Dad again, but not my Dad

Part 2–Brothers

Mar 22, 2024

The remembrances of my Dad, who died one year ago last Friday, March 15, is going to span three parts rather than my stated two. Because something additional needed to happen, as it should have. And it’s happening with this post.

Dad wasn’t just my Dad, he was Dad to two other boys who, among the five in total of us siblings, continue to live. Most of what follows is not about “my Dad,” it’s about their Dad—the Dad who was Dad to my brothers.

Over the course of my writing about my Dad and his family, others in my family have surfaced in various stories, posts, and anecdotes. A life and its history, after all, is made of relationships—and there are no closer relationships than the ones that get created to make a family. In the entire world right now, there are a total of three living beings remaining who have lived as intimate family, under his one roof, with my Dad. Of course my Dad has more family than just three souls—he was so proud to be a brother, an uncle, a cousin, an in-law, and a grandpa (especially a grandpa). But the reason for this post is the relationship Dad had, as Dad, with his sons.

Although Clary and Trevor have been mentioned in various ways over the history of this Substack when the conversation has been about my Dad, their own voices have been silent save for those that were filtered through me, amidst my own recollections. This was an intentional decision I made to respect their privacy, their own memories of Dad that remain their privilege to keep private, and their own private grief as they, too, travelled with Dad along his journey of dying and death—and then through their own unique and new experiences of Dad since his death. Because we had our own different experiences with Dad, it comes to pass that he was also a different Dad to each of us. And he was—though each of us would characterize and define Dad in much the same way, as you’ll soon see.

I asked each if they’d like to contribute anything to this recorded history of memory and remembrance—among my lovely subscribers, many who have remained are family and many in my family will appreciate, I’m sure, hearing a little about Dad from their perspectives. To my deep relief and gratitude, though they were under no obligation whatsoever, each enthusiastically said yes! My brothers, my family in general, tend toward the private, the humble, and the reserved—no surprise there as those same descriptors described my Dad.

But get us in a room together, and all bets and reservations are off—especially if food, or BBQ, or football is involved. Or memories of the most intense and tedious boredom anyone could imagine as we each walked or rode tractor down thousands of rows of hops over way too many 100 degree Yakima valley summer days. Oh sure, we laugh at them now….
If there exists hypnotic boredom, there exists alongside “mishaps.” Dad only found out about a few of the accidental mishaps we each had on the farm. (Maybe he knows all about them now—hmm. Need to think that through a little deeper.) All I know is when we’re together now, each of us learns a little more from each other, and about each other, with each undisclosed (to Dad) farm accident transgression. I digress.
But come to think of it, maybe Dad himself ran over a dozen or more fully grown hop bines in his life (we’d have to put those back up though); or got off the tractor to tear down a stupid bine because one of its side shoots snuck around the tractor cage to rip/scrape across his sweaty neck (these never got put back up!); or snapped more than a couple hop poles in the middle of the hop field after falling into that hypnotic tractor trance known to every single hop farmer when they ditched or disced (after harvest: “Gee, how’d that pole end up that way?” “Um, the harvest guys?”). Not that I did any of those things, mind you. I’m just saying…on behalf of my brothers. Yeah, that’s it. We were afraid to ask Dad if he did any of that because he’d likely say “No. Why do you ask?”
So we never asked.
(I gotta stop these digressions.)

I’ll sum things up a bit more next week in part three of this one year anniversary memorial—I want Clary and Trevor to take over to share what was on their hearts as we each, in our own ways, called to mind our mom and Dad during the poignancy of celebrating a first anniversary of the death of a man in our lives the likes of which words could never do justice in the telling of what he meant to each of us. Woven among each are my recollections of their unique and special relationships with Dad to provide a deeper context to their memories.

So, for now, may these next words suffice and land lightly with you as you learn more about this man we loved—and who loved us dearly.

Clary and Trevor are the two handsomes there on the right in this photo taken not that long ago—during Clary and Gloria’s HS prom (thankfully for Clary, that would be Gloria there in the dress—it would be awkward if it wasn’t. That kid on the left is Dad’s first biological son who shall remain nameless for the moment (btw, I think Gloria was tickling him). But about that “biological part…”

…It Was Never a Thing

Dad didn’t just marry a woman—one Ann Marie Mitzel Cronkhite. He married into an existing nuclear family minus their own father. And that by itself said a lot about my Dad.

Clary

The photo above, we think, was taken in the early 1960’s just about the time my Dad would have met my future mom. These are the four surviving family members (circa 1960ish) of Ronald Cronkhite. The kids in front of my future mom are, l to r, Antoinette Marie, Terry Allen, and Clarence Ronald. Cronkhite’s all. These are my half-siblings. Just a few years earlier, their dad died in a tragic accident.

So much more could be said about this—but a bit of context was appropriate to add to get a sense of who my Dad was. Remember, this was the early sixties—mom was a new widow, with three kids, trying to survive on a receptionist’s income with the help of Grandma Mitzel and a lot of aunts and uncles. Fortunately, she danced (at the time). ‘Cuz that’s where my Dad and mom first met, on a dimly lit dance floor somewhere in Yakima—that he drove a dang cool car didn’t hurt either.

But, in our family, once Trevor and I arrived on the farm scene, none of that mattered. My Dad did not “adopt” my older sibs, he didn’t “need” to (I think it was important to him that they retain their ancestral connection on the Cronkhite side). And there was never any talk, let alone tension or confusion, between the legal or false labels of “biological,” step, half, non-adopted, or widowhood. There was just “us.” My mom and Dad defined the family they grew, and they grew a family that didn’t care about worldly labels—this family, their family, cared more about heart, hard work, responsibility, “get the job done,” come home safe, and all other bonds that extend way beyond the bonds of blood and DNA. We were “just” family. Always.

When asked to share some memories, what would obviously extend to a few novels instead of these few lines, Clary shared:

So many memories have been forgotten, but at times, and for no reason at all, some like these pop into my head and I just smile or laugh to myself.
I have so many that occurred before my brothers Lenseigne were around! I could talk for days of the relationship between Terry and Dad, but will save that for another time!
I recall when I was 15 years old and practicing for my drivers license (I could get a farm license at 15-1/2) Dad took me out in his 1965 chev pickup with a 4 speed manual transmission. I learned to take off very well, (driving a tractor helped) but when I would slow down I would put in the clutch and “ride it,” to Dads dismay: “you are wearing out my clutch!” Lesson learned!
When Dad married Mom he had the most beautiful 1963 Pontiac Bonneville (a big plus for him being THE #1 choice as a step Dad!). Anyway, as a sophomore in high school on very rare occasions, I could take it to Friday night games—I was some king shit and the envy of many of my classmates, (also Gloria). I would take the air cleaner off so I could listen to that 389 roar! I’m sure it was inspected the next day for any irregularities!
Dad was a very good teacher about farm duties, his commands were loud and concise and sometimes even nice! But it was a learning process for me and thickened my skin a bit!
I was amazed that Dad knew so much about so much; he could fix anything, he could make anything grow, and he was a pro at those damn siphon tubes, it would take me 4 or 5 pulls to make water flow from those damn things! After a short while my job was to look for and fix washouts—alas no more tubes! That was no prize, I got very muddy, and sometimes I would even get it right!
When it came to baling hops my goal was to beat Dad sewing my side before him; never did but got close (I think he did it on purpose)! He knew how competitive I was and it kept me from dogging it!
Growing up on a farm taught me that a farmers job is never done! I was in awe of Dad’s work ethic and his ability to make the best of situations beyond his control! He would put his trust in God and would accept whatever came his way! God smiled down on Dad and gave him many crosses to carry, including raising 3 youngsters he called his own!
Like Brad Paisley’s song, “I hope I’m half the Dad he didn’t have to be!”
I miss him!

That second to last line there, the lyrics from Brad Paisley, are words Clary said aloud at the private burial ceremony we had when we inurned my Dad’s cremains in April of last year. Those eleven words say almost everything that needs to be said about my father—when he first laid eyes on my mom, in that dimly-lit dance hall, he could not have known she was a widow with three kids at home being watched by Grandma or an auntie. We don’t know exactly how he came to find out about “them three kids,” but what we do know is that it didn’t matter. Dad didn’t have to be their Dad. He didn’t have to be my mom’s husband—and therefore, never had to be my Dad. But he did. And he did. And he was. He never had a second thought about any of it.

And a ‘63 Pontiac Bonneville didn’t hurt either.

An aside:
Story is, mom had two strapping young men who were a’courtin’ at the same time—both known to the family as potential suitors. Story is, Clary was given “second to final” say in choosing “the guy.” Final say we think was Grandma Mitzel’s whom we knew could recognize her own roses when Dad would pick a few to give to her when he walked in her house. Legend is Dad was the only one to get away with that—everyone else was WAY too scared to even think about it. Grandma Mitzel was THE quintessential full-blooded German grandmother.
Mom and Dad about to walk into Grandma Mitzel’s house. Dad was already “established,” he didn’t need to pick any of her roses anymore.
Suffice it to say Trevor and I owe our mere existences to a 1963 Pontiac Bonneville. And Clary’s affinity for loud cars! Oh, and to roses he never bought.

As Dad aged, Clary became a kind of confidant for Dad—likely because they were so close in age! LOL!!! Okay, about that—Dad would say, when Clary would remind him that this is what getting old does to a body, that “You’re not such a spring-chicken yourself you know. You’re catching up to me.” Clary wouldn’t disagree.

They shared moments and conversations that Dad would never have shared with Trevor or me (or better, that Trevor and I NEVER would have wanted him to have with us—Clary has shared some of those conversations!) Remember, when Dad met mom, Clary was essentially “the man of the house.” I’m almost certain, knowing Dad, that it was quite an important thing to him that Clary liked him. Now, Dad didn’t sell some cows to buy that Pontiac just to get on Clary’s good side—Dad had the car way in advance of meeting the Family Cronkhite. But the relationship between my Dad and Clary was, by far, the closest among the Siblings Cronkhite. And that relationship only grew deeper and stronger all the way to Dad’s end. It was a profound joy to bear witness to. Toni and Terry always referred to my Dad by his first name “Wally.”

Clary called him Dad.

The Brothers Lenseigne

My parents married on November 21, 1964–one day short of the first anniversary of JFK’s assassination. Less than a year later, the Brothers Lenseigne #1 was born when the young family lived in Moxee the first time around in a small house adjacent to the elementary school. After a brief move to Union Gap, this young family, with mom pregnant with the Brothers Lenseigne #2, settled in Toppenish. It is in Toppenish where all the memories of family, farm, hops, sage, church, school, and athletics began—to say nothing of the beginnings of imagination, aspiration, creativity, responsibility, faith, meaning, authenticity, and the sometimes normal and not-so-normal family tensions that exist in most families. Many of those have been captured in previous posts.

As time went on, and year gave way to year, with Toni and Clary soon moving out of the house to start their own families and the rest of their lives, and with Terry going on to whatever it was Terry went on with, my brother Trevor and I moved with mom and Dad to Moxee where he began, in earnest, to farm his own hops on the land of his own ancestors. That was the time and place, when and where, Trevor and I came into our own—until I left to attend college and then moved to the Seattle area to start my own family. In this period, my Dad experienced the deaths of his daughter Toni, and his second son Terry.

This is also when the lives of my brother Trevor and my Dad became intimately intertwined, interconnected, and bound for the rest of eternity.

Trevor

As I think about the relationship between my Dad and my brother Trevor, emotions surface that I have yet to find words for. I’ve toyed with the idea of writing about some of that in these posts but decided against it for a couple of reasons—the main one being some things MUST remain private so as to keep them as reverent and sacred as they day they entered into heart and memory. ALL those memories, though, would be of the benevolent, humbling, inspiring, and grateful kind. We in our family thank God for Trevor—without whom, as Dad grew older, as Dad had to sell his farm to retirement, and as mom died, Clary and I simply do not know how mom and Dad would have survived. Trevor was their life preserver—sometimes quite literally.

Trevor is the “MacGyver” of our family (if you don’t know who MacGyver is, you’ve never met my brother then—but you could google it): THE ONE PERSON Dad would turn to, call, rely upon, summon, and challenge whenever anything needed to be done that Dad could no longer do or didn’t know how to do. And sometimes, could still do but he wanted Trevor to “come over anyway.”

Trevor to Dad, after answering the phone: “Hi Dad.”
Dad to Trevor on phone: “What are you doing?”
Trevor to Dad in response: “I guess I’m dropping everything I’m doing here and coming over there to see you?”
Dad: “Good. When can you be here?”

THAT is what total devotion to a Dad looks and feels like—and that’s just the mere surface of it.

On the right there, that’d be The Brothers Lenseigne #2 aka Trevor, as a wanna-be Ram, aka wanna-be/soon-to-be MacGyver.

When asked to share some memories, what would obviously extend to a couple hundred novels, a few mega dramas, some comedies, some tragedies, maybe some poetry mixed in, instead of just these few lines, Trevor shared:

Memories of Dad
The earliest one that was fun was sitting on dad’s lap driving or steering the pickup truck in Toppenish. Then as we got a bit older driving the Massey Furguson for dad in the hop yard straightening poles. Hoe! – Tap of the hammer on the metal rail to go.
Running between the just baled hops as he stenciled them.
½ hour lunch times on the farm.
Irrigating with dad with the syphon tubes. Damn he was good at those.
Walking behind him after cutting ditches and having my shovel on my shoulder Just. Like. HIM.
As I got older and farming was my living – dad would always meet up with me and bring me a pop.
When I’d spray at night dad would bring out coffee every now and then.
Dad always driving on the ends of the hop yards making sure the water made it to the ends of the rows.
His farmer-tanned arms and from neck up. Always wearing a hat on the farm.
He was a traditional farmer, he trusted me to incorporate drip irrigation into our operation.
When we purchased our big Ford 8100 cab tractor with air conditioning, we would fight to see who got to drive it for the day – it seemed I always lost and got to eat dust on the regular tractor.
The last few years of his life we would always talk before bed and that’s when the “I love you’s” started.
What I miss the most is going over for coffee with dad in the mornings. He always had the coffee ready and paper waiting for me to read. I think of those moments every morning when I’m pouring my first cup of coffee.
And Dad’s soft heart!

EACH one of these contain their own set of priceless memories and my brother could write his own Substack that would be poignant, tearful, endearing, and hilarious. Sometimes all at the same time with the same memory. But neither of my brothers want to do that—neither of them need to do that. Like my Dad, my brothers are humble, hard-working, private, and devoted to family in each their own way. And I am THE luckiest brother in the world to count these two as my own brothers.

I never wanted to farm. So I went to college with aspirations of something, ANYTHING, different. Meeting my future wife at college, a woman from West Seattle, cemented my destiny—“mom, Dad, let me introduce you to Kristin. I’m moving to Seattle!” Clary had an influential and meaningful career in the electrical/engineering/contracting field—so he didn’t want to farm either. But Trevor…

Trevor was going to inherit the farm—until the farm could no longer be inheritable to earn a living minus all the liability, lack of resources, and challenge that is the life of a relatively small farmer. So Trevor stayed with Dad, next to Dad, his entire life. They literally either lived on the same plot of land or within a 10 minutes’ drive of each other. When we made the decision to bring Dad 150 miles west to Lake Stevens for Dad’s final dying Journey, we also “took Dad from Trevor.” Now, if you were to have asked Trevor at the time, I’m sure he’d be honest and say “THAT’s not a problem! Have at him!”

Actually, no one was happy with what was happening to Dad as he lived in the Adult Care Facility we hoped would work for him—since at the time, because of career and life circumstances, none of us could take care of Dad by ourselves. So Dad’s ultimate move to us was a true relief for each of us—especially for Dad. And because it was that for Dad, it was especially especially for Trevor.

Though bound hearts always remain bound no matter the physical distance, Dad’s move to us was poignant for my brothers—and I know it was especially so for Trevor. In July of 2022, a tremendous weight of devotion, duty, unconditional hard love, responsibility, and service was lifted from Trevor’s shoulders. Trevor was generous in his remembrances above—and there is yet so much more.

Dad was demanding at times (okay, a lot of times)—he had a strong streak of perfectionism in him that was often aggravating. And things were never done fast enough for Dad. Couple those things, in a body and mind that was quickly becoming old after his retirement in the mid 90’s, and you’ll soon appreciate why Clary and I so often stood in awe of my brother Trevor. Trevor took the brunt of it all from Dad—of course, most of it was joyful, don’t get me wrong. But as Dad’s only and one “go to” guy, Trevor was the first responder. Each. And. Every. Time. (The fact he is an actual “First Responder” notwithstanding. Trevor became an influential, career professional firefighter/first responder in the East Valley Fire District—a calling of community service he still maintains to this day). Trevor was Dad’s 911 call center and responder, Dad’s Uber driver, Dad’s medic, Dad’s ambulance driver, Dad’s field hand even when there were no more fields; Dad’s plumber, electrician, mover, real estate broker, insurance manager, law consultant, accountant, carpenter, landscaper, and fellow morning coffee drinking buddy. If I’ve forgotten something, Trevor was that too. All for Dad (and Mom too when she was alive).

But all for Dad.

To this day, when Trevor begins his shift at the station, he first drives to Moxee Cemetery to say “Hi” to mom and Dad. Each. And. Every. Time. And to keep the gravesite up to “the Lenseigne standard of perfection.”

Yeah, that seems to have been inherited too.

And On We Go

Next week, I’ll wrap up my own remembrances of Dad as this Substack continues to evolve past its initial purpose. For now, I am thankful for my brothers in ways I hope they know, but haven’t fully been said…yet.

When Dad died, my brothers and I committed to “do it right.” One of the last things my Dad would have wanted was the creation of any strife amidst us three especially as we settled his estate. He said as much himself as he was ending his life here. My Dad was P.R.O.U.D. of the family he created. Despite his rugged exterior, a facade he tried hard to cultivate his entire life, my Dad was actually a “feeler;” a man of pure heart. He was correct to be proud of his family—I am proud of my brothers; and I am humbled and proud to BE their brother. The only commitment we made to each other that matters, is to continue to grow in love as family—that, and to keep telling stories about Dad. Doing so keeps him alive in our world. THAT’s ultimately the best way we honor Dad’s legacy. After all…

“…we are because he was.”

Live, Laugh, and Love

Always and Ubuntu,

~ Brothers Lenseigne #1

🙏🏼

Postscript:

Dad had a little money left that we kept in his bank account to insure we accounted for any incidentals after his estate was settled.

Dad, in his virtually infinite generosity, never was able to know he treated his three sons, posthumously, to a Mariner game the last week of the season last September 25 (stupid Astros!). Because we could, so we did—I still have Dad’s debit card. We had an amazing “must be in the front row,” over-all-too-quickly, game experience!

Oh, and Dad bought the garlic fries too. Because…

…yeah, tradition you know. That’s what you do when you’re at a ballgame now. You scarf garlic fries!