FROM YOUR EDITOR Bob & Theresa Joy

June 2008

I'm My Father's Son!

Well, here it is, our last editorial for Footnotes. What a ride the last 2 years have been. Actually, more than 2 years because it all started back in January of 2006 when we saw Margaret’s note in the magazine that she was looking to retire. We decided to ask for more information, and the rest, as they say, is history.

As I think back through these issues, I remember the wonderful response we got from the Mother’s Day issue of last year and the story about the moms in my life. It was a pleasure to share that portion of my life with you. I also began thinking that you know all about my moms, but I haven’t taken time to really tell you about my dad. Since this is the June issue, and Father’s Day is coming up, I thought this might be the most opportune time.

Philip “Bud” Joy was the youngest of 7 children born to an immigrant Irish farm family. My grandparents both came from Ireland, and settled on a homestead on Colville Indian Reservation near Brewster. Dad was actually born at the home in January 1918. Grandpa Joy was in his 70’s when dad came along. He passed away when dad was 16. Life wasn’t easy, but dad was able to complete 6^th grade, around the chores that were necessary to help the family survive.

When my grandpa died, dad decided he would get a job to help out with finances. He tried to catch on during the building of Grand Coulee Dam, but he was too young and they sent him home. At that point he decided he would follow in his father’s footsteps and become a farmer. His mom helped him to buy a tractor, he leased some land, and began farming for himself at the age of 16. On the day he died 65 years later, he was still actively farming. He had built a ranch which was the envy of many. It encompassed over 30,000 acres, and was made up of wheat, cattle, irrigated alfalfa, and pasture.

Dad was involved in the community. He served on many boards and commissions dealing with issues of importance to him. He was a candidate for County Commissioner at one point, and came within just a few votes of being elected. He worked at what he did. I’ll never forget the privilege I had when dad was serving on the school board at the time of my high school graduation, and he was on stage to hand me my diploma.

When dad was younger, horse shows were popular. Not the kind of horse shows you see on television where they jump the high barricades. These shows were made up of games called “Scurry by Pairs,” “Pole Bending,” “the Rescue Race,” “the Wheelbarrow Race,” and “the Trailer Race.” I still enjoy watching the old family movies that my mom made of these events.

But dad’s favorite event was most definitely the “Trailer Race.” This was a contest where each team was made up of two people. They would have a horse trailer attached to a pickup and would line up in the arena. It was a timed event where both people would jump out of the pickup, race to the trailer, get the horse out, bridle and saddle the horse. Then one would jump on and ride the horse one lap around the arena. Upon returning to the trailer, the team would remove the saddle and bridle, and get the horse back up into the trailer and secured. Then both people had to get back in the pickup and turn on the headlights. That would determine the time. And, there were usually 5 or 6 teams in the arena at the same time doing the same thing.

Well, dad ran the race quite often with my cousin. They were so good that they won the state championship a number of years. One year, however, they were involved in a race, and were so far ahead they had the horse back in the trailer and dad was in the driver’s seat before any of the other teams had completed the lap. However, somehow my cousin’s door was locked and he couldn’t get back in. By the time dad realized what the problem was and unlocked the door, they finished second. I do have that one on film. They both still laughed about that many years later.

It was just an example of how much my dad liked having fun. But, when it was time to work, he worked hard. He built a life for his family that kept us safe and well cared for.

My dad’s brother, Tim, was like a second dad to me. In 1977, Uncle Tim was murdered. My dad was the last to see him alive. It was absolutely devastating to lose him, and I know my dad was hurt deeply. But, he never let it show. I’ll never forget the trial and dad on the witness stand testifying to Uncle Tim’s habits. I watched him age right before my eyes. Then when mom passed away in 1988, at the funeral I saw a tear streak down my dad’s cheek. That was the only time I ever saw him cry, and he became human to me.

During the next 11 years, I spent a great deal of time making sure that I did everything I could to let him know how I felt about him. How much I appreciated him. How much I loved him. I know it made him uncomfortable at times because he was raised to never show emotion, but when he died in 1999, I know he had no doubt that I loved him deeply.

I miss him so much every day. I wish I could just pick up the phone, dial his number, and ask his advice. But, that can’t happen, at least not in this world. I do know that he is watching, and he is there for me if I want to talk. He just doesn’t answer in words, but he does answer when I feel his presence and his approval for decisions that I must make.

If you still have your dad with you, take the time this Father’s Day to let him know how much you appreciate him. Happy Father’s Day! Thanks for giving me the opportunity to share.

The Joys of Square Dancing,

Bob & Theresa

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