious to the cold - we also remember how he'd sometimes go topless even in the winter. One of my memories is of him working outside without a shirt, smiling as snow flakes landed on him and melted. 

Prior to moving in Dad and his team managed to get all the exterior windows installed, and all the exterior doors. The house wiring was started, even though there was no connection to the grid. He also managed some basic plumbing, and we'd salvaged most of the copper pipe from the trashed school up the road. I remember him teaching me to find and check the pipe for splitting. When we moved in the house was not yet insulated, and still was without many essentials including heat, water, sewer, electricity, interior doors, flooring, a waterproof roof, and stairs to the upstairs. Oh and did I mention a bathroom? Our bathroom consisted of a 5-gallon pail behind a sheet hung from the ceiling. As the oldest I had a number of chores including taking that damn bucket outside multiple times a day.

That winter was COLD. So damn COLD. We ended up camping around the fireplace in the living room, only to discover that it was not only purely decorative but actually removed any heat from the house once lit. We'd eventually got a used wood stove installed in the basement (from someone in Telkwa as I remember), but we spent a lot of cold days and nights huddled together in the living room in our sleeping bags and buried under layers of blankets. We cooked on a camp stove, and as a bonus didn't need a fridge or freezer - in fact, most mornings we'd have to thaw out the milk. Dad made a homemade "fridge" by drilling a hole through the wall and building a box around the hole. It was at these times that Dad would lift us by telling us stories and reading us books at night. It was here that he first read us the Hobbit and all three Lord of the Rings books by coleman lantern at night.


Dad turned 34 that January. He had four kids, ranging from three to nine years old. Here he is with his birthday cake in the log house. We thought we were so funny when we reversed his numbers on his cake so it said 43 instead of 34.

Dad would later say that it took weeks to get that house warm once the wood stove was installed downstairs. It wasn't just heat that was a problem though - we quickly found that water - especially drinking water - was a severe problem. Dad had installed a pump in the nearby stream, which in the winter was covered with many inches of ice. Because the ground was frozen, he couldn't bury the water line, which ran across the driveway to the house. The line would freeze almost daily. Dad would disconnect the line, bring it inside and warm it, then run it back outside, reconnect the line, turn on the pump, and leave the water running hoping it wouldn't freeze (which it would, every night). My sister Rebekah and I would take a bucket, hatchet, and cup down to the stream, cut through the ice, then scoop water into the bucket and carry it up to the house. Mom proclaimed a divine miracle when one day Rebekah and I discovered water coming out from a bank of earth across the road. We had broken icicles and found flowing water behind, this made gathering water much much easier.

Over the year Dad worked very very hard. He'd sometimes ride his bike - even in the winter - to the strike line so we could have the Volkswagon van if we needed it. When at home he worked as hard as he could to make our home comfortable. The progress was amazing. He took pride in his work, and loved adding hand crafted flourishes where he could. It was still winter when BC Hydro came to connect us to the grid. By then the novelty of camping had long worn off. I remember Dad insisting that I come along with the Hydro crew to "help," and I also remember being thrilled that I - and I alone - was tasked with running spools of wire from the Hydro truck to the work crew. 

Our time at the log house was one of the saddest, most painful, lonely, and yet happiest for me. The stress of the situation compounded a number of other issues and I remember Dad and Mom fighting - a lot. I remember huddling with my siblings trying to comfort them during the fights. On the other hand I remember Dad taking swaths of time to patiently teach us. He encouraged us to be strong, creative, and inter-dependent. Many other things were added to our home schooling, including building weather bottles (barometers) with balloons on top and gathering up and hatching frog eggs.


​​Map of the Log House and "Miracle Valley" Ranch, as it looks today. Note the Log House and Ranch were the only structures at the time, although the field around the pond had been cleared. The old potato fields and the roads were already there.

As another example it was here that Dad, in the summer, took us down to the river and actually encouraged us to jump into the "rapids" up from the swimming pool. He taught Rebekah and I to hold our knees to our chest through the rough water, and delighted in teaching us to catch a back-eddy and swim out. I remember him encouraging me to swim across the river, and not to be afraid of the current. Seeing my fear, he smiled and said "I will do it with you." I was terrified, and he wouldn't give up until I finally swam across with him. We got to the other bank, and he smiled at me and said "see, I knew you could do it!" 

Many years later I had to jump into that same river to save a drowning man as many others looked on, too afraid to jump in. As I held my breath, angled into the current, and swam under to grab the man, I thought of Dad, and his words "see, I knew you could do it!" As people thanked me I in turn thanked my Dad for teaching me.

Sophia remembers being down by the river and seeing the salmon spawning. We were scared of the salmon, but Dad told us not to fear. Rebekah and I remember swimming with the salmon, feeling them bump into us as we swam. 

Dad taught us to love the outdoors here. He nurtured my drive to create and build things while we lived here. Inspired by Lord of the Rings, I made Rebekah and I suits of armour from scrap house wires and leftover cardboard. We'd make "forts" outside and play prince and princesses, knights and explorers. He delighted in teaching me how to make proper boats with working electric motors out of scraps and styrofoam egg cartons (and a hot glue gun). He built a pond on the property I think only so we could test our boats! He also taught me about how airplanes work, and made small models with me out of styrofoam. He loved to take the littler kids - Jonathan and Sophia - for walks, and in the winter did his best to make us luge tracks on the driveway.

Rebekah remembers us getting a full load of raw logs, delivered and dumped behind the house. Mom, Dad, and I started bucking up the logs - and Rebekah was jealous that I was allowed to use a chainsaw but not her (she was 7, I was 9). Denied the chainsaw, Rebekah would delight in getting to use the hatchet to break through the ice to get to the water. It was here that Dad taught us to cut kindling from dry wood. 

She also remembers "the bear story." Dad was with our three younger cousins (Aliah, Joshua, and Faith). They were walking down to the potato patch and ran into a mother bear and her two cubs on the road. Dad froze, and the mother bear chased her cubs up a tree. Dad loved telling this story, as the kids started climbing up him, and cousin Joshua managed to scramble right up to Dad's head, and had a death-grip on Dad's hair, and one hand over one of Dad's eyes. Joshua had a stutter and said "U-u-u-uncle u-u-uncle Ian, there's a BEAR!" We had a phenomenally tough shepard-wolf cross dog called "Doe." Dad loved telling this story. The mother bear charged at Dad and the kids, and Doe attacked the bear, biting its rear end. The bear turned and ran back towards the cubs, with Doe at the heels. Once near the tree, the bear, cornered, attacked Doe and Doe ran back towards Dad. Once close to Dad, Doe would turn, cornered, and attack the bear. Dad loved to tell how the bear and dog chased each other back-and-forth, and all over the field while Dad slowly backed up the driveway with kids attached to various parts of his body.

When fall rolled around Dad was back to work. The Log House now had a fully finished top two floors, and had proper plumbing and electricity and was essentially a new house from top to bottom. Us kids had our own rooms, what would be the last time for many years. It was comfortable, and it was our home. Dad was pre-approved for a mortgage for the first time in his life, but didn't have a dime for the required downpayment. The landlord offered the property and house to Dad for $60,000 - the most Mom and Dad could afford at the time. I remember they seriously considered this amazing offer, but ultimately decided it was too remote and lonely for our family. We ended up moving back to Two-Mile, to a small house with 2.5 acres, a couple horses, and right next door to our cousins. We lived in this house for the longest stretch - almost six years, but I'll save that story for another time.

For us older two siblings especially, the Log House is still a defining experience in our lives. It's a great story of Dad's creativity, resilience, and hard work. I only wish he was still around to tell this story "one more time."

-Jacob

Benediction - Roderick's View on Grieving


​
It doesn't seem quite fair that when one part of the body fails, and the rest is still as pink as a newborn, that death should stumble by. But we lost him. We all lost him. Not just those of us who knew him, but those of us who will never know him. It's a loss that goes deep, and a grief that is not lessened by faith, though we do hope to see him again. I should imagine that reunion will be full of cross-fence neighbor's, horse traders, musicians, legionnaires, along with the full complement of those who have called him sweetheart, dad, and grandpa.

We, however are left with the grieving, and in trying to answer the "why" question, talk about the "hope of glory" and the "death that has no sting" and still feel the deep loss and pain. I've often wondered why, if we have such a great hope, is the pain still so great? It just doesn't make sense to me. In fact, the only that that makes sense to me are the words of a preacher I heard once who said that we were not created for this. This is not plan A. This is plan B. That's why we do not do it well, he said. Plan B. Christ's defeat of death. The counter-attack. Perhaps victorious, but not painless.

I grew up in a pentecostal type church. It was unwritten, but understood nonetheless, that although we must grieve, that too much grieving was an indication of a weakness of faith. Many times I saw people struggle with loss while proclaiming the triumph of glory, and I wondered who really was being fooled here. But it was so entrenched that for me, it was nearly 15 years after my father's death that I really gave myself permission to let it out and grieve my losses. All those years, I just didn't know how to finish it off. It reminded me a bit of an old bird-dog that was part of the farm on which my mother grew up. Being retired from birding, and needing something to do, it began chasing rabbits. When the rabbits would go to ground, the dog did what it was trained to do ... sat down and searched the sky for them. Good beginning, just not the right conclusion.

When I was a young man, I followed a rather beautiful young lady into the Anglican Church, and found a group of people who seemed to have a better grasp of conclusions. I learned what a benediction was. I learned that there was a necessity and peace in ending. There are many loose ends to every day. Many things unattempted and others unattained, and still others accomplished at least in part. The benediction was a chance to recognize these and to put them aside to perhaps be picked up or left as the next day might dictate. And so it is, in a sense, with death. It needs to be recognized as a time to tie up the loose ends, and a chance to place a seal of approval on the deeds of that life and prepare to move ahead to the next task.

I remember one particular benediction at Camp Columbia. Instead of using a small implement and bowl, the priest used a cedar branch and a large bowl to splash us liberally with water as a sign of the spirit of God with us. He did this while praying his benediction on us. We were instructed to go to our lodgings without conversation. I can remember lying on my back looking at the clear night sky, my grateful tears wetting the pillow behind me ... and feeling at peace.

So here is my prayer for each of you that grieve. That you would take the time to seek benediction, that you would feel your Great High Priest as he liberally splashes your bowed heads, and that you would hear once again, the benediction of Jude.

"Now unto him who is able to keep you from falling, and present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding great joy. To the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power  henceforth and for always ... Amen"

Roderick Beaton
Dec 30 1999

Dad wrote this after his stepfather died in 1999. Thank you Auntie Anne for sending it around to all of us as a reminder of Dad's view on grief. -Jacob

Video of Service for Roderick

You can view a video of the Eulogies here:

Quick links to key parts are listed below. Click the links to jump to that part of the service.

Eulogies

You are welcome to view the complete video of the service here:
(note there are gaps from the internet dropping during the live broadcast)


Songs



-jacob

Warm Milk and Honey

While I grew into my teen years I lived with our mum, Patricia, and would spend most of the weekends with our Dad.  This was one of the rare weekends that Kayla was not with us at Dad's place.  It was just Dad and I.  I would wake early in the morning to take Girl the dog for a little run.  When I came back to the house dad had pancakes and homemade syrup with blueberries ready for enjoying.  After a delicious breakfast we went for a walk to the river and had a little dip.  The day carried on in warmth, relaxing strolls, and reading books.  

I thought that I would be exhausted come bed time.  I woke at about 3am unable to sleep any longer and stared at the ceiling for a while.  When sleep did not come I got up and insync Dad and I opened our bedrooms doors.  We had a laugh as we looked at eachother and said "You cannot sleep either, hey?".  We went to the kitchen and dad said in his wonderful cheery voice "I know just the cure for this ailment!" smiled his wonderful and slightly goofy smile.  He warmed up milk with a touch of honey.  We sat exchanging stories, memories, and dreams of the future while drinking in warm milk and honey.

It did not take long for the warm milk and honey to win us over and we went back to our rooms and slept, deep, wonderful sleeps.  I will miss all the wonderful talks with Dad.  I will miss the wonderful positive energy that he brought to my world, and that of so many others. 

- Sophia

MyRoddy

Roderick… Well, Roderick was pretty much my everything. He made me breakfast every day. If I was taking a lunch to work (I work at a boarding school, so am often fed there), he would make sure I had exactly what I needed. Because he was home before me he made dinner for me weekdays, too. He did most of our grocery shopping, and if he was working in Victoria he would stop in Mill Bay and bring me a coffee on his way through. Once I started working at Brentwood, he confessed he was shopping at the Thrifty’s in Mill Bay just to be a bit closer to me.

Our thing was lunches out on the weekend. We would work or putter around the house in the morning, then decide where we would go to eat. Over lunch, we would discuss what we’d have for dinner that night, and sometimes shop for it afterward. We spent many happy Saturdays shopping in Duncan, stopping at 8 or 10 different stores getting this or that. He would always suggest a coffee stop so we could sit and talk face to face.

In the car he would reach for my hand, and would hold it as long as he could.

If I made plans for us to spend an evening with friends over dinner, or at a gig, he was always agreeable. He dressed up as Raggedy Andy for me this last Hallowe’en.

He supported all my decisions and gently made alternate suggestions if he thought I was heading in the wrong direction… but my decisions were always mine to make. I deferred to him on anything that involved the two of us, although we would both share our points of view before he made the final call.

He never once raised his voice to me or was short with me. He was so patient, teaching me new skills. If I ever needed something that only he could get (like something from the attic, because the stairs wig me out), I only had to ask once and it would be done.

He welcomed my friends and family into our home as though they were his own. He was the consummate host, always thoughtful and generous. If we were visiting friends and he was tired and I was raring to go, he would never complain, just perhaps fall asleep on the floor until I was ready to leave.

He was always thrilled for me if I bought something new to wear, or had something done to my hair. He would always comment positively on whatever change I had made and would tell me how beautiful I looked.

He fixed absolutely everything around our home. We never had to call a plumber or an electrician. He was McGyver after all. It seemed that by tinkering he could learn the workings of any kind of machinery, stuff that completely baffled me.

He taught both our dogs to swim, just like they were little children, and was endlessly patient as he trained them. He did things with them that he knew they would enjoy… like he did with everyone.

He loved to keep busy. It was difficult to get him to sit down and watch a movie (unless he could get up and make us a bowl of popcorn in the middle).

Friends, family and even virtual strangers who were experiencing difficulties were always on his radar. He sent many, many postcards and notes with encouraging words and scripture. Sometimes he would organize our church to do the same for one individual or another who he felt God was calling him to minister to.

His prayer lists as we said grace were legendarily long. He would go into detail with the Lord about each person’s situation and what exactly they needed. He was so faithful.

He told me he loved me multiple times a day, in person and via text and phone calls. It was the last thing he would say to me each night, and the first thing each morning. There could never be any doubt about how he felt about me.

The Lord chose to bless me with Roderick for nine years, seven of them married. Until I met him, I had no idea such goodness could exist in the world. When we were dating I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop… but of course it never did. If I could model myself after him in even the slightest way, I would consider myself lucky.

And though my heart is very sad, I can only imagine what a celebration there was in heaven when he arrived. How wonderful that God gets to spend every day with MyRoddy, from now until eternity.

I know you will be there waiting for me on my arrival, sweetheart. I love you with all my heart and I miss you terribly. Thank you for the joy and love and light you brought to my life. You are irreplaceable.


My dad as a young dad

My Dad and Mom (Patricia Vickers), started seeing each other when they were both 17. They met at church. Dad was a popular teenage singer - a "young Johnny Carson" - who with his older brother Bryan sang in people's homes and churches. Typical to those with teenage angst they were on-again-off-again until they were engaged and eventually married at 22. I was born in '79 when mom and dad were both 24. By the time Dad was 31, he had four kids, and had struggled to get work to feed the growing family and finish his education. 

Dad, Mom, Rebekah and I (1981)

I have many good memories of Dad when I was little, and many sad and difficult memories as well. I have the blessing and curse of a vivid memory, and can remember my early days, when I was still in diapers toddling. My Dad never talked much of the darkness in his childhood, but he'd hint at it. I can take a very good guess at what he went through and struggled with based on my experiences with him. My childhood and teenage years with Dad had two very clear, strong strands: the Dad of light who was playful, patient, a good teacher, loving, endlessly compassionate, and kind... and the Dad of darkness who would rage uncontrollably, and who was physically violent. Dad struggled with the latter strand and would ultimately completely overcome it in his life. (click here to view one of the Psalms he'd sing when I was little)

Dad and I as a baby (1979)

My Dad's story is one of redemption. Many people become twisted by these two opposites, but Dad worked so hard and became purely a good, light-giving person. When I was a child my best memories are from when he'd take me with him and we'd spend time one-on-one. He'd make me feel valued and loved. I remember being two, and he'd bring me with him to the Kitwanga High School, where he'd encourage me to play while he did prep work and marked student papers. I had run of the halls and would zoom around on my ride-on "bus." He'd beam at me ever time I popped into his classroom. One of my favourite years with him is when he was on strike, and he'd take me with him everywhere. I only have good memories of these times, when he'd teach me how to hammer nails, how to pull them out, how to find good copper pipe to salvage, how house wiring works (and he even let me twist on the marrettes), how boats work, and how to build a perfectly balanced model airplane. He was happiest while creating, building, and teaching.

Dad playing with me as a baby (left) and playing with my son Noah as a baby (right, 2008)

I went through a stretch where I was angry with Dad. We never talked about the violence before he died, but Dad would take every opportunity to tell me how much he loved me, how proud he was of me, and what a good Dad I am. I could feel his heart reaching out to me every time I saw and talked to him. I never told him while he was alive that I forgave him, and he never said he was sorry. Looking back I have nothing but respect and love for my father, who as a young dad had to go through and endure some of the most difficult circumstances. In the last couple years he started to acknowledge and talk more openly about these early years. I was touched when he posted this on Mom's photo of me as a baby on Facebook (click to view).

Dad helping me with a sweater (left), Dad helping Noah with his sweater (right)

I had my first child when I was 26. Noah was born in 2006, and Dad came up before Noah was born and immediately after. I faced my own demons in raising my son, and I've made my share of mistakes, like my Dad. Like my Dad, I worked hard to overcome them. Every time Dad was with his grandsons, I saw him love them completely. He was the Dad he wanted to be with them - while I'd lose patience with Noah, he'd delight in letting Noah be himself, and he'd give Noah space and happily engage him in conversation. He'd come to me after and tell me how much he loved being with my boys, and what a good job I was doing as a Dad. He told me early on how important it is to say at least six times more positive and loving things than negative or critical - a lesson I took to heart and try hard to follow at home and at work. 

Dad reading me a story

In my mind Dad's short life had three distinct parts - the first 20 years when he was very young, the middle 20 that he dedicated to us kids, and the last 20 where he dedicated his life to being his true self. I can't think of a more generous, kind, hard working, compassionate, loving person. He would chose to see the good in everyone. As us kids left home and started to find our own boyfriends, girlfriends and eventually partners, we could count on Dad to accept them with open arms no matter what. Thank you Dad for being so loving and accepting of everyone.

Dad, filled with happiness around his newest-at-the-time grandbaby Ezra

When we were small and growing up Dad was generous with his hugs and kisses. I am sure all of you who met him experienced his warm embrace. He'd hold me against his body, and it always felt warm and natural. His arms were always big and strong, and the sound of his heartbeat always brought me comfort. In the last few years his embrace grew even stronger, and he'd catch me sitting (so he could be taller than me and reach my head), wrap his arms around me, and say "I love you laddie." He'd kiss me on the head, and put the side of his head on my head, and hold me. He took every opportunity to tell me how proud he was of me, what a good Dad I am, and how lucky I am to have found myself such a great wife. Thank you Dad for affirming me.

I cried when I got this postcard from Dad

In the old days he'd lie on the floor and read us stories almost every night. Sometimes I'd lie on his stomach and listen with my ear to his back, feeling the vibrations through his chest. He always managed to tell the same stories over and over again with the same gusto as the first time. He seemed to have a bottomless well of love and patience, especially when it came to storytelling. He insisted that we stay away from TV and video games, and made up for this with late night seemingly endless story sessions. His favourites to read to us were the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings. His stories would inspire us and we spent countless days playing outside, re-enacting scenes from stories and creating our own epics using our imagination. This combination of story and enforced no-screen playing outside has been a critical piece of my success in life. Thank you Dad.

Dad being a goof, part of his natural playful self!

I look forward to telling many stories about Dad. The absolute best story is the story of his life. It is the best kind - a full circle story of incredible challenges that follows the rise-fall-rise formula and ends in beauty and redemption. It is the best kind because it is unbelievable and it is true. If you have time, I would love to tell it to you. It is the story of my father, and I am his proud, proud son.

-Jacob