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Tribute to Don
by
Robert Anderson
Enough to Make a Preacher Cuss
My Dad, the preacher, Coach Don Anderson, was mechanically inept. As a child, I can only remember him holding a hand tool 2 times; once he used a screw driver to install the light fixtures in the newly constructed Geneva Community Church, Bellingham, WA (the lights actually worked), and once when I saw him wave a wrench near our broken down 1957 VW micro bus. Dad was a good role model of working hard with the skills God gives you. He could fell a tree, hand split a cord of wood, and have it neatly stacked within a few quick and efficient hours. Living on a preacher's pay, our family vacations were "sweat equity" type affairs; we could borrow an off-season vacation home in the mountains if, during our stay, we laid in the winter supply of wood. I was fluent with a splitting maul by the time I was 10.
Correcting Automotive History
Contrary to the claims of Dodge/Chrysler, the original family minivan was the VW micro bus, contingent of course on the rare occasion when they had all the critical parts running. The Anderson family micro bus threw a rod (critical part). To save money, Dad tried to remove the broken VW engine for the mechanic. Dad was sitting buddha style on the dirt driveway of our sagging moss covered Victorian parsonage, pulling any easily loosened parts out of the low mounted engine compartment. He managed to injure some quickly extracted human body part and I heard a loud "dadgummit!" That was the only time I ever heard Dad "cuss". As an inquisitive 8-year-old standing behind buddha, I asked him which words are cuss words? We made a cursory cursing catalog with dadgummit falling on the safe side. As with most kids finding their boundaries, it became my new favorite and well used word.
Refuge in a Blizzard
In 1966, still living in Washington State, we took the restored micro bus up to the Forest Service clear cuts on Mount Baker to harvest a Christmas Tree. The affair went late by the time we had the tree tied to the top of the VW, all 5 kids ages 4 to 14 were finished arguing and elbowing their way to seating priorities, and we got the reluctant VW headed down the mountain; it was snowing dark and heavy. No radio stations could reach into the northern Cascade Mountains, and if they did, there was no working radio in the VW to receive them. I remember Dad singing every hymn he knew to comfort and encourage his kids as we huddled under blankets during the driving blizzard. Peeking out from under the blanket, I can still see Dad's dash-light profile singing "How great thou art..." as he muscled that giant steering wheel around another icy cliff side switch back. I drifted off feeling warm and safe. I woke up in the morning in my own bed, tucked under my favorite patchwork quilt.
A Song 50 Years in Coming
Little boys, especially me during boyhood, when looking up at your 6'4" Dad who is of athletic Scandinavian extraction (read Viking) and a very dynamic preacher, can get confused where Dad ends, and God begins. At Dad's graveside, we surviving kids gathered and sang the Chris Tomlin song
"You're a Good Good Father".
I intellectually know the song is written to God, and with my grey hair, 9 grand kids, and boyhood long behind me, I know well the giant chasm between Dads and God, but it still felt somewhat like a comforting payback singing it for Dad 50 years after the VW was long gone.
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