Tuesday, May 25, 2010

This is the eulogy I wrote for my father, who passed away on April 9. He was 68.


Eulogy for Bill Dumcum

From his son, Kevin Dumcum

I think my dad would be surprised over some of the things that have been said about him over the past few days – mainly because while he loved to tell stories, and he loved to laugh, he never really liked to be the center of attention.

But Dad, you need to know how much you meant to all of us, and to me.

I didn’t share your passion for raising bees, or for World War II military history, or for Mighty Mite football. And Lord knows I was happy that you never found the right hill to buy to build the underground home for which you drew up the architectural plans.

But, I love that you were passionate about these things and more.

I love how you always supported me in my sometime silly pursuits. When I got my new job, you would send me article clippings about the job search process. Even though you never really understood my passion for comic books, you would find web links and programs to help me sort and organize my collection. And when I had my serious running injury, you researched and found a book on running injury-free.

I love how loyal you were. You had your favorite brands and you stuck with them, because they worked. You were an early adopter of new technology, but slow to upgrade; why change what isn’t broken, you would say. You ate at Justin’s restaurant for as long as Justin stayed with the chain; once Justin moved on to another restaurant chain, you were not shy about pointing out how quickly the quality deteriorated. And you had your favorite TV shows, even if one of them was Jay Leno.

I love how compassionate you were. I never realized when I was growing up, but we were poor; yet, we had everything we needed. I assumed all dads made bunk beds and bookshelves and headboards, that all dads maintained huge vegetable gardens and compost piles, that all dads made rabbit-skin hats and Halloween costumes. It took me a while to realize, that was not true. You taught us to be satisfied with what we had, all the while striving to make sure we had what we needed. One specific example, of which I am so proud, is that you went back to get your college degree by taking night classes.

I love how creative you were. You could do things with a computer that I can barely imagine. You have programs I’ve never heard of and cannot tell what they do. Your files are color-coded. Your workstation is stacked with equipment and wires and clippings, and Post-it Notes dot every available surface, and it is obvious that everything has an original purpose. Over the past few days, we’ve been trying to figure out how you did some things. It is going to take a while longer before we know, if ever.

Dad, I love how you loved your family. You would move mountains for any one of us. You took care of sick cats when we are out of town. You waited for moving vans while we had to go on ahead to our destinations. You showed up with wet vacs or tools when something went wrong or broke down. And you always answered the phone, listened to our gripes without judgment, and gave us the advice we needed.

Above all, you loved Mom with a love that is beyond words.

Dad, you went too soon. There is still so much I wanted to hear and learn from you. But I trust you, that I have what I need and can take it from here on out:

Be passionate about something, even if it takes a few attempts to find what that something is.

Be loyal. If you find something that works, stick with it.

Be compassionate. Always try to do your best, but do your best to benefit someone else.

Be creative.

Love unconditionally.

I didn’t say it enough, but I love you, Dad, and I am so proud to be your son.

2 comments:

  1. Hi Kevin, this was very touching. I'm sorry for the loss of your father. I can't even imagine. My dad is 78 and my mom is 74 and they still live in the same house on E. 6th Street in St. Paul. I visit them about once a week and I cherish my time with them. I've enjoyed reading your blogs. You definately have a flair with the pen and a great wit as well. If I remember, in high school you were in the 'super smart' crowd and I was in the 'barely getting by' crowd. I can picture you in the halls of Harding holding tons of textbooks and a pencil (or pen perhaps) and talking with Holly Palmer. I also see you in a red shirt for some reason. I look forward to your future writings (and catching up on your archives as well). Marie

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