A Letter From My Father

My new book, "A Letter From My Father" has been over 45 years in the making.

Writing a book has been a dream of mine since I was a kid. It became a greater desire when I had a creative writing class for summer school in my senior year of high school in 1977.

I loved reading Ernest Hemingway's short stories of Nick Lyons fly fishing for trout in Big Two-Hearted River. My writing teacher had a wonderful gift of seeing the potential in each of her students and carefully encouraging it out of us.

While it has been my life-long dream to write a book someday, I didn't think it would ever actually happen. It just seemed too far out of reach. I think it's that nagging voice from the past that tries to tell you, "You'll never be good enough."

When God led me to start this little blog in 2010 He began to help me find my voice. And though it's evident I'm not an English major, I love to pour my heart for God out in my writing, such as it is.

Several of my friends encouraged me over the years to write a book, even to possibly compile this blog into some sort of a book. I will be eternally grateful to all of you for all of your prayers, patience and encouragement along the way.

My own father wrote me a vignette of personal letters, the last of which was much the inspiration for writing my book.

My passion and desire for the book is that many will come to know God as their Everlasting Father; personally and intimately. I believe God did not give us His Word just so that we can 'know the Bible cover to cover'.

He gave us the Bible so that we can know Him.

Anyway, please read the book for yourself. I'd love to hear your comments and reviews.

Please note; I am in no way lessening the importance of studying the Scriptures. On the contrary, I believe it is exponentially more important to study God's Word as His letter to us, and not as one would study a college textbook. His Letter to us is alive. It's personal. It's intimate. It's powerful. It's prophetic. It's eternal.

My early years of trying to study the Bible like I did a text book never really brought me much closer to a closer relationship with God.

The book is available in paperback on Amazon.com. And in e-book edition in the Kindle Store.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/173437120X/ref=sr_1_6?keywords=a+letter+from+my+father&qid=1581637434&s=books&sr=1-6


To God the Father be all glory!


—God is Love and Love Never Fails.

The Brounion

 

Faulkner Boys "Brounion" 2019

This long awaited reunion—The Brounion—almost didn't happen.

But I'm so thankful it did. 

It started with a deep longing just to be together with all of my brothers again. I don't think we've all been together in the same place like this for maybe twenty years. It's hard to say for sure. 

Bordering on the miraculous, the event that brought us all together began with a text.

One year earlier my friend Craig and I had gone on a camping trip, June, 2018. For me it was a pilgrimage of sorts back to my family's treasured camping spot and favorite little river, high in the lonely Oregon desert. Keepemquiet Creek, or simply the Creek is what it shall always be referred to online.

The last time I had been to the Creek prior to last summer was 45 years ago in 1973. My Dad had taken me on a special camping and fishing trip to the Creek.

 Dad at the Creek, June, 1973

But this was our Faulkner family camping place. We spent many weekends here while we lived in Klamath Falls, in the early 1970's. The sights and smells and memories are forever etched into my heart and mind. This place is rooted in my soul and the times spent with family are precious to me.

The trip my friend and I took here in 2018 was equally memorable.

Most of the time the old saying applies, "You can never go back." But that saying proved to be false in 2018. 

The Creek was just as I remembered it. Pristine and almost completely unspoiled. We saw only a handful of people. The trout were small and few. But the smell of juniper and lodgepole pine trees were just as I'd left them 45 years ago. The sparkle and sound of the creek next to our camp was just as calming and magical as ever. The soothing sounds of the afternoon breeze whispering through the ponderosa pine trees welcomed me back. In many ways it felt like coming home.

On the last day of our 2018 trip as I was taking dozens of pictures to take back home with me I came across a particular spot along the stream bank where the shape and movement of the tall grass blowing in the breeze was extremely familiar. The diamond shaped ripples on the water and flow of the stream brought me back to my trip to the Creek with Dad 45 years ago. I had been here before... to this exact spot.

What's strange about that is this particular camping spot wasn't even the one I was looking for.

The first day Craig and I arrived it was late afternoon and we'd been driving all day. There is a particular camping spot at the end of a little dirt road that led to our favorite family camp site all those years ago. I assumed we could just drive right up that little road and break camp at the old camp site. Problem was, I couldn't find the road. We drove around for hours searching for it. I was getting pretty discouraged and more than a little frustrated. 

We crossed over a small bridge that looked completely unfamiliar. The road I was searching for had to turn and go upstream. But there simply wasn't any such road to be found. I was about ready to turn around and search some more but Craig pointed to a road that cut off to the opposite direction of where I wanted to go. He said, "Let's try that road." I said, "fine, I guess it can't hurt to take a look."

After driving for at least two miles we came down a small hill into a large clearing and there was the Creek. It wasn't the spot I wanted. But it was beautiful and it would have to do since it was getting late in the day. We could continue our search again tomorrow.

This spot turned out to be wonderful. Great views. Spacious camp site right next to the creek. Large pine trees for shade and shelter. Huge meadow just downstream from us and not another human being in sight. We set up camp, cracked open a couple of cold beers and made some turkey sandwiches.

Sitting in our camp chairs I laid my head back and closed my eyes. That familiar song the afternoon wind makes whistling through the pine needles lulled me into daydreams of days gone by. Sweet memories of casting my own hand-tied size 16 bucktail caddis flys, watching them dance along the riffles only to be slurped down by colorful rainbow trout as it crossed behind a small submerged boulder.

 

The Creek June, 2018.

 

Look at the large pine tree and slanted rocks in the middle.

Look at the shape of the mountain in the far distance.

 Look again at the same rocks and tree and mountain in 1973.

Some of these pictures are what I texted to my brothers and sister. You can't miss it. It's the exact same spot!

Some don't believe in Providence. "It's just a coincidence" many will say. But the way it all happened and how it brought me back to the same exact spot 45 years later is not a coincidence. And more importantly, the texts and photos began a conversation with my family again. We were excited to do a family reunion. My hope was that it would be back at the Creek. There was even talk of everyone wearing cowboy hats like Dad.

But it was not to be.

Not all of us were available to go on vacation the same week in June that I wanted to go.

So it was suggested that we go later in the summer, but not back to Oregon. We would meet in McCall, Idaho. There is a beautiful lake there and my brother Paul has a boat!

So after much discussion back and forth we decided on a week in mid July and all of us brothers would be able to go. We didn't want anyone to be excluded. And I am thankful for how it all worked out.

Faulkner Bros on the Lake, July, 2019

We spent an entire day out on the lake in Paul's boat. And for me it was magical. It was completely brotherly. No ideological divisions, tension, or political arguments. Just family. A Brounion. I didn't want it to end. It was like nothing had ever happened in the past to cause any division between us.

We spent evenings in our cabin playing guitars and singing old songs until the wee hours of the morning. Jon and Jeff know a lot of songs!

This will always be one of my favorite memories with my brothers. I hope we can do it again next summer. 

One of the life lessons I learned in this process was to never give up on people. Be patient and be the one to extend the invitation to be together. Never stop loving people even when previous difficult situations may have caused some division.

I love these guys. 

—More than they know.

Fathers and Sons

As a young boy growing up in the wide open spaces of southern Oregon, our family went camping virtually every weekend throughout the summer break. It was simply what we did as a family. Our faithful family dog, Sam, a black Labrador retriever, always tagged along.

I have a very special memory though... of one particular weekend when Dad asked me to go with him…just the two of us.

And it was to our treasured family river; ”Keepemquiet Creek” as it shall discreetly be referred to throughout the remainder of this story. My Dad believed it was akin to heresy to insult your favorite camping and fishing spots by telling every Tom, Dick and Harry how to find them.

Keepemquiet Creek is a small, sparkling river which cascades off the southern slope of a moderately timbered mountain, into the vast Oregon high desert. The country we camped in was thick with lodgepole and ponderosa pine and plenty of fragrant juniper trees in the lower elevations. Pungent sagebrush were everywhere. Along the meandering river, willows lined the banks in some places, and lush green meadows were scattered along its reaches.

In the springtime, as I sat bored stiff in my classes at Ponderosa Junior High School, I constantly day dreamed of Keepemquiet Creek, and the spunky 12 inch rainbow trout which eagerly gobbled up our carefully placed lures and flies. My neighbor, Bob “Granny” Granstrom, a professional fly tier from Klamath Falls, taught me to tie flies. And the first pattern I learned to tie was his “bucktail caddis.” Bob definitely knew which fly to teach me to tie first. The trout couldn’t get enough of it. And they were relatively easy to assemble for a newbie fly tyer. And I had a very good instructor.

Mid to late June was the ideal time to fish Keepemquiet Creek. The fish were much more aggressive and more easily fooled before the dog days of summer settled in with the onset of the sweltering temperatures of July and August. The stream flows were at their prime level and the meadows are still lush and green in June. And it was on a beautiful, clear, late June weekend that Dad and I took our special camping trip to Keepemquiet Creek.

It was to be a rite of passage for an extremely awkward 7th grader…and perhaps for his Dad as well.

In school I was painfully shy. Socially awkward. I suffered from pretty bad acne, which only made my introversion worse. And I didn’t do well in school. The only place I didn’t feel like a ‘loser’ was when I was walking the banks of my beloved river, fly rod in hand, armed with the flies I had tied myself. I was a pretty good fisherman for a dumb kid. But I had a great mentor in my Dad. He was a patient tutor, and he taught and led by example.

My Dad could think like a fish. That’s what he told me you needed to do to be a good fisherman. When he approached a river, he would carefully study every riffle, pocket, boulder, and undercut bank. Dad was not a fly fisherman in those days, so he didn’t pay much attention to what bugs were hatching. But give him a gold "Phoebe" wobbler, or a "Thomas Buoyant" spoon, and he could pick out a nice trout or two in every spot that looked “fishy” in the creek. I could fish a run and not get a single bite. And Dad could come in behind me a few minutes later and sweep the run and pick up fish I missed entirely. He was one of the best fishermen I ever knew.

We always got an early start when leaving town for our camping trips. And this trip was no exception. Whenever I was being the slowpoke and Dad was in a hurry to get going, he would rush me along and say, “Come on boy, you’re burning daylight!” And after giving his meticulous camp list a final check, and double checking the load in the old VW truck, we were on the road at first light.

I’m not sure who was more anxious to get out of town…Dad, or me?

I was a lonely teenager who was painfully struggling for self identity, and just wanted to fit in and be accepted. And he had the unenviable task of helping raise five kids; four unruly boys and one little daughter. He also had a fledgling architectural business to run, in a small town that in those days was not experiencing much growth. And times were pretty tough for us financially. Mom always had to stick very tight to her food budget. We had some interesting meals the last week of each month with whatever money and food we had left over. Mom called it “pantry perfection.” Some of my favorite dishes were some of Mom’s pantry perfection creations.

We packed the big green Coleman cooler with large Folgers’s coffee cans full of Mom’s frozen chili beans, spaghetti, and beef stew. Sometimes the stew was Dinty Moore canned stew. But I liked her homemade food much better. Mom was a great cook. When it was dinner time, Dad fired up the Coleman white gas stove, and put on a large kettle of water. We put the coffee cans of frozen dinner half submerged in the boiling water, and it quickly thawed out and we had piping hot food. We always had white Wonder bread and margarine to go with dinner. Occasionally we would splurge and have hamburger steaks and fried potatoes with onions cooked in a cast iron skillet with bacon grease. But there were no rib eye steaks on our tight budget. I always carried some Rolaids in my pack for those nights we had Dinty Moore stew.

When we finally arrived at our family “spot” on the river at the end of the road, I always wanted to get out my fishing gear and get into the river as quickly as possible. But Dad was disciplined and his rule was you always set up camp first. Since we usually fished till dark, Dad was wise, knowing it’s a lot easier to set up camp in the daylight than when it’s pitch black. However on this particular trip he said we would just make a "spike camp" and we slept in the back of the truck bed together; under the stars. It made it all that much more of an adventure for me.

I was a total nut when it came to fishing. It was what I lived for in those days. To escape the painful existence of feeling like such a loser in school, and not having many friends. But out here, I was in another world—a utopia for me—whenever we left the cold reality of life in town, and got away to the Creek. The truth is, I never wanted to go back.

I can still hear the sound of the wind blowing gently in the tall ponderosa pine trees on those warm afternoons in camp. The sweet smell of pine sap. The pungent smoke of our camp fire. I would lay back in one of the lawn chairs and look up at the big white clouds in the bright blue summer sky and dream of another time and place. A world where there was no school, or fist fights, or being rejected by a girl that I thought was cute, or the embarrassment of bad report cards and skin marked by acne.

After a great day of fishing, and a delicious dinner of Mom’s chili beans and bread, Dad and I sat around a crackling campfire, watching the occasional sparks float up beyond the trees and disappear into the starry night sky.

I think I can finally understand now that it wasn’t just me…We were both at a loss of exactly what to say to each other, struggling to understand one another as people. This was a first for both of us. I had never been a teenage son to a father before. And Dad had never been a father to a teenage son. We were both learning and trying to figure it out as we went along. Trial and error I guess.

Trying to act like a “man” I would loudly clear my throat and hock the occasional ‘lugi’ into the campfire. Dad said, “You’re a pretty fair spitter!” It made me feel tough and good about myself for a change…like my Dad was actually proud of me for something.

In those days it seemed like I received a lot more scolding than I did compliments. I was constantly in hot water for my bad grades. I started more than my share of trouble with my younger brothers and sister. We boys would generally cause all kinds of mayhem in the neighborhood. Throwing rocks at cars. Fun stuff like that. I was almost always in trouble for something. My Dad often seemed displeased with me. I rarely felt like I ever had his approval.

But as a kid I always knew that my Dad loved me. Even though he was a very strict father, (and today I’m very thankful he was), I never once doubted my Dad’s love for me. I think that’s maybe the one thing that helped me keep some semblance of ‘sanity’ during that period of my life. My parents very much loved and respected each other and us, and we had a stable, happy family. That’s my memory of those days anyway. Even though they numbed the pain of their own problems with alcohol, our home felt happy to me in general.

That weekend on Keepemquiet Creek, my Dad and I began to get to know each other a little bit better as people. And we began to communicate with one another...at least we tried. We laughed together and fished our butts off, and the cares of our tense lives back in town faded away. It felt ‘perfect’ for those glorious couple of days. It remains one of my most precious memories from my early life.

Though for me, in that period, I never felt that I was good enough as a person. I had zero self esteem. I desperately wanted my father’s approval. The honor code among men is respect. He was a straight “A” student. Brilliant. He aced calculus, trigonometry, and all his advanced math classes. He was a gifted architect and artist. He was one hell of a good writer too. I admired and respected my Dad a great deal. Once when I was a young boy, my grandfather (his Father) said with admiration, “Your Dad is a pretty bright guy!” I was so proud of him.

My Dad was far from perfect. 

And like I am trying to do now, he was just trying to figure life out, and do his best to be a good husband and father. And in my eyes, in my memory, he was a success. He taught me right from wrong. He taught me respect—for the land, and for those who share it with us. He led by example of what it means to “die to self.” He worked his ass off to provide for a family of seven. And he gave us a good life. We were well provided for.

And he loved my Mom. He taught me through his example that the best way to teach your kids to love, is to love their mother. And my Dad was head over heels in love with my Mom all of their life together…until cancer rocked his mind and body to the point that he could no longer communicate in the eloquent way he once did. But their love is forever. And that love is the legacy my Dad left for me.

As I fondly recall those warm summer days along the grassy banks of Keepemquiet Creek, I can still hear my Dad’s voice whooping it up as he hooked into a feisty rainbow trout. And I can see the warmth in his smile in the old photograph I took of him on our last day together that weekend.

Today I can feel my Dad’s love for me; as an awkward thirteen year old kid; and now, as a man, still just trying to figure life out…

*Authors note: if you know the name and location of this Creek please do not divulge it or publicize it. On my last visit  in 2018 it was still pristine and mostly unspoiled after 45 years since my last time there in 1973. What a gift to our grandchildren if we keep it that way.

-Thank you.


—At the End of My Line. 

Why The Sky?

"The heavens declare the glory of God,

and the sky displays what His hands have made."

(Psalm 19:1)

After looking up for over sixty years, I've been blessed to see many amazing sunsets, sunrises, thunder storms, and amazing cloud formations.

And in light of the words from the psalmist, I begin to see why the sky is there.

To declare God's glory.

So many times when I've been driving out in the wide open spaces, or standing knee deep in a river somewhere, I've had to stop and just look up in awe and see the incredible, vast sky-scapes that God has painted with His divine paint brush. It makes you start to see just how small you are and how infinitely big...how beautiful... how glorious He is.

So much majesty and awesome beauty has been placed in the sky to keep us looking up.

—At The End of My Line

The Wilderness Wanderer

“He who has not walked alone 
And fished for trout on a wild river, 

Amidst peaks beneath a sky 
Adrift with clouds, 

Has not really had a look at his beginning,

 Or come to fully understand himself.” 

(“Trails of a Wilderness Wanderer”)

One of my Dad's favorite authors was Andy Russell.

Russell's book, "Trails of a Wilderness Wanderer" was a well-worn fixture on Dad's reading table. And he read it often. It's who my Dad was at heart—a wilderness wanderer.

As I write this, it is a cool, blustery day in February. Each year about this time, stagnant with cabin fever after the long, dormant days of winter, I begin to get antsy, eager to get out of town and wander a winding river alone.

And as much as I treasure days spent in fellowship on a river with a good friend, I learned through Dad, and through my own experiences, that a man needs to get outdoors, away from the distractions and crush of life, and empty his mind of clutter...and re-connect with the eternal.

I think that's why I have enjoyed my past outside sales and territory management jobs. I had a lot of windshield time, by myself, with long distances of mountains and highway between one town and the next. My favorite job took me as far as Jackson and Pinedale, Wyoming. Driving up Hoback canyon, en route to Pinedale, was always the highlight of my trip east. There are not many highways in the west where you will see fluorescent orange grizzly bear warning signs posted at regular intervals along the way. This is pretty wild country.

It was to the wild places of the west that my Dad was inextricably drawn. He loved to explore the untouched ranges. We would get up early and get in the old Dodge Power Wagon, and just go explore. Dad would have studied his large pile of various topographic maps throughout the week, and once the weekend hit, he always wanted to go search for new places that we'd never seen before.

Many times, we'd end up on some obscure logging road that dead-ended in the middle of nowhere. And often there were no pretty creeks full of hungry trout to be found. No scenic vistas. No perfect camping spots. But it was the new adventure in just exploring the unknown that inspired us to go further.

Growing up in southern Oregon, on these exploratory outings with Dad, I used to count the deer, antelope, coyotes, eagles, hawks and the occasional sand hill cranes we'd see along the way. Dad always complimented me for having 'eagle eyes' that could spot game when no one else could. I'll never forget his encouraging words as my father.

And it was on these many outings together, that we began to know each other a little bit better as people. The transition of going from boyhood to manhood for me, was excruciating at times. Even though my grades were horrible, and I was basically flunking school most of the time, Dad only grounded me from hunting and fishing as a last resort 'correction' to try and get me to study harder and apply myself in school. But he knew deep down that I had the same wilderness wanderer heart as he did. And he refused to take that away from me.

And it was out in the wildernesses of my youth that I began to appreciate the beauty of solitude and the wild places of America, and at the same time, began, through my Dad leading by example, to develop my own values of loving family, friends, and respecting the wild, beautiful creation, and all those who share it with us. 

And I began to ponder the question; "What is the meaning of life?"

A favorite quote from Russell:

“For it is in such unscarred country beyond the marks of wheels that a man really finds himself – knowing the warm feeling in his soul that only fear is the enemy and that true values are not measured in bank accounts cached away in artificial edifices of stone, but in the depth of serenity and peace where air is clean and water flows cold and pure.”

Some people go out into wilderness to 'find God.'

But in my experience, in this journey we call life, God found me when I was in a place where I was quiet, alone, not seeking Him, and was therefore, able to hear more than just the words of my own soul. It's kind of like when you sit back against a large ponderosa pine tree, on a warm sunny afternoon, and as you close your eyes and just rest, you hear the sound the wind makes whistling through the pine needles. You hear more than just your own thoughts and self talk. You can hear something larger—outside of yourself.

And that is why solitude is such a gift.

Because you are truly not alone out there.

It's getting harder and harder to find any untouched places in the wild. More people are moving here every day. The wilderness we wander is full of other wanderers. Not all have the same respect for that wilderness, or for the rest of us who enjoy it. And so we wander farther, deeper into the wild, beyond the borders of the Shire. Off the road less traveled. Far from the maddening crowd. My own journey seems to be leading me further away from the great fishing spots, and into the wild, unscarred places in my soul, that are still as untouched by this twisted world as can be hoped.

And so we must guard our hearts.

Guard them closely; from the unrealistic expectations of others. From the insane demands of too much multi-tasking. From the pressure of peers. From the expectations of this politically correct world culture. From the failures and disappointments of our childhood and early life. From the trappings of consumerism. From the pitfalls of too much self-reliance. From a prideful attitude. From selfishness.

The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside the still waters.
He restores my soul;
He leads me in the paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake. ~Psalm 23

The more I wander the few wild places left, I am more aware that I am not aimlessly wandering. But am being led to lie down in greener pastures, beside the still waters. He restores my soul.

Dad at Keepemquiet Creek, 1971.

—At The End of my Line

Where is Your Joy?

Since I was old enough to remember, I've always loved hunting, camping, and especially fly fishing.

Escaping to the outdoors. It was part of our life as a family. It was simply what we did. And it in I always found happiness. Peace. Solace. Joy.

I can't say exactly when that all started to change.

But it did.

After I'd been married for four or five years, when the "honeymoon was over" I began to question, "Is this all there is to life?" I had a beautiful wife, but we fought all the time. I had a good job, with future prospects, but I began to hate, (no, despise) it.

I was a fly fisherman. I lived for it. It was how I perceived myself. It was my main pursuit in life.

But I began to grow frustrated in that pursuit. It was not as enjoyable as it once was. The rivers and places I once loved to go, were becoming more and more overrun with hordes of people, thanks in part to greedy self-promoting fly fishing magazines who felt the "rivers needed more friends."

I had grown more competitive in fly fishing. Always trying to outdo myself. Never satisfied with what I caught. Always bummed out by what I couldn't catch. Obsessed with all the gear, or, more appropriately named; the "Trappings." At one point I had accumulated several thousands of dollars worth of fly fishing and fly tying gear. Not that I paid retail for it. I had friends in the industry that always got me buddy deals. But I was always buying, selling and trading what I had for the "next best thing." But it was never enough.

It became in me, a big, hungry monster that I could never satisfy.

And though I didn't realize it at the time, I had been filling up my life with stuff, to try and fill up the empty and hurting places in my heart.  My mom had told me that back in the seventies she and my dad had done the exact same thing, to try and fill up the empty places in their lives.  But they were never satisfied. And numbing the pain and disappointments of life with alcohol soon became their false substitute for joy.

And I can tell you with sad, deep conviction from our experiences as a family, that this does not work. It only destroys.

Recently in my journal I wrote:

"Your joy can only be stolen if your look for joy in things that can be lost."

 And over the course of my life I have seen that come true more times than I can count.

I used to have a small collection of well guarded "last best places" where I could go to escape, think, meditate on life, etc. But eventually, one after another, all those last best places failed to bring me the solace and peace I so desperately sought. Joy was elusive. Not to be caught.

Where do you look for joy?

For me, what once brought lasting joy, no longer does. Because those things that once brought joy can be, or have been lost. They could never live up to my heavy expectations.

Relationships can die. Spouses move on. Family disowns you. Jobs go away. Money dries up. Favorite rivers or camping spots are now over crowded. Your health can change in a New York minute. Friends move away.

Everything in this life is for a season. Some long, some very short. Our life is literally a vapor. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Today my joy is found in something and someone that can never be lost, never be taken from me. Those of you who know me well, know my secret.

For those of you who don't, I would love to share it with you.

All you need do is ask.


—At The End of My Line.