I've written poems.
I've tied for second place in a poetry contest (so yes, poems can earn decent money now and then).
I've written novellas.
I've collaboratively written (once).
I've written short novels.
I've written long novels.
I have even written book descriptions and book blurbs.
I've written much by hand.
I've written by thumbs on my phone and with full typing hands on my laptop, on typewriters, etc.
I've even (gasp-horror) played with AI writing, and always had to go back and change many details, sentences, words, and well, nearly the whole thing.
But the hardest thing I have ever written is still not quite finished.
The hardest thing I have ever written is an obituary for my dad.
I've mentioned him on my blog before.
There's so much life to encapsulate into a short bit. And this is my fifth attempt. I've decided to just let it all gush out and hope that I'll be able to reign it in for a more formal sort of obituary as needed.
I could start at the beginning: On April 16, 1938, Ronald Raymond Gillespie was born to Raymond Ralph Gillespie and Hazel Smith Gillespie, oldest of four children, including his sisters Beverly and Gail, brother to Richard Earl (RIP), as a descendent of some of the first settlers in Eugene, Oregon.
He is survived by my mom, Kathleen Lois Schneider Gillespie, me - Tyrean Ann Gillespie Martinson, his son-in-law John Henry Martinson, Jr., two grand-daughters, Anna and Trisha, a grandson-in-law Austen, and a great-grandson August.
My dad born with disabilities. He underwent medical treatment, some of which was experimental, charitable (?), and horrific and ended only after he had one of his legs amputated below the knee. He didn't love disability jokes (Bob in the pool just made him shake his head and walk away from people who told it), but he didn't mind pranking people and scaring the pants off people by putting one of his old prosthetic legs out during Halloween.
He had extended family members, aunts of a kind, who made sure he knew how to dance ballroom, swing, and any way he needed to because a gentleman doesn't leave a lady unattended at a dance. And he loved dancing, even winning a contest with my mom at a company Christmas party.
He never let his disabilities stop him from taking on the world of adventures. His first work included work at a saw mill and as a whistle punk for loggers. He went to trade school at Lane Community College and earned an ASS degree as an Aviation Maintenance Technician, and also earned is CPC as an Aviation Private Pilot.
He worked hard as an airplane mechanic and foreman of inspection on small aircraft and on commercial planes with the bulk of his career at Alaska Airlines.
And, when he wasn't at work, he was dancing, flying either a Cessna or a two-seater Erco Ercoupe and going to fly-ins, experimenting with car engines, downhill skiing, riding motorcycles, riding motor scooters with sidecars, canoeing up to 70 miles in the Canadian wilderness with my mom and I, kayaking in the San Juan Islands, and traveling to five countries (England, France, Canada, Mexico, Israel) alongside all fifty of the United States. According to at least two of my cousins, and me, he was a fine and competitive ping pong (table tennis) player.
There are so many stories I could tell about his stories. So many my mom could tell. One thing I loved about his stories is that he shared them with people who would listen, he shared them when he was passionate about the topic, and he shared them with intention and a positive spin.
For years, all I knew about his time in the hospital as a teen were the stories of pranks he pulled on other boys, the candy they shared, the "uncle" (a cousin of his parents) who visited. I didn't hear the other stories until much later, and discovered why he woke so many nights shouting. I heard about the exciting adventures he had with bicycles and early electric bikes/motorcycles, and how he drove with his dad to Disneyland the year it opened, and then returned with his little brother riding on the back of his motorcycle, sporting their Mickey Mouse ears to the delight and surprise of other drivers.
My dad's faith came slow and intermittent. He would come to church when I was "doing something" like reading scripture, singing a duet or solo, giving the children's message or giving the message. He shared that he wasn't sure about Jesus with me on a car ride down to visit his dad in Eugene back in 2017, and so I started volunteering more and more at church, giving him as many reasons as I could to get him to come. But years of prayer, of intermittent attendance, and a promise he made to my mom about attending worship after he retired, and he gave his life to Christ at an RV rally he went to with my mom, and he shared that with me when they returned home. While an avid reader of novels and non-fiction stories, he struggled with God's word but he loved it when my mom read it out loud to him and requested that daily in the last few years of his life. When dear friends from church came to visit him in his last days and sang Amazing Grace, he didn't open his eyes all the way, but he smiled and mouthed the words.
Do I know all about his life? No. Do I believe my dad was perfect. No. But was he one of the best people I have ever known? Yes. Am I glad he was my dad? Absolutely.
"Well, let me tell you something..." (the opening line to many of his stories), "you wouldn't believe" (another opening line), and sometimes, "well, some people think/do that and they have their reasons." (That was his polite way of saying he disagreed but he tried to understand and knew everyone had choices to make.)
So much to say. So many stories to tell. So many adventures to have or imagine.
I miss you, Dad. Thank you for all the chapters of your life I got to see, and thank you for that last chapter - you know the one I mean.
In loving memory of Ronald Raymond Gillespie, April 14, 1938-September 5, 2026.
And no, this isn't the final draft. Will there ever really be for this?
