That’s the heck of it. The longer one treads upon this firmament, the more friends you lose. That, I wrote long ago, is why we look back at childhood so fondly. We haven’t suffered life’s inevitable loses.
We gathered last week in the Ashley Baptist Church to say goodbye to Donny Dockter, a big room full of heartbeats beating together, rhythmic applause for a big man.
Afterward, I thought about the increasing number of eulogies I’ve written, but recalled what his son Jason called it—a celebration of his life. I rather like that more modern perspective. And I was reminded that we ought to deliver our bouquets to the living. But in my defense, had I done this sooner, Donny would have been impossible to live with.
There were lots of Docker boys in the front pews, the bloodline evident, and I don’t know if there was a wide receiver in the bunch but I’d put that offensive line up against anyone’s.
Dad thought a lot of Donny. The family connection goes back decades. Mom reminded me of the Christmas I got a racetrack. Donny and Dad stayed up until 2 a.m. assembling and playing with it while Mom and Shirley rubbed bleary eyes.
Donny was a car guy. Specifically, Cadillacs, and he was disdainful of any other “piece of sh—.” He should have been buried in an Eldorado. I didn’t look closely, but I wonder if the casket didn’t have a hood ornament.
He was opinionated, a progressive in a conservative community, but when he sat down over coffee with a half dozen Republicans to argue politics, I’d say it was a fair fight.
So, there was more than a familial connection. Heck, I was accused just last week, at a very high volume, of being—gasp!—a Democrat. Which around here is either one step above or one step below a Commie.
I sat beside Donny at a ballgame not so long ago. The game was broadcast by a local cooperative, and we were spotted at home by the Delzers. “Look,” Jimmy said to Marie, “It’s a quorum.”
Donny was more conservative than he might have admitted. Old school work ethic. A traditionalist. Certainly no tofu-eating flower child. The flag-draped coffin bore testament to his patriotism and service to country. A no-nonsense kind of guy. I saw the evidence.
As kids, my cousin Rodney Meidinger, the Delzer boys, and Todd Dockter, spent hours on a raft constructed of railroad ties. This was when Todd was about a yardstick high and not a left tackle. I still don’t know if Todd fell into that slough at the edge of town or Donny just got wind of our Huck Finn escapades, but I remember he took an ax to that raft. I still resent that.
Fast-forward. Todd is now the Street and Water Supervisor for the City of Ashley, and I’m guessing he never fell in at the treatment plant because Donny might have chopped it down.
I’ll guess that Donny was a strict father. He once yelled at me from the window of his Caddy for walking in the middle of the street, and I sassed back that he had no jurisdiction over me.
And lived. I count that as a near-death experience.
He and Shirley—an itty-bitty little thing—must have done OK as parents, though. They raised good sons. Jason was Dylan’s Industrial Arts instructor, a loquacious storyteller, and the single biggest reason Dylan could be dragged to school at all. As he prefaced his eulogy, Jason noted, “My brothers have me on a timer.”
Jason described Donny’s life as one lived “pedal to the metal.” His occupations changed over the years. He worked for DOT, worked at an elevator like my dad, sold cars and tractors, and raised cattle. He was an excavator, plumber, and septic tank pumper when he retired. It was the only time Donny took any crap from anyone.
He worked hard. If he’d been a miner he’d have been Big Bad Don. He laughed big, too. I imagine I’ll think about him, if spring ever comes, when I mow around the railroad tie retaining walls he muscled in to abate our drainage issues two decades past.
And when I see a Cadillac. If they don’t have Cadillacs in heaven, Donny’s going to raise hell, and if, God help me, I ever buy a Prius, I won’t need windshield wipers for the rain. It will be Donny spitting down. He was a liberal, but he wasn’t a purist.
© Tony Bender, 2023
