Tag Archives: dad

Artifact: Resume of Lorne H. Olson (aka Dr. O)

When going through my late Mom’s archive of documents, ephemera, photos, letters etc, came across this beautifully executed resume for my late Dad. The two were divorced after this time and very different people in general.

This document shows the collaboration from my parents as my Mom’s fingerprints are all over the layout and design. I would thing that this is well before digital desktop publishing but the typefaces and precise layout make me wonder the workflow. Anyhow…

Notably the multi-page dossier took me back to a time when the family was intact, before the rather tumultuous times which followed: Dad is smiling, has a Ed.D (Doctorate of Education which begat his nickname “Dr. O”) to his credit, and was fresh out of a few notable university gigs at Michigan State University (Lansing) and University of British Columbia (Vancouver) after earning his degrees at University of Oregon (Eugene) and BYU (Provo).

I see out last family address and phone number and the names of my brothers which allow me to date-stamp to probably 1981-3.

As it goes, he soon switched careers going into real estate sales (as Mom had recently done) at which he was diligent and successful by most any measure except some emotional categories. He also taught real estate licensing classes relying on his education education.

He died of cancer in February 11, 2014 at age 73.

Dad’s Malibu Super Sport – Postcard #65

Dad's Malibu Super Sport – Postcard #65

When I was growing up, Dad often spoke of his Chevy Malibu SS – his favourite car.  So, while on his death bed, I asked him to tell the story. He speaks about acquiring the vehicle, the budget, the deal, the financing terms and oh, also about the car and how he enjoyed having a reliable and cool vehicle as a young married man creating a life, after growing up poor in Regina, Saskatchewan, then heading off to BYU in Utah. The story is interrupted by a nurse bringing lunch and news. He died 10 days later.

Indulge me by listening to: Dad’s Malibu Super Sport – Postcard #65 (78MB, 12:08, ,mp3, stereo)

Continue reading Dad’s Malibu Super Sport – Postcard #65

Notes about Jogging and Lions on Father’s Day

I tried to avoid paying attention to today
However signs are everywhere
In chalk and pen and bits
Unavoidable to even at the most diligent
So I’ve turned you black and white
So I don’t remember you as yellow

Read a story about a 13-year-old girl running marathons after training six days a week
Reminded me of you and I,

Jogging six days daily
Loops in Whalley neighbourhoods
We didn’t miss a day for years
Until you caught a cold
Around the school playing field in the rain and darkness
Which, despite the heat, feels like today

Before we knew you were sick
I took you to the Lions game
With a signed jersey
And seats that didn’t suck
Thought you’d like to know
They won on Friday

First Olson girls i ever met

These girls are related to me!!! First Olson girls ive ever known. Super lucky uncle. #love

By the way, they are pointing at a picture of their grandpa, my dad who passed away a year and a half ago.

This photo hangs at my favorite pierogi café on the burrard street and I encourage all of you to go to Maple leaf deli for ridiculous pierogies and cabbage rolls.

I took dad there on a great afternoon walk before we learned about the fcking cancer … The folks are so nice that I gave them a picture of my dad eating cabbage rolls and perogies with a big smile and a thumbs up which has a darn their window since.

#Grateful #DrO

Brother James says: Dave Olson – your girls are representing!

I replied: I’ve looked at this picture 20 times today and only cried about three times.

Death, You are No Stranger

Sometime, as a child
A great uncle, a small suit
Staring into a larger hole
Remembering the smells forever

Sometimes the adults
Something about a black-and-white film star
Or a relative from Norway,
an Auntie from Ireland

Decades wrings life from hard years
Rambling into scenarios of loss
Some who wander are lost
Or get lost, indifferent to finding
Living with absence of fear

Once the guns report
Bullets smash into metal
Skimming past your flesh
You are not in charge

Delicate as we are
Sympathies are few
One by one
They leave

Vague words confuse and deceive
Deceased, passed on, gone
Kindly refrain from mentioning
A celestial birthday

We have no knowledge
Nor choice
Speculation is exercise
For the nervous and ill-informed

Resist the temptation to grieve and bereave
To celebrate & console
Death knows only the past and the future
There is no present tense
Just pain, from time to time.

Hard enough just to eat, brief, sleep, live
They are gone
Perhaps they loved you
Perhaps you loved them
Do not wait to know
There is no answer
Only absence

What legacy do we dream?
Laborious hours of tasks for others
Spawning our own creations
Brought to life for joy and for pain

Or to be warm in the coldest winter
In a land of endless foggy summer
Where the sea reaches out beyond comprehension
and airplanes magically appear from over a dusty hill

Or you, painted jolly with tankard
Hung above the fireplace
Books that open
on a mantlepiece

Or interred in plywood and white
Or abandoned as ashes
Or fertilizing knowledge
Through scalpels and agreements

##

I hold his tiny yellow bald head
Listening to the wheezes
Stopped 3:23 AM
“You must wait one hour to declare”
I clean his chin, lay him down
and close his eyes and mouth

Life in this instant is instinct
And survival
and gently sparing others
From grief and uncertainty

The four stand in a line
On cue, rain falls
We stand til the end — holding on
and watch them shovel and sweep

Then, you might collapse,
you might imbibe, you might justify,
you might pray out
to an imaginary friend

##

One by one, They leave
I remember each
Not for nostalgia or grief
But admiration unspoken

The rough one in leather and muscle cars
and bad decisions, I eagerly complied
Tiny pills at curling rinks
Fights and VW escapes at gas stations

Shaggy haired blonde guitarist
Talked to me like I mattered
13 rosy-cheeked and eager
In green mac jacket like his

The artist, far from home
Often confused and disappeared
Often singing about lusty ladies
and mad experiments in super eight

Long haired city sailor
Young retired from coding
To activism and discretion
Dominos with friends, aneurysm, the end

Ole Gramps and his 67 countries
Nicotine turns to morphine
Me and Uncle Walt
Read him to sleep

Meanwhile in Alabama
The sudden sadness comes, followed by
Deceit, struggle, reprehensible actions
and a litany of notary stamps

Both of the hasheater’s parents
The kind one went to cancer
The blue one, the hard way
I only remember kindness of both

No stranger to hospitals
The doctors’ eyes show bewilderment — and fear
They confer, they draw, they poke
They cannot admit confusion

##

The tsunami warning rings Tuesdays at 10
Would you run? Trampled by the eager and prepared
Or stare the waves down
Twitching legs and bleeding heart

Floods and fires, cold wind and water
Prepare yourself they say with portions and schemes
Or will you choose the present
Leaving sympathies for the past and the future

Do you think you have a choice?
Are you so noble to sacrifice
Running to save the small or the old
With adrenaline and action in your arms
You cannot know
Until the moment of despair

Or will you wait and avoid?
Never consider
Then perhaps
You will be truly
Surprised.

Annotations About Dad, Dr. Lorne H. Olson

A wonderful day with Dad, perogies, cabbage rolls and a west end personal history walk.
A wonderful day with Dad, perogies, cabbage rolls and a west end personal history walk.

Here’s to my Dad, Dr. Lorne H. Olson.

Born Winnipeg, 1941, raised Regina with Air Cadet forays to Vancouver, earned Bachelors at BYU “just there for the ladies”, first job in Port Arthur, Ontario YMCA (now part of Thunder Bay), earned Masters and Doctorate degrees at Oregon, then onto professorships at Michigan State and then University British Columbia in 1974.

Was then when we settled on 154th St. in Surrey. It was a dirt road then with plenty of woods around, and I walked with my plaid lunchbox to Harold Bishop elementary where I met people I still know today.

Then, in the 80s he became a real estate “king” of growing Surrey. His humble, noble face on bus boards throughout Newton, Whalley, Guilford.

Only those of us who knew about the accident that almost killed him could notice and trace the scars from 40+ stitches in his face that went out of the windshield and back in.

Some of my brothers and I, by this time lived elsewhere, due to the vagaries of marriage and divorce and moving. Yet, twice a year we would load up on suitably unsafe vehicle to come up to bond and hang out with our dad. It’s not unusual for teenage boys and their dads to not understand each other well, but we tried.

My brothers made him proud by doing the tasks expected of his beliefs, but me, I just kept going and going and wound myself up in messes and circumstances and situations which seem to just confuse him rather than excite him. But I was living – and I was not in Surrey.

Dozens of countries later, sequestered in Olympia, Washington, my extensive life resume lacked a few key letters which were antagonizingly close after four colleges and well over a decade, Dad and dear bonus mom Myrna stepped up and help me finish off my hard won Bachelor of Arts degree in Inter-disciplinary studies. Really, I dream of earning a Master of Fine Arts and a doctorate one day so I can take over his Dr. O license plates (despite the fact that I no longer drive).

We were all caught by surprise, he ate healthy, hadn’t had a alcoholic drink in 60 years or 50 anyway, didn’t smoke, frequently jogged, made kale smoothies with hemp nut, took infrared saunas…

So many good things and then in six weeks of frustration, confusion, occasional tears, misgivings and even arguments, The end came. No fireworks no lights from above no singing angels or earnest disciples from eons past to carry him away.

Just me, at 3:23am noticing the space between breaths had become impossibly long.

The doctor – or rather the home care nurse – told me: I must wait for five minutes and then we must wait for an hour as civilians, before we call the funeral home.

The non-resuscitation agreement, the “die at home” agreement, the funeral home pickup agreement was arranged.

Dad, I moved you from your side “drainage position”, lay you on your back which was now skin bones and a tumour — wiped the brown vile bile toxins from your face and tried to close your mouth.

I called in my dear stepmom Myrna, brothers Dan, James and Andrew — into the room & we stood, quiet. We knew our lives would never be the same.

The service was put together quickly and filled the church to the overflow area. Me and three more brothers spoke, told stories that none of these people understood about this dear old man. His challenges his struggles, his adolescence, the stuff he liked to do when he was just being Lorne. We made an audience laugh but it was mostly for our own good.

Afterwords in a dizzying array of small sandwiches and cookies, I was inundated with faces I hadn’t seen for 30 years and people I’ve never met told how Dad had impacted their lives so much — I could barely stand up or breathe.

Then there was a gravesite. No one seemed in charge, James blessed the grave, we sang a song, the workers lower the box and tidied the dirt and I just held onto my brothers for dear dear life.

I see him every day, and most days I cry, and so many times I want to pick up the phone and say “Dad I’m having a hard time” — i’m grateful for the times we spent together in the months leading up to the terrible news.

He was the healthy one of us then and we rambled through west end neighbourhood to his old houses where he stayed with namesake Uncle Lorne during sunny Vancouver summers at English Bay, (Incidentally Uncle Lorne was the long time maître d’ at the noted venue The Cave and often took the stage to sing with the Ink Spots or Sammy Davis (Sr.) though he used his pseudonym of Lloyd Hamilton instead of Lorne Head so his cufflinks still matched), to the Ukrainian deli where we ate cabbage rolls the size of our forearms. His picture is in the window of the Mapleleaf Deli on Burrard if you’re curious.

He told me before he died he was proud of me — and for being the “Black sheep” — that’s alright for me.

Memories of Dr. O (on his birthday)

In Memory of Dr. O, though they cause me to tear up a wee bit, here are a few recent cherished memories.

Dad pulling us on bike in the Lynden Washington (Whatcom County) parade

1) Me, brother Bob & Dad at Uncle Lorne’s (Dad’s fave Uncle and a former Maitre’d at The Cave) at a cemetery somewhere in Burnaby. This photo captures one of my earliest childhood memories and my first experience with death.

2) The (almost magical) retro Lions jersey, numbered and signed by Willie Fleming (Dad’s fave all time player). He put it on most every time when we came over and never once complained about his ailments. Thanks to Brian W for the huge assist on this.

3) Several months before we learned he was ill, Dad and I did a West End walking tour to track down places he had stayed, lived etc. To our surprise, the house he lived in with Uncle, Aunt and Mom on Barclay Street had not been torn down as he’d heard, but is now the Barclay Bed & Breakfast (not Barclay House). We interrupted the none-to-pleased private event and then lurked around the back for some photos and memories.

Now living in the West End, i see the places of my Dad’s youth, spent at air cadet camp and staying on with Uncle Lorne & Aunt Jan … cooling out at English Bay, going to Lions games at Empire, and learning how to be a man as his Father died when Dad was just 11.

4) Parade pic – either in Lynden Washington with our Bachman cousins or in Sapperton where my Uncle Mark worked at Cap’s and we’d always roll out crazy bikes like belly floppers, penny farthings and so on for parades. Here my Dad is dressed as a French-Canadian Couers du Bois (huge points for uniqueness and nuance). {above}

5) Dad exited this world with me, dear Myrna & other my bada$$ brothers tending to him though he was a wee baby. I was just returning the favour seen in this pic with bro Bob.

My plan to remember Dad today: take a big swim from Dad as he loved to be in the warm ocean or a YMCA pool.

Situation regarding dying Dad, various Brothers, Vegas and a train and airplane (2014)

Jan. 7 2014

Optimism is what I misplaced. Prob in a drawer with Magic & Swagger. In process of finding all of these powerful tidbits #healing #Grateful

Jan. 7 2014

Prepping for a north-bound train trip from country hideout to city tower love > then soon thereafter > LAX & Vegas via road #family #concern

Jan. 7, 2014

I resolve to face all challenges and adversities calmly, cheerfully – and with a bowl of oatmeal – as demonstrated in this post-apocolyptic situation in which i clearly saved the world and regrew the forests, all while looking sharp in my the plaid and specs.

Resentment? Bah! Suffering? Happens! Hugs? Still free!

As Lion Claw told me, “If you worry, it’s a problem. If you don’t worry, it’s a problem. So stop worrying and start living!”

The next few days will require me being soft and open to live, understanding other people’s points of view and motivations and moving peacefully (and restfully) through the stream and let the current of the story pull me along.

Jan. 9 2014

Am bound by aeroplane to Los Angeles to meet up with brother number one.

Together we will drive to Las Vegas to meet our other brothers and father for some family discussions of importance.

Brother’s wife has prepared pumpkin soup, Japanese-style, for when I arrive.

In 1992, when I first arrived in Japan, my brother fed me the same kind of pumpkin soup (though I’m sure not as good as this evenings version) and I wrote a haiku about that first night in Japan.

The poem is painted on rice paper in my mix of Eastern and Western art sensibilities.

The poem is especially appropriate for me as I need to feel the texture bottom of life right now.

Messages to future self.

Jan. 9 2014:

From Kris Krug:

Got my ole sick friend dropped off at the airport to go take care of his sick dad. When it rains it muthafuckin pours. Good luck out there @uncleweed! *hug*

Moments later >>

Jan. 9 2014:

And just when I thought life couldn’t get any weirder, I’m on the plane just about to taxi and just got some more strange, news that affects me greatly, yet I have no ability to control.

When the going gets weird, the weird go pro.

It’s weird.

##

Updated (in retrospect) Jan. 9, 2018

This dispatch came up in the flashback… To be clear, what happened was:

My dad had told us a couple weeks before that he had terminal cancer – he wanted to have one last visit with all five of his sons at once (keep in mind, we all live all over the place) in Vegas, which he love despite not gambling, drinking, smoking, strippers etc. -something about the “dry heat.”

Also, brother Andrew with moving into his own place so I had to dual purpose of giving him a bit of celebration and moving help (Nina include it with the help).

At this point, I was in pretty deep with my own illness but booked a ticket to Los Angeles where I would plan to meet up with older brother Bob Olson and drive to Vegas for the rendezvous. Kris Krüg dropped me off at the airport in the rain, got my wheelchair, through security blah blah blah. Keep in mind airplanes and travel in general is pretty tough for this guy but determined to do what my dad wanted.

Just as the airplane cost, announcements about buckling up and all that, and I reach down to turn off my phone to receive a call from step mom said dad was back in the hospital and unable to make the trip.

At that point, I had the choice of either making a big commotion and asking/demanding to be let off the plane and then likely being arrested or barred from flying for an indefinite period, or hunkering-in and do the trip. “You buy the ticket, you take the ride“ the good doctor said.

Of course, I did the trip, and let’s just say it was challenging. Sure all the brothers showed up but there was no place to stay as the timeshare condo had been canceled when dad was unable to go #EyeRoll so we were scattered around various makeshift hotel rooms, couches and the like.

We went out for a night, and tried to smile through it but the vibe just wasn’t right (for me anyway but maybe for others).

We (or I) were confused about what was going on, what comes after a parent dies and the like…

Note the Las Vegas trip is the worst possible environment for a guy in my condition who deals with massive sensory overload from even mildly stimulating environment. Let’s just say I overcompensated.

Brother Bob bugged out towards home the next day, Dan & James at some point after helping Andrew move into his new house… details, although completely unnecessary, are fuzzy but I just remember laying on the little grassy field in front of it with my head spinning with ridiculous pain and anxiety.

My return ticket wasn’t for several days later so I holed up in the Excalibur hotel with black out curtains drawn and fogged out on the prescription meds I was taking then.

Then got shelter at Cory DeMille’s house Where he kept an eye on me, played our favorite all time records then somehow I was at the airport and back to Vancouver but honestly I have no recollection of this part.

Dad would die a month later, 3:30 AM while I held his hand.

Anyhow,.. Didn’t mean to be cryptic with this announcement, but it was realtime on the airplane as I was wondering what the fck to do. Thank you for all your support and kind comments several years ago.

Still, dvo

##

Note to above:

Locating photos i also recall a few more things which are of course obvious but a little foggy:

  • we took a “dress-up as cowboys” photo which Bob paid for a gifted to each parent – Dad’s was displayed at his funeral

  • we went to Hoftbrau Haus and tried to have fun with sausages

  • we went to fancy Paris patio restaurant where Anders worked at the time – they treated us well and we ate much nice food

  • importantly, i purchased lederhosen and was very pleased with this whole idea, immediately changing into the fine garment and parading around as is my manner

  • Oh, and en route in LA where Bob was attending UCLA, i stopped by the library where there was a special exhibit about Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Have you met my Dad? #dossier

Have you met my Dad? Here’s a dossier:

Dr Lorne Harold Olson, my Dad Dec. 1 1941- Feb 11 2014, captured with a fisheye during Festivus, a few years back.

He is Lorne Harold Olson, born in Winnipeg, raised in hardscrabble North-end of Regina.

Earned Ed.D doctorate from Univ of Oregon after undergrad at BYU on scholarship, enticed by the fantastic dude to lady ratio . Rolled to Provo from Canada in a 1966(?) Malibu Super Sport he still raves about.

After teaching at Michigan State when I was but 2-3 years old, he moved us west where he taught at UBC in Recreation & Leisure faculty (now defunct) before becoming a real estate czar – accolades noted on bus boards throughout Surrey.

He inspires many with his sincere, careful leadership style. He holds secrets and helps in gentle, silent ways, and shows particular skill in sorting out complex transactions and negotiating favorable arrangements (skills I’ve relied on especially recently).

He’s love of CFL football flourished in the West End during his youth-time visits to his namesake Uncle Lorne while at Air Cadet camps in the 1960s. Indeed, he earned a pilot’s license before a license to drive a car.

We recently strolled the West End capturing reminisces and remarking on familiar dreams- plus we feasted on perogies & cabbage rolls in the ‘hood (traditional Olson clan menu).

You might have met Pops at Uncle Weed 40 or elsewhere at my gigs, and hopefully captured a bit of his magic – and, if you look closely, noted the characteristics we share (not hair).

Love you Dad (& oh guess I was in Jamaica for your birthday so happy 72 )

PS retro Lions sweater is signed by Lion legend (& Dad’s fave player) Willie Fleming (with huge thanks to the renegades of The Lions Den).

For the record, written aboard a Greyhound between Chilliwack & Abbotsford with a sketchy group of riders.