Goodbye, Bellingham

I spent almost 3 weeks in Bellingham and dare I say I had fun? I know I was there for a funeral, which isn't supposed to be "fun" but the reality is that hanging out with family IS fun and I refuse to feel guilty about it. I suppose there are families in which spending 3 weeks together at a stressful time like a funeral would be excrutiatingly uncomfortable, full of arguments and disagreements. Thank heavens my family isn't one of those.

At one point my younger brother gently accused my mom and me of actually having TOO much fun, and I had to point out that we'd already cried 3 times that day: We cried over a photo of my dad sitting in his wheelchair on one of his final days. He looked so frail, slightly slumped down, with his head cocked to one side, and a blanked wrapped around him. He was looking out the window at the bright white snowy yard and it seemed as if he was going towards the light. That photo was a real tearjerker. We also cried as she described going in to say goodbye to him one last time before they came to pick up the body. And we cried with the minister who had come over to help plan the service. So we did our share of crying.

But we also laughed and howled and hooted and snorted and had a great time together. We laughed when my two little nieces went in to say goodbye to Grandpa about 8 hours after he'd died, and one told her sister, "Come on in! He doesn't smell as bad any more!" We laughed when cat allergies caused one of my eyes to get puffy and red. Then the eyedrops I put in caused it to dilate so much I looked like I was possessed because one pupil was HUGE and one was normal (it was freaking everybody out). Everybody nearly busted their guts laughing when my #2 son serenaded us on his guitar with a performance of Buenos Tardes Amigo, complete with cat mask and fake Mexican accent. It was a highlight for all the little cousins, who couldn't stop singing that song for days afterwards. Thanks a lot, El Gato.

Yes, it was fun being in Bellingham for 3 weeks for my dad's funeral. Good times.

Memorial booklet

Paul Roley 1927-2007



baby Paul held by his father Owen in Kansas City in 1927. This is the first photograph of Paul.







Paul in 2nd grade

“In my day the average boy was a walking arsenal, armed with a pea-shooter, sling shot, and other tools of aggression. My favorite weapon for everyday combat was the rubber gun, which was fashioned out of wood and shot stout rubber bands made from an old inner tube. It could inflict a memorable sting on its victim but was not otherwise dangerous.”
7/5/90




Paul (left) was a drill sergeant in the Marines

“There also were a few who always managed to be in forefront of the action. The most conspicuous of these was Larry Treff, a skinny Jewish kid from the Bronx in New York, who four days after his 20th birthday was made a platoon sergeant and given charge of 40 men. “ 6/3/94 (referring to the book Paul compiled, G Company’s War )


Paul & Joan’s wedding 1955

“I consider my greatest good fortune in life that I married into the Dorsey family: I acquired at once a legendary mother-in-law, an esteemed father-in-law, and an ideal wife for these 41 years.”
2/6/97









in the tub with Scott and Megan













1958, three kids later:
Scott, Megan, & baby Ross

“For instance, Real Fathers don’t mind changing diapers, especially if it’s out in the front yard where they can hose the kid down afterwards. Real Fathers don’t mind giving the kids a bath, either, though their preference might be running them through a car wash. Real Fathers don’t want an expensive present for Father’s Day, but they sure would like to know they are appreciated. For you see, a Real Father really does care.” 6/18/87






family portrait 1962












camping in Wisconsin 1964










Paul began his career as a Soviet history professor, Boulder, Colorado 1965










the family moved to Bellingham in 1967

“I’ve long believed that our society would be in better shape if all the children and grandchildren of today had an old home place to return to. … This is the first and only house I’ve ever owned; I bought it when I was 40. Decades later, this red house is still home to our three grown children and a fixed point of reference for our grandchildren.” 4/4/91




family portrait 1968













Paul enjoyed working in his shop





“So who will emerge to provide the leadership this county so badly needs? I don't know, and for the first time in my life I am pessimistic about the American future. About the only comfort we can take is in the observations that "the good Lord looks after fools, drunkards, and the United States of America." 4/2/92

with Sen. Henry Jackson 1970

“Who would be so fair and honest in his judgments, so respected by the American people, to qualify for the position of "commissioner of politics"? The only possible candidate is, of course, Forest Gump, who understands that politics is like a box of chocolates--the choices you make do not always turn out to be what you expected.” 4/6/95






Paul looking at a painting of
Lenin looking at a painting
(Moscow, 1982)










He was extremely proud when his youngest son Ross entered the Air Force Academy 1976











dancing to Dixieland jazz













Paul was a voracious reader. Besides stacks of books and numerous magazines, he read 3 newspapers every morning.








at Megan’s wedding 1978












with Rev. Vince Crane 1979















pulling Austin, his first grandchild, on a sled 1983













kissing Rachel 1995

“Rachel Roley seems destined to be president someday – whether by popular election or by armed coup remains to be seen. Either is conceivable.” 6/1/95










with granddaughter Ruby 1993

“I have started drawing Social Security. While priding ourselves on our self-reliance and denouncing the welfare state, we Golden Oldies are the original Gimme Gang, particularly when it comes to that welfare system we call Social Security. Seldom do we consider that in about 3 or 4 years on average we will get back everything we and our employers paid into the system. After that we will be saying, in effect, "Just charge it to the kids." 9/5/92


Is he sleeping or reading to Ben?

“We senior citizens have to face the awful truth that we are over the hill intellectually as well as physically. You become like an aging pitcher who has lost his fast ball and has to rely on guile and experience to fake his way through. Still, that will fool the free-swinging kids every time.” 6/6/91








teaching Austin how to tie a tie 1998














with Ross’s family in Victoria 2005









at his 70th birthday party 1997

“I recently ran into the observation that since roughly World War I, there has been a tendency for people to be judged on personality rather than character. If this true, it explains much of what has happened to American society in the past 30 years.” 7/6/95





all men: Roleys and Davidsons








with Scott’s girls

“I have come up with a universal business salutation, a dignified term that is deceptively simple but brilliant in conception: ‘Dear Simms.’ This acronym combines into one word exactly what one is trying to convey: ‘Dear Sir, Madame or Miss.’ Will future social historians recognize the universal salutation for what it is, a giant step toward peace on earth, and reward its modest inventor (me) with the immortality of remembrance?” 11/4/93


with Col. Ross Roley

“I think the Yankee Doodle spirit is still alive and well across the broad face of the republic wherever work-a-day Americans go about the business of making a life for themselves and their children. And I think it will be beating in the hearts of most of us this Fourth of July.” 7/4/91



at Joan & Paul’s 50th anniversary 2005

“There was nothing special about my father-in-law except his innate decency and his deep attachment to the land. He married the finest woman I have ever known (though her daughter Joan comes close), raised a family, treasured the past and sacrificed for the future, and had hundreds of friends who mourned his passing. If that’s not success, then our priorities are badly distorted.” 9/2/87


“One thing seven decades of living has taught me is that there are no ultimate answers here on Earth, and I'm at the point where I yearn for some answers. I want to know if there is a heaven and if it is as beautiful as a 75-degree summer day here in Bellingham. I want to know how and why the universe was formed, and the full story of the descent of man, and if Shakespeare really wrote the plays attributed to him.” 6/18/99





Scott, Megan, Ross, Paul, Joan, and Duffy 2001

“Perhaps it would be a fitting epitaph to note on my tombstone, ‘He let the neighborhood kids play in his side yard.’ It’s probably the most important social contribution I’ve made in this life.” 9/1/94






looking at the snow out the window the month before he died



This is the last photograph of Paul.

Memorial speech

This eulogy was delivered by Megan Davidson for her father, Paul Roley:

"Dad insisted that we all tell the truth at his memorial service. Above all else, intellectual honesty was his most cherished value.

My dad could be a difficult man. But as you can see in this gathering today, he had many loyal friends who respected his work ethic and his relentless pursuit of truth. He often arrived at a different conclusion than some of us, but he would be prepared to defend his position with published analyses from experts and intellectuals. He had a very low threshold for opinions expressed in ignorance. He didn’t mind a vigorous debate of the issues, so long as you could back up your argument with facts.

Listen again to those terms: relentless … defend … low threshold … vigorous debate … argument. It’s no wonder Dad and I had so many differences amid that kind of environment, BUT we also have many traits and values in common that I treasure and I know they were a gift from him:

1. Family: My dad did not come from a stable family environment, and he desperately wanted to be part of an American dream family not unlike a Norman Rockwell painting. If you look around you today, you will see that largely, he succeeded: a loving wife of 51 years, three successful children, and ten cherished grandchildren to carry on his legacy. His notion of the ideal family mainly came from my mother’s family – good, hardworking folk from Illinois who have farmed the same land for 8 generations. Although he did not till the earth like them, Dad sowed his seeds of knowledge in the minds of his offspring and his students. Some of those seeds germinated and matured to bear sizeable fruit. Dad can be forgiven for his frustration that much of the fruit rolled so far from the tree.

As for me, I stayed in Bellingham for 20 years and raised my kids here, and we even lived next door to my mom and dad for 15 of those years. Living in close proximity to family can definitely have its drawbacks, but I wouldn’t trade those years for the world. My boys were so fortunate to grow up with Grandma and Grandpa (who they called G-ma & G-pa) as part of their daily lives. The family bonds they developed in their early years led to their dedication during Grandpa’s final years and months, when Austin and Nolan came over unfailingly to transfer him into the wheelchair, or to watch over him so Grandma could attend church, or to take out the garbage on Wednesday nights. Grandpa can be proud of cultivating the close, ideal family unit that he always craved, for these grandsons are living proof of his having achieved that goal. Even more significantly, my older brother Scott and his family have recently relocated to Bellingham after 25 years away to help take care of Dad in his final months, and to be near Mom. Understandably, she is tickled to have a new set of grandkids who will be raised here among extended family. Dad, thank you for placing such a high value on family.

2. Politics: Dad introduced me to politics when I was about 10. As kids, we used to go doorbelling, stuff envelopes, and work at Democratic headquarters. My brother and I even served as pages in Olympia, and I went on to teach government and constitution to 8th graders. I certainly got my love of politics from him. Some of you may not be aware of this, but Dad used to be a loyal Democrat and he raised us to be liberal Democrats too. It was only later that he became a Conservative Republican. He always said that I, too, would “see the light” some day and become a Republican when I got older and wiser. With our differing political views, we had plenty to disagree about over the last 25 years, but I am enormously thankful that he introduced me to politics. He showed me what it was like to believe passionately in something, and to work actively to make it happen. Thanks, Dad. That lesson was priceless.

3. Intellect: Dad LOVED to learn new things. He loved to read and he was always soaking up new information, which he couldn’t wait to pass on to others. How many of you ever received from him a photocopy of an article that he wanted you to read? Well, I received plenty over the years. One of my strongest memories will be of him opening his briefcase and pulling out articles. Dad’s appetite for intellectual stimulation was boundless. As a result, he was never boring. He didn’t have much patience for people who weren’t interested in learning, however. He used to grumble about his history students who didn’t know the 50 states. He’d tell them, “I’ve got a 5-year-old grandson who knows all 50 states and so should you!” I am forever grateful that he passed on his insatiable intellectual curiosity to me and my brothers and to the grandkids.

Yes, Dad knew he wasn’t a saint. We all knew who the saint was in our family and she’s sitting right there. The remarkable thing was that in spite of his faults, Dad still had enough endearing qualities that we are all here today to pay tribute to him. Well done, Dad."

The memorial service

All the relatives have arrived.
All the speeches have been written.
All my boys are dressed up in their spiffiest suits.
It's the day of the memorial service for my dad.
My dad wrote his own obituary (see www.paulroley.blogspot.com) which was published in the local newspaper, and there was an even longer article about his death in the university newspaper, since he'd been a professor there for 27 years.

I've already had my first glitch of the day:
Curt and I were staying at a hotel for 2 nights because Mom's house was full with other visitors, and on the counter of the hotel bathroom were two little bottles. Shampoo and conditioner, right? So I used the shampoo to wash my hair. The shampoo seemed awfully thick so I looked at the label, but I didn't have my glasses on in the shower (of course), and the print was really teeny tiny (you really have no idea how microscopic it was), and the light was poor behind the shower curtain, so I couldn't read what the bottle said. I handed the bottle to Curt who went to get his glasses and declared that the bottle was hand lotion. I was washing my hair with a big blob of hand lotion. Great. So then I had to wash my hair 3 or 4 more times with real shampoo which was in a dispenser mounted on the wall. (Who looks on the wall for shampoo? Honestly.) I think I got most of the hand lotion out, but it still seemed a little greasy. Let's call it silky. I hope I look OK.

I've written a speech about my dad which was no easy task. My dad and I didn't always get along and everyone knew it. Furthermore, my dad had told us well before he died that he didn't want anyone to tell lies at his service or to idealize him. He was a bit of a curmudgeon and he knew it. (He rather liked that label.) Somehow I had to find enough good things to say, without dwelling on the bad things. Luckily, I had spent the last 7 days digging through all the old photo albums. My mom wanted me to make a color booklet about him to distribute at the memorial service. I had been selecting photos and excerpts from his columns and creating a lovely 10-page booklet. (see my blog entry called "Memorial booklet") The important thing about digging though all the old photos was that I saw pictures that enabled me to see him in a different light. I saw a photo of him giving me a bath when I was a baby. I never imagined he was the type of father to do that! I saw a photo of him pulling Austin at age 3 on a sled. I don't remember this ever happening, but I guess it did. The most astonishing photo was one of him in his seventies dressed as a clown! My dad took himself very seriously, and was not the type to dress silly for any occasion. I was beginning to realize that there were things about him that I didn't know. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy after all. And on that note, I was able to write my speech. (see my blog entry called "Memorial speech")

Delivering my speech was another matter. It was a given that I would be concentrating on trying not to cry. However, I also knew I'd be nervous, and I was desperately trying not to wet my pants! No matter how many times I went potty before the service, it still felt like I had a few more gallons in me demanding to escape. My older brother Scott spoke first and started crying soon into his first paragraph, which got my #1 son crying. When I saw my #3 and #4 sons reach out to console their sobbing eldest brother, I lost it too. So much for trying not to cry. Fortunately, I was armed with a large wad of tissues.

I was next. I pulled out Dad's briefcase, opened it, and removed my speech. Dad's briefcase went everywhere with him, even on vacation. It was usually full of newspaper articles he had photocopied that he wanted you to read, in an attempt to cure you of whatever misguided beliefs you had - in my case: liberalism. Everyone at the service had received articles from him at least once over the years. It was one of his trademarks. I read my eulogy. I didn't cry; just a little choked up. And I didn't wet my pants. Hooray!


My younger brother went next. He's a colonel in the Air Force and was dressed impressively in his uniform. Dad would've liked that. He got a little teary during his speech, too. And then he made everyone cry when he presented a flag to my mom that had flown over the USS Arizona in my dad's honor. Dad would've loved that. We were all blubbering by that time.



Three of the grandchildren also spoke, including my #4 son who represented the grandsons who had grown up next door to Grandpa. My #3 son had accompanied the soloist on viola earlier in the service, and he also had created a slide show of old pictures of Grandpa that flashed on the screen with poignant music in the background. So we all got to cry one more time. It was nice.

My mom wrote a short thank you on the printed program which ended like this:
"We all know how strong and stubborn he was, which leads me to suspect that before beginning his new journey, he's hanging around to see and hear us today. So Paul, we'll be fine; be on your way; you loved to travel and I'll catch up. Joan."

Prodigal Daughter, Ross Cookies

I like my new role as The Prodigal Daughter who comes home from far away once a year and whose presence is something special. This is mostly due to the fact that I spent 20 years being the The-One-Who-Lives-Next-Door-And-Her-Presence-Is-Nothing-Extraordinary Daughter. Meanwhile, my two brothers would swoop in for their annual visit, and in anticipation my mom would spend weeks preparing the house for their arrival: weeding, dusting, waxing, cooking, and slowly crossing things off her to-do lists. You'd think the Queen was going to be gracing us with her presence with all the cleaning she did. I'm surprised she never organized parades and banners for their visits, too.

By far, the most important preparation was making "Ross Cookies" named after my younger brother because she always made them for his visits, and then she'd invariably try to dissuade the rest of us from eating them because they were for Ross. Hrmph. I lived there year round and she never made special cookies for me, let alone named any after me.

This year, as everyone began to fly home for Dad's funeral, she tried to rename Ross Cookies to "Comfort Cookies." She knew that having Ross Cookies named after our sibling always made Scott and me feel bad so she was trying to be more inclusive. Politically Correct. Diversity and all. But you can't fool us. Those were still Ross Cookies. (Insert sibling rivalry here.)

Mom says she actually calls them Funeral Cookies (when Ross isn't around) because whenever her women's group was in charge of providing refreshments for a funeral at church, she'd make Ross Cookies/Funeral Cookies. Well, Ross was coming home AND there was a funeral coming up, so she had 2 excellent reasons to make them.

What are Ross Cookies, you might ask? The recipe is nothing exceptional; it's just that they're a family tradition. They're a mixture of corn syrup, peanut butter, and Special K cereal, topped with chocolate, and cut into bars. Their real name is Special K Bars, evidently.

I'm quite sure these cookies are thousands of calories each, so it was probably a good thing that my mom tried to regulate my consumption. Over the years, when she made a batch before Ross's arrival, she'd try to hide them in the freezer, but I could always find them. And I soon discovered that if you microwave them for exactly 8 seconds, they don't break your teeth like they do if you try to eat them frozen.

I knew I had finally achieved the honored status of Prodigal Daughter when Mom told me she had made a batch for MY arrival this time! Predictably, the cookies only lasted about 24 hours. In my defense, there were 6-10 people in the house so you can't blame it all on me. Then she made another batch. By this time, I could feel them attaching themselves directly to my thighs so I asked her to postpone further production. My waistline and I couldn't afford to eat excessive amounts of Ross Cookies for breakfast (yes, breakfast), lunch, and dinner for the next 14 days. Understandably, she simply HAD to make one more batch for Ross's arrival. She "hid" them in the freezer, in hopes that it would at least slow me down a bit. Once Ross arrived, the cookies made their grand entrance. Mmmm. I simply HAD to make sure I got my fair share - a share worthy of a Prodigal Daughter. They sure are good. But they are still called Ross Cookies.

My areas of expertise: organizing, parenting

I'm an organizer from way back.
So one of the first things I did was create a spreadsheet that showed which people would be at the house on which nights. Over the next few weeks, there would be boys coming and going, Scott and Diana making one last trip back to Missouri, Curt arriving from NZ, my younger brother and his family arriving from Hawaii, and 4 relatives arriving from Illinois. Some people would be staying at a hotel, some would be at the house, and some live in town but would be here for meals. My head hurt just trying to keep track of who needed to be picked up or dropped off at the Seattle or Bellingham airports ... not to mention there was a limited number of cars available to drive in the snowy conditions. See what I mean? I couldn't keep it all straight without having it laid out in a nice grid. Everyone made fun of my beautiful spreadsheet, but they sure used it a lot! Apparently my fondness of spreadsheets had even been a topic of conversation at Christmas time, especially the detailed travel itinerary I made for our 6 week trip to Europe in 1995 with the boys.

I also got to practice my parenting skills on Scott's two girls when he and Diana were out of town. Let's face it, I've raised 4 boys and I've taught middle school, so two girls for five days is no sweat. Add Grandma's experience to the equation and we're an unbeatable duo. In the morning, I'd ask the younger one if she'd brushed her teeth yet. She'd answer yes. About ten minutes later, I'd hear Grandma asking if she'd brushed her teeth yet. She's say YES. The poor thing. We really tag-teamed them. Just like the good ol' days when my own boys were littler, I was driving the girls to swim practice and to school. (The girls go to the same school I attended, and the same school all four of my boys attended. In fact, the older daughter has the same extraordinay teacher that #4 son had ten years ago) I was doing such a good job parenting that when Grandma told the younger one that her parents were expected back the following day, she replied, "Oh good. Only one more day with Aunt Megan as my mom." Which I consider a compliment.

The Roley homestead

My mom grew up on a farm in Illinois where generation after generation of her family have lived since 1835. In fact, there are still 4 generations of Dorseys living and farming the same land today. Growing up 1500 miles away, my brothers and I looked forward to the annual summer vacation "to the farm" which usually included a big softball game in the yard with all the cousins, homemade ice cream, and catching fireflies after dark. The farmhouse itself looked like it came straight out of a commercial for lemonade with its long white columns surrounded by fields of tall corn.

My dad, on the other hand, grew up in what these days we'd call a dysfunctional family consisting of his parents' repeated brushes with the law, moonshine, divorce, and constant moving about from sub-standard house to house, and from school to school. He certainly didn't have a majestic white farmhouse to call "home."

Therefore, when he bought his first house, a modest one in Bellingham, at the age of 40, he desired to create a stable homestead of his own. It worked. He turned the 3-bedroom house into a 6-bedroom house, built a deck, and tended the huge yard. Even after my brothers and I grew up and moved out, my parents stubbornly held onto the house "so you'll have somewhere to come home to." I believe I was the most vocal one opposed to them EVER selling the house. It seemed a little silly for two retired people to live all alone in a 6-bedroom house with a gigantic yard, but it was more than just a house. It represented the beginning of his own dynasty.

When Curt and I bought the house next door, we further advanced the notion of a family compound. Every summer, when my brothers' families came home to visit, we'd have mass picnics on the deck, and play cards until all hours of the night. The grandkids would run back and forth from our house to Grandma's house. There would be Slip-n-Slide set up on the side yard on hot days, and a huge game of kick the can after dinner. During all this, Grandpa was in his element, admiring the family unit he'd established. Ironically, he didn't actually like the reality of having all the grandkids around, screaming and making racket. It was too much stimulation for him. But he adored the idea that they all came home to the family homestead every summer.

When Curt and I sold our house next door and moved first to Portland and then to New Zealand, we put a serious dent in his dream of a family compound. But they still had the red house for people to come home to.

When Dad had a serious stroke 6 months before his death, we all wondered what to do about the house. Should Mom sell it? Were we too attached to it to ever sell it?

My older brother Scott came to the rescue. He and his wife were tired of their current lifestyle and wanted to move back to Bellingham to raise their kids. Eventually it came to pass that they would move into the house with my mom, help her with my dad's final days, and eventually take care of her when the time comes. This way she gets to stay in the house. The house stays in the family. There will still be a place for us "to come home to." Finally, most widows would come home after the funeral to a lonely, empty house but instead, she's got a lively, loving family to keep her young. She's pretty lucky.

Naturally, there are problems associated with Scott's family moving in. Blending two households as they've done is a monumental task of constant give and take, and he and his wife Diana have been consistently sensitive to my mom's feelings. They've been working out whose dishes to use and which cupboards to put them in, etc. They have 3 blenders, 2 coffee makers, 2 can openers, etc. And that's just the kitchen! There's also too many couches, 2 dining room tables, and 2 washing machines. It's a nightmare. But I have no doubt that they will work it all out to everyone's satisfaction. Diana's going to be wonderful to have in the house with my mom. They get along well (who doesn't get along with my mom?!?), and Diana is especially aware that Mom has certain places where things go and certain ways of doing things. They're both pretty amazing ladies. They'll be good for each other.

On a different level, my other brother and I have to get used to the idea of going "home" to the red house, which is now Scott's house instead of Grandma's house. It's a subtle difference, but one that takes some adjustment. That's one reason why I was so happy to be able to stay for 3 weeks after Dad died. It helped me start to feel like Scott's house was still home.

I also have to resign myself to Scott and Diana being the ones who will take care of my mom. Since I was the one who stayed in the same town and lived next door, I'd always assumed I'd get the privilege of taking care of my mom in her later years. Plus I was the only daughter. And we were best friends. It just seemed natural that I would take care of her. Now it looks like Scott will be taking care of her and I'm a little sad about that. Of course, I'm also the one who moved halfway across the world, so I pretty much lost my position as primary caretaker then. It's my own fault. But I'm still sad that I won't get to be with my mommy. : (

What does Mom think of all this? She's thrilled to have Scott's family there. She is also bemused at how we are "fighting" over who gets to take care of her. She's only 72 and in perfect health, so she doesn't need anyone to take care of her at the moment! My dad would not be at all surprised to see how devoted we are to my dear sweet mother. But he might be a little surprised - and very pleased - to see three generations of the family living there. I think the red house has truly earned the name homestead now.