How normal is dropping in? Dad would drop in unannounced on friends, family, and acquaintances. He'd revel in surprise - dropping in on an acquaintance or family member who least expected a VW van with Dad and his family to roll up to their doorstep. Dropping in was a two-way street though, he'd also whole-heartedly welcome people who would drop in on us. Growing up as a kid, I thought this was normal - I thought everyone did this. 

We'd travel a lot. I'd lived in more than one house for every year of my life by the time I was 12, so there was the moving house kind of travel. On top of that there was the summer travel, when we'd be off so Dad could complete summer school, or so we could connect with family. We never stayed in hotels, so it was either camping, or sleeping in the basement of some unsuspecting host. 

Dad would become impishly happy in the hours and minutes prior to surprising someone. Sometimes it was a churchfellow who'd moved and given Dad their new address saying "if you're ever in the area, drop by!" Or a workfellow, like another teacher. Or a childhood friend. This happened many times. I can count at least a half dozen clear memories from when I was small of dropping in and staying overnight before moving on and pretty much never seeing those hosts again.

To be fair, sometimes Dad had called ahead, but he loved to under-promise and over-deliver - in other words, he loved to surprise you by showing up a day early. So he's say "we should be there Saturday night" and then Dad would gleefully show up on a Friday night. What a rebel.

I want to share with you a couple special memories I have about dropping in on Dad.

In the first memory,  I was 18 or 19 and was living in Vancouver. For some reason I now forget, I'd arrived in Victoria super early in the morning, and I knew Dad would just be getting up. I also knew he left his doors unlocked. So I snuck in - gleefully I might add - and discovered he was in the shower. Perfect. So I hid outside the door, and when he opened it I leapt out at him like an angry bear. Totally worth it. I remember him grinning ear to ear so pleased I was there (after the shock and adrenaline rush had subsided of course).

A few years later Dad was living in Duncan. I happened to be in town, helping the Cowichan Tribes with their pitch to host the North American Indigenous Games. The pitch went late, and a couple of the out-of-town celebrities that the Tribes had hired to help with the presentation ended up being locked out of their Hotel. I heard about it, and feeling out of options, dropped by Dad's house with the out-of-towners who needed a place to sleep. I had to wake Dad up. Despite the tiredness and surprise, Dad was super happy and welcoming, kind of shocking the guests with his kindness, and perhaps his bare-chested typical lack of clothing ;)  

We woke up the next morning, and Dad had cooked us a big breakfast feast. I remember the guests looking at me, shocked that he'd done so much. In that moment I felt like a wealthy guy, as they looked at me like I was the luckiest to have such a welcoming, giving Dad.

I inherited Dad's welcoming - we had a record number of visitors and drop-ins this year at our farm - and I love to cook for masses. I didn't take on the dropping in part. Poor planning? Sometimes, yea, that's me. I don't drop in unnounced anymore though. It's too nerve-wracking, and I'm not bombastic enough to make myself welcome the way Dad seemed to be able to. 

As I grew up into an adult, it gradually dawned on me how abnormal Dad's dropping in behaviour was. It really isn't done. But Dad was abnormal in many ways - he was generous to a fault. He got to know his neighbours no matter where we lived. And his doors were literally always open to weary travellers and other guests.

Did Dad ever drop in on you and surprise you? I'd love to hear about it.

When we moved back to Hazelton from High Level in the late 80s, Dad had a job teaching at the alternate school in 2-Mile. He was one of two teachers, the other was the admin, and the small school was basically split in half between them. He would have been around 32 years old. He got a homemade root beer making kit from somewhere, collected up some used 2 litres, and got to making root beer as an educational activity. 

Here on the farm the boys and I have made our first forays into fermenting food. I've learned that naturally fermented food creates carbon dioxide, and if you limit it to a sealed bottle, that carbon dioxide dissolves into the liquid as the pressure in the bottle increases. Experienced brewers will put the fermented brew into the bottles at just the right time, so that the pressure isn't so high that it will explode the bottle. Dad was not an experienced brewer. At all.

Normally when you open a carbonated drink - like a can of beer or pop - there's a little hiss as the extra pressure escapes, then you can go ahead and enjoy the fizzy drink. Something went a bit wrong with Dad's brew, because the 2-litre bottles became *extremely* pressurized. I looked it up, and modern plastic 2 litres max out around 150 PSI - to compare, your car tire probably has around 35 PSI in it. When you opened one of Dad's homemade root beer bottles, you had to hang on for dear life. It must have been up around the limit of the bottle.

Dad absolutely DELIGHTED in the difficulty and drama of opening his homemade root beer. He'd devised a method where the 2 litre would sit in a big mixing bowl. One person would unscrew the lid, while another would hold a large measuring cup (4 cups or larger), facing down, over top. As the cap came off, all the pressurized homemade pop would explode out the bottle, and shoot upward with incredible force. The person holding the measuring cup would need to keep a death grip until the bottle depressurized. The rocket stream of pop would hit the inside of the measuring cup, and flow back down into the mixing bowl. Afterward most of the pop would be in the mixing bowl, and a small amount would be left in the bottle. To get a rough idea of what this is like, check out Mentos + Coke fun.

Dad's favourite story was when he first brought the "finished" brew into school, and had the students help him open it. He had a student holding the measuring cup while the cap was unscrewed. When the pop exploded out and hit the measuring cup, the student screamed, let go, and ran away. By his telling, the force was so strong that it blasted the large measuring cup all the way up to the ceiling. The root beer mushroomed against the ceiling before calming down. He would proudly proclaim that the root beer stain is still on the ceiling of the alternate school to this day - and to the best of my knowledge, it still is! The last time I was in there a number of years ago, I was able to find the stain quite easily, and it was quite large - larger than a dinner plate.

Unfortunately I don't recall Dad attempting any more home brew after that, other than some strange miracle mushroom ferment, but that is another story. The exploding root beer at school was one of his many favourite stories to tell. 

Dad got his first "real" teaching job in Kitwanga, when I was basically a toddler. My parents and I lived in Kitwanga, then moved to a rustic cabin (Dad called it the Chicken Coop) in Cedarvale, then back in to Kitwanga. I was just about kindergarten age when we left, meaning we lived there and Dad taught there for a total of maybe three or four years. Last fall (2018) my wife, kids, and I got a deal on an old farm in Kitwanga, and we moved back to a small town that houses all my earliest memories. It also turns out it is a place where Dad - then known as Ian Beaton - is fondly remembered.

The General Store along with the neighbouring post office serves as the de-facto hub of the community. You run into folks and end up visiting in the isles sometimes for hours. We got to know the owners of the general store gradually over our first few visits. Both of them remember Dad fondly. Thys, the husband, said Dad was his teacher. "My favourite teacher I ever had, actually" he said with a smile. Dawn, the wife, remembers coming over with her previous husband and kids for tea and visits with mom and dad. "That was another life" she said with a smile. 

Dad would have loved the General Store - they have literally everything you are looking for, and more! Thys has been my go-to problem solver, I head over there with a problem and he has the tools and supplies to fix it, as well as the knowledge. "Dad would've known how to do this" I've said more than a few times, while Thys nods in agreement.

A few weeks ago we went to the store as a family. I had some texting to do before getting out of the car, and the kids headed in without me. "HEY, are you guys BEATONS?" I hear a voice call out to my boys. They both stop, Ezra replies "Yup!" I hear another voice "See, I KNEW they had to be a Beaton!" I jump out of the car and go say "Hi."
"Wow, you are definitely a Beaton! Are you Ian's son?" There are two men, one sitting in a minivan and the other leaning against it, wearing a hivis vest. "Yes" I smile and reply. "How is the old man?" They ask, eager. "Unfortunately he's passed away." I tell them. They go on to say that dad was their teacher. They are brothers from neighbouring Gitanyow.
"Remember? He was the little guy!" One brother says to the other, pointing to me. "Yes, I remember, Mr. Beaton used to bring him to the school, and sometimes to class." I am absolutely blown away. The recognized my kids as being Roderick/ Ian's kids, more than 35 years since having my dad as a teacher. He obviously left an impression.

Oh how I wish I could paint you a picture! Imagine a dog running around a gas station, my Dad hooting and hollering and trying to scoop freshly born puppies up off the asphalt and reel the momma dog in as it splattered blood all over the gas pumps and a shocked looking attendant and onlookers. Dad loved to tell this story, and him chasing Leesha the dog around the gas station while she was in the middle of giving birth (and mostly oblivious to it) was the shocking climax. Lets jump back a bit.

It was the early 90s, during the summer. My aunt and uncle had left for a cross-Canada-and-USA tour with their four kids and had left their dog Leesha, who was pregnant, with an unknown number of puppies, with us. Our mom was at summer school, because it was just Dad and us kids. He'd borrowed a camper from someone in Hazelton, and managed to install it on our severely under-powered but reliable 1980s propane truck that we'd come to call the rotten banana. I remember we were in love with the camper and the idea of camper-camping - going from a ratty tent to a CAMPER was like going from a Super-8 to the Hilton. We begged dad to magically make the camper ours, but he was firm - it was only a borrow.

Dad loaded up the crew-cab truck and camper and we slowly made our way on the 1,200km trek from Hazelton to Vancouver and Victoria. There was Dad, us four kids, and Leesha the dog, all jammed into the truck. The truck interior was anything but luxurious - it was a farm truck and was equipped with two bench seats and not a lot of space in between. We'd been driving for a day and the cab of the truck became cramped, especially with our +1, Leesha the pregnant dog. Dad decided as I recall to free up some space by moving Leesha into the camper. We were all restless and stir crazy from being pent-up, and when we finally pulled into a gas station toward the end of the day, we all piled out.

We'd stopped somewhere with rolling brown hills, so I am thinking Williams Lake or 100 Mile House are prime suspects. I remember the gas station had a few pumps, and we'd parked off to the side on the space of asphalt between the pumps and the highway. We were happy to be out, and must have looked like the brady bunch as we rolled out of the truck. and Leesha just couldn't wait - as soon as Dad popped the camper door to check on her, she bounded out before he could stop her. She was so happy to be out, she darted from Dad then quickly to each of us kids to say a quick greeting, her tail and rear end wagging furiously. It was around then that we noticed the blood splatters, as they sprayed on us and dripped on the dirty asphalt. 

Dad tried to call her and get her back into the camper to have her babies, but she was having none of it. She was too fast for him to catch. She wasn't done greeting people yet! There were so many people to greet! I was sort of frozen between terror, embarrassment, curiosity, and concern. Dad, seemingly immune to embarrassment, chased after her trying to get her to come while quickly issuing apologies to the shocked, frozen onlookers that Leesha was greeting one by one.

"Leesha, come here!" Dad would say, chasing her. Leesha would run up to someone, tail wagging like crazy, greet them for half a second, spray them and everything around with some blood, and then rush off full bound to the next person or vehicle or garbage can.
"Sorry! She's having puppies! Sorry! Leesha, come here!" Dad exclaimed, just as a fresh puppy flopped out of Leesha and onto the asphalt. This slowed Dad down as he carefully scooped up the slippery puppy and continued trying to corral her and get her back into the camper.

Dad's favourite part was the gas attendant. He was a teenager who'd likely never seen the miracle of birth before (this was before the internet), and couldn't quite believe his eyes and had no idea what to do. He was just agape standing between the two pumps. It's always good for a laugh imagining the poor guy in shock. I don't remember if Dad pressed him into action or not, or if it was me, or if dad scooped the puppies and corralled Leesha all on his own. 

Dad did get Leesha back into the camper, where she gave birth to the rest of her puppies. Instinct kicked in and she knew what to do. I remember how amazed Sophia (who was quite little) was watching this happen. Worried about the brand new puppies, Dad moved them and their mum into the passenger side footwell of the truck. Whoever got to ride shotgun had to hold their legs up over the pile of dog and puppies. I recall she had a large litter - they barely fit (One did pass away from suffocation in the pile on our return trip). 

Looking back I still wonder at all Dad did to keep us fed, dressed, safe, sound, and cared for - and he always made room for another - even a mom and puppies! 

As with other family fun days like Halloween and Christmas, Easter was a sacred family time for dad. 

I remember being about four years old and watching dad hand-make easter baskets out of coloured construction paper. He was carefully cutting it into strips and then weaving it and shaping it into baskets, secured with staples and tape. It seemed like everyone else had gone to bed but dad laboured away for hours, and allowed me to stay up late and "help." 

Each easter I remember dad was the 'bunny' and would hide our eggs around the house. As we often didn't have money when I was smaller, it was often one chocolate treasure hidden with our name tags on it. He'd always try and one-up his hiding spots, and it was always a thrill trying to find our chocolate. Sometimes they'd be in really odd-ball locations and he'd giggle watching us search.

The day before easter dad would prepare, and I understand this was a Beaton tradition. He'd bake bread, make eggs or baskets or whatever needed to be made. As a small child, on easter mornings depending on where we lived, dad would wake us up early and go for a sun rising church ceremony on a hillside or at the local church. We'd then hunt for chocolate. Later in our childhoods we'd relax at home, and start with a hunt and then have a big Beaton breakfast. Sometimes dad would go to church and make it optional for those of us who were interested. 

Waking us up in the morning Dad was always cheerful and would say "HE IS RISEN!" with a big smile. We'd shyly respond "he has risen" and sometimes he would say it again with even more gusto to see if he could get us excited.

This easter I was appreciating dad again, as I remembered watching him work hard to make sure our easters were memorable. 

-jb

A Man's A Man For A' That

1795 Robert Burns

Is there for honest Poverty 

That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; 

A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,) 

That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

Dad performs For A' That for Noah and Ezra in Feb 2014

THOSE THAT KNEW DAD would know that Halloween was one of his favourite times of year. Dad was creative, outgoing, generous, social, and he loved performing. Halloween was a perfect storm for many of the things Dad was good at and loved to do.

Dad would make our costumes, and get excited in the days before as he would hear about great costumes and try re-create them with us kids. He made me into the "headless horseman" with some thrift store supplies when I was eight, and I remember winning 3rd place at a Halloween party (I won a ball). I've re-created that costume a few times since. One Halloween, in a rush, he grabbed a blue plastic disposable plate and stapled it (with paper staples) to the face of a small blue windbreaker, cut some eye holes in the plate, put it on my littlest sister and called her "the blue ghost." She played the part and was a hit that Halloween. For the record we never, ever bought a costume. Ever. Always homemade.

Trick-or-treating was an excuse for Dad to go visit his friends and pay his respects around town. We'd all pile in our vehicle and Dad would take us to select homes around town - Ward Marshall's, Alice Maitland, other teachers, past students, and church friends. I think he enjoyed this part as much as the creative costume making. I recall a lot of laughing and joking as he would greet his friends, and often we'd be ushered in for a "quick visit." 

Dad was also a prankster and would tell stories of the pranks he would pull in his kid-days. As a dad, he mostly pranked our pets and he would delight at seeing their reactions to our costumes, the more scared our dog would be, the better! 

As we grew up Dad took a back seat as we started creating our own costumes. He'd take a lot of joy and pride in our creations. For some reason I remember Jonathan's the best - a "Cereal Killer" when we lived in Port Hardy, and a mega-death reaper (him on drywall stilts) in Brentwood Bay. 

The last Halloween I enjoyed with Dad was back in 2012. We'd just moved to Vancouver and Dad and Marny came to visit for a day on the Halloween weekend. Dad carved ALL our pumpkins under Noah's supervision, and he was a more than willing zombie victim and played with his grandkids.

Have any Dad halloween memories? Please do share. Love,

Jacob

It's been over a year since Dad died and we had his funeral and memorial song circle and hang out. I thought I'd remember more of the condolences, but after a year only a few memories and stories told remain. Here they are:

1. A long line of people shook my hand after the funeral, and I remember what a bright sweet energetic elderly lady said. She was dressed mostly in white, and seemed about half my size. She stepped up and grasped my hand warmly and gave me a huge smile. "This is the BEST FUNERAL I've EVER been to!" she exclaimed cheerily. "And your Eulogy was the BEST!" Then she leaned in, still holding my hand with both of hers, and said with a grin "... and trust me, I've been to a LOT of funerals! Yours was the best!" Her full on smile and cheer really made an impression amongst the somber handshakes and hugs and half-hugs. 
2. A nervous musician who came to the music circle afterwards. He approached me and said he didn't really know my dad well but he wanted to come because of something amazing my dad did. He said that he knew of someone suicidal in the music scene who had become a recluse. Dad wrote this person a positive personal post card every day for months until the person made contact and re-emerged. According to him, Dad had gone out of his way to save a stranger's life. It still brings me tears, and reminds me of the loving postcards I would occasionally get from him the last couple of years.
3. A teacher who told me that dad used to cook big pancake and waffle breakfasts for his students, using griddles that he's fixed or restored himself and with students. He said dad made a big impression on him as a teacher and that he'd never seen that before.
4. A musician who I met outside, who said he hardly knew dad, and got to know him just months before he died. He said Dad had heard he was having trouble with renovations, so he came by with tools and asked if he could take a look. He said he was at wits end, and two hired professionals had both tried but been unable to fix his basement wiring, leaving him with part done jobs and his electrical not working. Dad came in to his basement, after a few minutes of looking around said "I see exactly what happened here. I will fix it." Dad went by every day for a week until he got the job done - and apparently didn't ask for a dime to do it.

It is still hard to believe that he's gone and has left us. I wish I'd been able to record more of your stories to my memory that day, but it was quite overwhelming. For me I miss my Dad, a loving, wise man who helped me feel better about myself every time I talked to him or felt his hugs. He still inspires me when I think back to these stories of things he did to brighten up other people's lives.

-jb

Nov 16/ 87

A couple “simple” things happened today that precipitated this writing. We ran out of stamps and Sophia greeted me with a cheery “Hi dad.” This, the last child, 1 1/2 yrs old and so aware already is sure of her world and dad’s a part of it. The stamp that was missing was on a life ins cheque. Patricia dropped a note inside to High Bradford that I’d like to increase my insurance. After my talk with Cam Cavasso this summer, I can see the wisdom in his council. And I was thinking how little is written to my children. Sophia is 1 1/2 Rebekah is 6, Jonathan is 3 and Jacob is 8 (and doe II is about to whelp). 

Sophia loves to dance. Although you can’t “talk” yet, you will take a hand, and put it where you want it to be. “Pet doe” or “dance” or “draw with a pencil around my foot.” If you don’t get what you want from mom or dad you will try someone else. Rebekah is usually “tuned in” and will get you what you want. Jonathan is quite concerned that you don’t know how to hold a book the right way up yet, but you turn pages like a pro. 

Rebekah loves artistry. You have made me numerous papers cards and bookmarks with “I love you daddy” in your own hand. You spend time colouring in your Bible colour book and readily share space with Aliah and Janice when they come over. I appreciate your tenderness to your family and friends.

I call Jonathan “Mr. Justice.” You have an acute sense of fair/ unfair practices (especially against you). You are a bomb of happiness when everything is O.K. and people love you for it. You are showing the creativity of your big brother in drawing, constructing and generally making “things” for various applications out of wood, paper, etc. 

I enjoy watching my children “create” even if I’m often tired or grumpy when you seek my approval. 

Jacob started it all. Your creativity is infectious to your siblings and cousins. You’ve built forts, caravans all sorts of vehicles. Last weekend you showed me it wasn’t all play by helping me at Eric McCooey’s barn. Sometimes I worry that I’ve taught you to be “too serious” about life, but then I see the pleasure you bring to other people and I think “maybe it’s a good balance.”

Just discovered this today in a box of memories dad kept. I am publishing it because it is mostly a letter written very much to us kids. I transcribed this diary entry as exact as possible, I only added paragraph breaks and bolded our names to make it easier to read, otherwise it is exactly as Dad wrote it. -jb

I was making whole wheat pancakes this morning when I was reminded of a story dad told me a couple times. 

When he was little - and still called Ian Beaton - his family had to make it on not much money. One outcome is that they would always cook and bake with whole wheat because it was cheaper than refined white flour. He used to tell me you could make everything out of whole wheat - even pastry. He thought regular people were crazy for thinking you 'had' to use white flour in certain recipes. 

Dad and his siblings used to go to Bible camp - up in the Cowichan I think - and one summer when he was a teenager there was a major disaster. The camp was supplied with tons of whole wheat flour instead of white flour. As he told me the story, this was a major major problem, because at camp they ate wheat like it was going out of style. Pancakes for breakfast, bread for sandwiches for lunch, pastries for dinner and dessert. There was mass pandemonium in the kitchen, because the cooks and everyone there claimed that you could not possibly cook and bake with whole wheat. It just didn't work. At all.

Apparently Dad goes in, and says, you guys are crazy - of course you can cook and bake with whole wheat! And they say, no way, and he says yes way, and they say - prove it. So he cracks open one of the gigantic bags of whole wheat and starts cooking in the kitchen and shows all those adults how it's done. 

He amazed everyone, and from then on they'd ask him to work in the camp kitchen and show people how to cook and bake with whole wheat. According to him, they were most amazed with his pies - they never thought you could do 100% whole wheat pastry - but for dad, he'd never known anything else. He said since he grew up only eating and cooking with whole wheat, it was first nature for him.

I got the sense he loved working in the kitchen and cooking for so many people at camp. As I recall it also granted him some special privileges and access to the pantry :) 

When we settled down in Hazelton in the late 80s/ early 90s, camp dad came to life as he would take us on lengthy camping trips for much of the summer. The camp dad you know was really born here, as he'd always rig up some new invention or process to make camping better, more efficient, and a bit more like home but outside.  He taught me to roughly plan meals and properly pack ingredients. He loved to stick to the basics, and always had a white gas coleman stove. He pretty much never threw away a piece of kit - one of the last times we camped with him, we slept in the same tent we had as children.

I think of him often, daily, and today it was camping as I whipped up a big batch of 100% whole wheat pancakes for us and our 4 guests this morning. 

Love, -jb