For this Father’s Day, I wanted to post the eulogy I had written about my Dad.

Every time a visitor backed out of Dr. Reece’s driveway at 219 South Russell in Ames, he would pretend it was an airplane backing away from the gate and he was the marshaller giving the signals and gestures, holding the imaginary flashlights, and moving his arms and hands to guide and shepherd the visitor towards a safe departure.  

And it wasn’t just visitors to the house that he guided.  Over the course of his 38-year teaching career, he guided over 2,000 Doctor of Veterinary Medicine (DVM) students through his courses and in an academic advising capacity.  This role was so important to him that he took the time to get to know every advisee, where they were from, what their parents did, and why they were pursuing a vocation in Veterinary Medicine.  It was an honor that the College of Veterinary Medicine at Iowa State named their academic advising award after Dr. Reece.  He was devoted to his family, too.  He and his wife Shirley raised 7 children and he had 24 grandchildren and 20 great-grandchildren.

With Dad, there was a certain way to do just about everything.  How to clean up a spill (blot it, don’t rub it); how to personalize a birthday card (write captions and funny sayings); how to make oatmeal (brown sugar and raisins mixed in—or else); how to top off a tank of gasoline (exactly at x.00, not .01); and how to make people feel important (know their name).

Nicknaming was his thing.  These varied from the simple (Tibbers), to alliteration (Tibbers and Toot).  More advanced versions took the form of rhymes (The Raina in Spaina falls mainly on the plaina) or (Noah, Noah, Gerboa) or (Kellen, Kellen, Ferninand Megillian).

He taught us that chores were important and he had a tireless work ethic.  If he came and visited, you always arranged for a project to do.  I remember planting a tree with him at my first house, both of us wearing our overalls (which he called the Belgian Tuxedo), railroad cap, and Red Wing steel toed boots.  Graduations, especially, were also very important to him.  He’d always ask if they were going to play the pomp and circumstance.  He tried very hard, when he was able, to attend as many graduations as he could.

He loved Ames.  A few weeks back I asked him what city had the best tasting water and he said, “Ames, Iowa”.  Dad only really knew 2 colors—Cardinal and Gold.  He said that his 2 favorite teams were Iowa State and whomever was playing Iowa.  And he meant it.  For over 43 years he attended almost every Iowa State Football game and insisted—even during the really bad years—to stay until the clock hit 0.00.  And he wasn’t a fair-weather fan, either.  Rain, snow, sleet, or hail he’d wear his overshoes and “gear” and walk over to the stadium.  Once he developed a theory that if he brought a piece of cardboard from home, and placed it on the ground and his feet on top of it, that it would keep his feet warmer.  I didn’t have the heart to debate that theory!

Dad always said he was proud of his parents, his agricultural background, and his family.  He loved teaching Veterinary Medicine and was a life-long learner.  When he was in his 80’s, I had asked him what he wanted inscribed on a brick to commemorate him and he simply said: “Still, I am learning.”

He leaves behind an incredible family as evidenced by the sheer number of people here tonight.  Each of you carries a memory of him.  Keep that memory but also use it to inspire yourself to create those same types of memories for your families.  Say his sayings, tell his stories.  Do chores with family.  Be a Cyclone!  Those are all ways to keep him present with you forever.

Last week, before he died, as we gathered in a waiting room to talk to Dr. Carlyle, Mary Kay remarked that a Cardinal was at the window.  None of us had seen a cardinal at the Hospice House before.  Cardinals are believed to be divine messengers, and their striking red plumage is said to resemble the robes of cardinals in the Catholic Church.  As such, when one appears unexpectedly in your life, it is often seen as a message from above.  We all looked at each other and mouthed, “MOM?”

Dad passed away within the hour.

A week later, I was day dreaming, and in the day dream were all of those who preceded Dad at the gates of heaven, waiving their arms and hands with pretend flashlights, welcoming him into their house, rejoicing in this new and everlasting life in heaven for him. 

Dad had a big smile on his face.