Vaughn, Bill, Billy, Peanoot, Bruz, Bruzzy, Uncle, Papa, Grampa, Papa Dad, Dad. He was many things to many people and each name marked a special place in his heart and in the heart of the person who hung the moniker on him.

He was not a perfect man. He never claimed to be. He was, though, a nearly perfect specimen of his time. Born in the depression, he grew up in the War Years and came of age in the late 1940’s, early 1950’s . A Thompson Falls Bluehawk who played basketball, football and trumpet. A jock, in band. A blend of the Fonz, Richie Cunningham and James Dean. The oldest of a family of four – and the only boy.

His Dad pulled up stakes and took the family to Yreka, California when he was a high school junior. He said he thought he was going to die when it happened but that he soon learned that the move was the best thing that ever happened to him. He fell in love with fast cars, heavy equipment, dancing the jitterbug and the 9th grade prom princess of Oakland, Oregon.

He married Julie Ann Kendall and they started a forty two year journey that included the births and the raising of 4 sons. The years also included a number of different jobs and moves and fun and fights and floods and love and living life to the fullest. He was a California cowboy, a Montana road building/machine operating superstar, a Cessna pilot, an award winning horse rider, a race horse owner, a champion pool player, a lover of hunting, fishing and off-road vehicle riding, a voracious reader and a lover of history.

A closet sentimental romantic, he grumbled each Christmas about having to put a brush pile in the living room - but brought to life and passed to us boys the secrets of the real Santa Claus - and usually had to work until July to pay off the joy of giving. He threatened to shoot the Easter Bunny if he pooped on our floor again, but even though the poop was there a time or two, he never did shoot him and the Easter Bunny never stopped delivering eggs. The grandchildren of that Bunny carry on his legacy to this day.

After the loss of Mom, Dad could have, but did not, give up on life or love. Instead he started over and found Loretta to share in his journey into retirement. When Loretta lost her battle with cancer and Dad was again alone – again he did not give up and he found and fell in love with Claudia. After his loss of Loretta, Janean McBride suggested to him that maybe a big part of his mission in life was to be a caregiver for souls that were transitioning back to God. He found peace and purpose in those words and used them as tools in moving forward.

That ability to treat life’s journey as a constant series of useable lessons and opportunities is one of the biggest lessons I have gained from being his son. He was young when us boys began clambering into his life. That gave us the ability to watch and learn as he was learning and growing. We watched as he gypo’d his way through tough times and never let what had happened get in the way of what could happen. When crap hit the fan, he didn’t waste time whining about the mess – he was always busy finding and picking up the pieces he could salvage and use to start over.

His cup was always half full – and since he didn’t expect anyone else to fill it for him he was forever busy working at it himself. He taught us to never be bored – because boredom meant we didn’t have enough to do – and he’d fix that. He taught us to run at work, not walk and that if we didn’t have something to do then make something to do.

He was a competitive person by nature, and, to the last day, he was driven by an internal competition with himself to do better; to excel or at the very least to do his best. In his later years he even enjoyed a more enlightened understanding of male and female relationships – in no small part due to the daughters-in-law and then the granddaughters that so confused him in early years because they did not fit into the June Cleaver mold.

He was too busy working on himself to spend time judging others. He allowed others, including us boys, the space to be who we were and gave us the right to screw up as long as we learned our lesson. That’s why he didn’t strangle us when we broke the windows out of the house in a fight, or put 500 gallons of fuel in his pickup’s 100 gallon fuel tank, or started the chicken coop on fire, or backed over his pickup with the dozer or wrecked the family truckster or crew cab…..again, or blew up the engine in the skidder.

He took our lessons in stride as long as we paid the price of our screw ups and as long as we learned. Sometimes he would weigh in before we made a mistake – but it was usually a cautionary comment that went like this “Boy, I would sure hate to be you when you have to explain to Mom why you did what you are about to do…”

I can remember some spankings we deserved, but I can’t remember one single time when he yelled at us. He loved his boys and their growing families with a quiet and humble pride that grew with each passing year. He seemed especially pleased at being a Grandpa and a Great Grandpa.

The last few years Dad seemed to be more at peace with life than at any time in my memory. He often reflected on how blessed he was. This last year he told me several times that, in his words, “Few men are lucky enough to find the love of a good women and I have been lucky enough to have found three.’ And I think each got an improved version of who he wanted to be. I also think that he knew that Mom was going to be waiting for him when he crossed over and I really think he chose to check out now because he finally thought he might be getting a passing grade.

Last summer at both Kelsey and Darby’s weddings, he had tears of joy for witnessing, as he put it, ‘all of this because two silly kids in the 1950’s fell in love.’

He was at peace with where he was in life – but he was not done living it. He had plans for this spring and summer, he had trap to shoot, he loved to travel and he had places he wanted to see, he had more babies to usher in, some trees to clear - more life to live and learn from. He had more improving to do. He quit smoking again this year….I think three times. I’m pretty sure the Nicorett company is saddened by Dad’s passing.

There are some who are not saddened by Dad’s passing – those who were waiting on the other side. We are here and we have a huge hole in our heart but Dad found comfort in a story once told about a sailing ship’s departure from shore.

In a beautiful lagoon on a clear day, a fine sailing ship spreads its brilliant white canvas in a fresh morning breeze and sails out to the open sea. We watch her glide away magnificently through the deep blue and gradually see her grow smaller and smaller as she nears the horizon. Finally, where the sea and sky meet, she slips silently from sight; and someone near me says, “There, she is gone!”

Gone where? Gone from sight – that is all. She is still as large in mast and sail, still just as able to bear her load. And we can be sure that, just as we say, “There, she is gone!” another says “There, she comes!”

On Saturday, God called Dad home. Awaiting him on the other side and proclaiming “Here, He comes,” were a pile of those he loved. It was fitting that he went to heaven on a Saturday night – I think they had a whale of a party.

On this side of the veil we stand together and hang on to each other for comfort. We stand with Claudia as she grieves the loss of her partner.

We’re here remembering. A friend of mine said earlier this week that when a Dad dies, it is the 6 year old in all of us that hurts the worst. There are some 6 year olds in this room that are hurting. Bad.

We are also celebrating the fact that we were lucky enough to grow up with, work with, learn from and play with Dad, and the lessons that come from this lifetime of learning are imbedded in the fiber of who we are. And, I hope, embedded in the fiber of who we are trying to be for our kids, and grandkids.

Our pain is also moderated by the knowledge that Dad is home, he is whole, and he is learning a whole new world of lessons.

Vaughn, Bill, Billy, Peanoot, Bruz, Bruzzy, Papa, Grampa, Papa Dad, Uncle, Dad had a perfectly imperfect life that he lived to the fullest and we are honored and proud to have been part of it.

Pictured above: Bill Vincent [lower left] and his four sons: Top row, Steve and Scott; and seated next to Bill are Will, center, and Bruce, right.