How Could One Man Be So Lucky?

Much of the following is what we asked our friend and former pastor, Roger Camerer, to read for us at our dad’s funeral service in November 2000. Co-authored with my sisters, it has stood up pretty well over time as the way I remember my dad.

One afternoon while my mom and dad (Granny & Gramps) were staying with Jeff and Lisa, Granny presented Gramps with his dessert after lunch, and Gramps delighted his grandchildren with the exclamation “Two cookies! How could one man be so lucky?”

This kind of joyful, unabashed exuberance characterized our Dad’s personality. As we’ve reflected on his place in our lives, we have observed that he was, frankly, noisy. He had an impressive singing and whistling repertoire which ranged from operatic choruses to “Bingo, Bango, Bongo, I’m so Happy in the Jungle” to “Singing I go along life’s road, praising the Lord, praising the Lord.” Often, they were woven together into one — loud — medley. He enjoyed Broadway show tunes and great hymns of faith. I remember going to sleep with “The Anvil Chorus” clanging or the soundtrack from Camelot trickling upstairs from the stereo in the den. Often, he would be singing along… I wonder what the king is doing tonight….

Humility was not first among his virtues. He was the first to confess “everybody loves me.” And we believe he was right. He had a zest for life and a positive attitude that made him very likeable. Phrases like “it’s a great day to be alive” and “this is the life” were a regular part of his speech. If we girls complained about something during our growing up years, Dad told us to “Quitcherbelly-aching.”

Dad loved root beer floats and Road Runner cartoons, boating around Green Lake and tooling around Europe in rented cars. He laughed at corny jokes, Red Skelton and Pink Panther movies. He read law journals and espionage thrillers. He kept wintergreen Lifesavers and Dentyne gum in his suit pockets and wrote speeches on skinny pieces of paper. He made fried egg sandwiches for himself in a tiny skillet reserved for that purpose alone, and oatmeal with raisins for us on Sunday mornings.

While he kept himself busy tinkering with projects at home or at the cabin, he also appreciated a good nap. In the hammock. Or on the floor. Or sitting on the couch. Or even at the dinner table.

He was proud of his Swedish heritage and his farm roots, and liked to know where people were from. Dad had a knack for getting people to talk about themselves. He made connections with people because he truly was interested in them and he remembered them the next time they crossed paths.

Every year he enthusiastically visited the Minnesota State Fair and toured the 4H Building where he had stayed as a boy when he brought a calf to show. We heard stories of his youth through the years, about his farm dog, Tubby, and how he’d pluck a small watermelon out of the garden for lunch in September as he set off for school. About pranks committed on the farm and summers spent building silos with his cousin, Bennett Olson and brother-in-law, Jim Shoberg. Stories about how he and his siblings rocked chickens to sleep and tried to see how many they could line up before the first one woke up. Stories about the hard work in those days of the Depression and during World War II, and of his admiration for his brother, Orley, who sacrificed much for Dad and their sisters. Dad spoke with affection about working side-by-side with Orley, and took joy in singing with him.

Dad was a man’s man in a world of women. He spent his life surrounded by girls — living in close proximity to 22 females in his 76 years, including his mother, seven sisters, his wife, four daughters, and nine granddaughters. He knew how to get along. We can only imagine the relief he must have felt when his sons-in-law and grandsons entered the scene.

Though he lost his own father at a young age, he was a remarkably good father to the four of us. Each of us knew we were his favorite. Dad had a way of making each of us feel special and loved, but we knew without a doubt that Mom was truly Number One.

We keep in mind these days that he left her in our care.

Those who wish to sing always find a song. That was true of our Dad. A song was never far from his lips — whether he sang the lyrics or just whistled. In later years his music mellowed, but he continued to find a song. We were heartened, near the end of his life, when his characteristic whistling resumed after a hospital stay. It spoke to us of his faith in the goodness of his savior and his hope for his tomorrows. While we still miss his exuberant optimism and sweet presence with us, we are eternally grateful to have called Warren Eastlund “Dad.”

How could four girls be so lucky?