Remembering Byran G. "Barney" Shipley
Born: February 8, 1936
Red Oak, Iowa
Died: December 10, 2013
Long Beach, CA
I normally write about silly or funny things, but this is not one of those times.
My notes about my dad:
Born: February 8, 1936
Red Oak, Iowa
Died: December 10, 2013
Long Beach, CA
I normally write about silly or funny things, but this is not one of those times.
My notes about my dad:
Where do I start? I guess I should
start at the beginning - well, at the point where I come into the family. It was told to me that around 6 months of
age, I went into the hospital because I had pneumonia. When I came out, for some reason, if I woke
up in the night crying, I would only stop if my dad came and picked me up. And that's where it started.
I was told another story
that when I was about 2 years old or so he took me up on the roof of a house he
was working on. I'm sure that would
probably warrant a visit from the local authorities nowadays, but I was
fine.
I have many memories of
my dad from when I was young. I remember
playing in the back yard in the evening and then hearing his truck come down
the street. I would drop whatever I was
playing with and run around the corner to the house two doors down, which was
his childhood house and also where my grandpa and uncle lived. This is where he parked his truck. I remember doing this even when I was older -
there was just something about dad coming home.
Our weekends would
typically be like this: Saturday having
taco night and watching Hee Haw; Sundays
would be going to Bellflower Presbyterian Church, sidewalk sundaes (ice cream),
Wonderful World of Disney before we went to bed. Every once in a while we would eat out, which
meant Mexico City for Mom and Dad, and Tip Top hamburgers for the kids. I always ordered the "butter
burger."
Dad took us (boys) to
Indian Guides: He was full moon, Jay was
half moon and I was quarter moon. I
don't think I'm a quarter anything anymore.
I remember my last year of playing baseball, he had to carry me out on
the field for pictures, because I had hurt my foot and couldn't walk on
it. Later, our manager suffered a heart
attack and couldn't coach anymore, so Dad stepped up and took over the team.
Both Jay and I worked
with Dad at one time or another at Corrosion Technology. He always told me that he didn't ever want
any of us to consider working there full time until I had worked someone else
first. I thought it was something that
he wanted us to go earn our own way and create our own identity and establish
our own work ethic.
Later, he helped me work
on the cars I went through - I think I had 3 different cars by the time I was
19. My favorite (and I think his too)
was the `67 Chevelle which was probably set up too hot for my own good. That car is still in the family, by the way.
Back to the work
ethic. He worked a lot of hours, both
for Corrosion and on his own; whether it
was welding or doing side work with Norm Wilson. He almost couldn't relax unless he was doing
something. A familiar site at almost any
campout or large event we attended was his boots sticking out from under someone's
car, while he was underneath it fixing it for them.
When each of us kids
bought a house, Dad was there to help us fix it, remodel it, and even help to
build it from the ground up. He had a
"starter kit" of wires, nuts, bolts and tools that he thought no
garage should be without. When Julie and
I bought our first house, it had a non-permitted addition on it. He and I worked on that for the better part
of a year's worth of Saturdays to get it up to code and to mesh in with the
rest of the house.
He'd get to spend time
with Johna, who was around 2 at the time, and Chance when he was born. I still remember Johna had a little book of
stickers; they were little smiley
faces. She must have put four or five of
them on his hammer and tool belt which cracked him up. Later, he got to spend time with Chase
too. He was so proud of all of his kids
- he would tell me that all the time.
And he was really proud of his grandkids.
In between all of this,
we went on numerous trips, like Camp Oakes, Church Winter Camp, the occasional
Vegas run, racing with the Wilson's (was that 30 years ago?), and some Nebraska
trips. My favorite was the trip when we
went to Villisca, Iowa and Dad got to see his grandparents old house, the
fields where their share crop farm was and then the train sign for Villisca,
where the family boarded the train to come out to California in the 40's.
When he was diagnosed
with Parkinson's, things changed dramatically and quickly for him. An example of this is when one time he asked if
he could come by my house so we could work on the brakes of his truck. I said sure and he came over. In the past, my help would have probably
consisted of holding the light, pressing the brake pedal when he told me to,
and starting and shutting off the engine when he wanted to test them out. Not this time. The disease had fought him to the point where
he couldn't navigate himself under the truck.
That day was hard on him and me.
I think it struck both of us at the same time, that his days of being the
handyman were over. He turned to me,
sobbing. I hugged him and we both cried
on each other's shoulder. This man, my
dad, who had been so strong and in
charge for nearly his entire life, was now dependent on others to help
him. He hated it.
I'm not going to get
into specifics about how this disease hurt him over the last few years of his
life, because that may serve to darken his memory. I will tell you this: He kept his sense of humor. He would mess with Judi when she was
visiting, or say something smart to Jay or me, just to get a reaction.
The second to last time
I saw him, he was at the point of whispering when he talked. He had a respiratory infection and he had a
hard time pushing enough air through to make his voice loud. I told him how I had taken my boys to the
drag races and how much fun they had there.
I looked down and noticed he had started crying because he knew he
couldn't have gone with us. Before I left, I rubbed his shoulder,
kissed his head and said "I love you." He said something, but it was so faint that I
couldn't hear it. I told him so. He tried again, and again I couldn't hear
him. As I turned to leave, he pulled in
a big breath, then forced out a loud "I love you." That turned out to be the last thing I was ever
able to hear him say. I'll take that.
I love you and miss you Dad, and I always will. Your spirit will live on with us forever.
