“Tell me how you die and I will tell you who you are” –Octavio Paz

                  Overview:

My father has died. Perhaps there is another way to say this, that he has passed, or passed over, but the blunt facts remain: my father, Billie Gene Hicks, is not on this planet anymore. I will never hear him say “kiddo,” again or laugh, or dominate a dinner conversation with his lovely, rumbly voice, going on and on and trying to teach us all. Perhaps he is in a better place, and certainly I am happy to know his toenails will trouble him no more, but the blunt fact remains: my father is gone. I will see him only in dreams and memories, but the actual man is gone. There are father’s daughter’s stories to break the bank of literary remembrance…and I can only tell a few of them here and tell the story of his loving death.

If you want to read about old Dad stories, read 1 #2#, but for his death story, read #3

About the Daddy Part 1: So, yes, this title is taken from a Dolly Parton song, “To Daddy,” but no, my father was nothing like the Daddy in that song, not at all, at least for me. I use it here because it is the song ringing in my head these last, hard days.

And about the Daddy Part 2: I had (obviously) moved to calling my father Dad or Father in our later years, but in his last months he became Daddy again to me, the name I had always called him in my secret heart. All of us have this secret heart, the place where we name things, and in mine my father was always Daddy because that is the first word to jump into my mind when I see the Bus, his old red Bus, coming down the hill, during the pandemic, with Robert at the wheel bringing supplies, or in a random parking lot, the Bus always made me feel safe, his smell of motor oil and wet wool always the smell of the man I knew would make me safe, who until recently was my Daddy.

Here’s one of the few pictures that didn’t burn, Dad’s mother, Edith (right) and his beloved Aunt Marie.

Dad Story #1: The Wedding Crasher

Let us begin, then, and remember my father as he was, B.G. Hicks, Engineering Geologist, and the pilot of the Bus. In my dimly remembered childhood in hot Sacramento, my father would come to spirit me away. He’d call from Bill and Kathy’s Truckstop in Dunnigan, oddly my parent’s actual names, and say, “I am almost there, at Bill and Kathy’s now!” and even at this great remove of time, I can remember the thrill in my heart: my Daddy was coming! And then off we would go, into the wild blue yonder, riding high into the sun, my father driving his old red Bus, and me in the passenger’s seat, where I remain still, feet on the headlamp, ready to go.

Where did we go? So many places, but mostly we went to the Gold Country, Mokelumne Hill and Jackson and even once to the ghost town of Jenny Lind, the Swedish songbird I for whom I had been partially named. When my mother was pregnant and searching for a name, Dad suggested a nice, Geologic name, like Slip and Slides, but my mother liked Jenny, for Jenny Lind and Jennie Churchill. I have always been happy that I avoided being named Landslide Hicks, although that would have made my father smile, and even now I can see his eyes crinkling and sparkling with such a magnificent joke.

In the slow towns of the Gold Country, we would spend time at the Country Squire Inn or the Moke Hill fancy hotel, where once, for my birthday, Dad arranged to have flowers sent to my room  in a cute cup with a J on it,  a cup I owned all through college, and they gave me a cunning little gold Frog pin (see: “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County”), and I luxuriated in their ancient pool, swimming and swimming and swimming under the citrus trees and the easy, California twilight.

We also went on a quest, a quest my father designed, to trespass past the vast wheels that had mined the California Gold and then to trespass, for my father taught me early and well that there are signs that say “Private Property,” but the other side, they never say nothing (Woody Guthrie), and then off we went on little trails, to find the abandoned places of labs, concrete slabs, where they had re-processed the mining from the 1850’s and sucked every last bit of gold out.

Really, we did this, and we found old stone cups and nuggets of likely toxic materials, and I have them still, albeit in plastic bags and sort of scared of them. I remember sitting on a hill in this place, those golden, rolling hills of California, and flying the old Chinese Dragon kite from the Bus, Dad making a treasure map to the place in his chaotic scrawl. What child has a memory of being a treasure hunter, trespassing, finding treasure, and then making a map, flying a kite, and feasting on the food Dad brought in his stalwart bags, always from the Army, where he served, and feeding me Martinelli’s cider and his beloved three-bean salad from a good Italian deli, and sourdough bread, apples, cheese?

But in that time my father was lonely, and so when he was, he turned to the newspaper. My father loved a local newspaper, sent bushels of them to me after I left my hometown. But in those Gold Country days, he would narrow in on specifics” “Looks like there’s a wedding at the Country Club,” he might say. I would get uncomfortable, express my desire to spend more time swimming or playing Foos Ball in the Rec Room, but eventually, there we would be, heading out to the wedding.

At the wedding or retirement or whatever, I would practice my art of trying to disappear, but I would hear my father talking, mingling. “I’m Bill,” I would hear, and the funny thing was, everyone accepted him. He was Bill, no matter that he didn’t know these folks, and Dad would make his way through the event, pocketing napkins and food and bottles of Champagne. Really. “It’s an old trick I learned when I had to travel for the State of California,” he told me. “I was so lonely, and these events made me feel like I belonged.”

I know my father felt lonely on his own in that great big world, traveling the California highways for the state, doing his work for the state, and learning about the state. My mother has always remembered how my father knew any sideway or byway or place to stop on the old 99 or I-5. The old Blue Gum rest stop or Granzella’s, the place to get an Italian lunch in middle of California, and though my father became a proud Oregonian (GO Ducks!), he was born in California, his aunt Janet’s birthname being “Tulare.” I’m not sure what my point is here, but just that this was always a love and a trouble for him, this statehood origin thing, and that he resented it mightily when I told him I was a California girl, committed to trying to help students in this state.

However, I don’t blame Dad for this rejection, but I do understand it. He wanted me to be there with him. “What could we have done,” he once said,” “if you had lived here? We could have done amazing things”.: I think Dad may have been thinking in Geologic terms—we could have prevented landslides or helped folks understand climate change—but it is forever a sorrow to me that I could not live near my father. In fact, this entire blog is a testament to him and my love for him, but my life is not in Oregon right now.

Dad Story #2: The Mexico Diaries

The other Dad/Daddy story is about his trip to see me in sunny LA after his 80’s trip to New Zealand. I know now after long experience that my father was likely manic at the time, but as a child, I just saw him as excited. I know now that this trip might have ended many different and awful ways, but the past is another time, and they/we did things differently there (apologies to L.P. Hartley, here). So, here is the story of the one-time my father and I escaped the US and made a run for the border:

It was some dreary day in March, a day I can’t even remember the day of, but the gray rain was falling in slanted curtains on Los Angeles, and I was stuck in a second-floor classroom in Glendale, an old school building, perhaps working on coloring a map for Social Studies or English, which for me meant reading under my desk. It was a day with no hope, just the school day, then the trudge to my Mom’s apartment on Verdugo Road, watching some TV, just a nothing sort of day.  In fact, had I been given a crayon at that moment, I would have scrawled the picture in gray.

So, I was surprised to hear my name called out, to be sent to the principal’s office, and there waiting for me, was my father. He was rumpled and a bit agitated, but he told them he had permission to take me out of school, and just like that, we left. Dad scared me bit in his rental car, trying to drive on the wrong side of the street, so recently home from New Zealand, but in those days without Map Quest or navigation software, he drove me straight to Disneyland. Yes, all children dreamed of Disneyland, and I had never been there, but that’s where we ended up.  Somewhere there is a picture of me riding the carousel in the rain with the Dodger’s poncho he bought me, and I was smiling in the rain.

What kind of a father can create such magic? My father. He took a gray day in the rain and took me to Disneyland for my very first time, and while I no longer remember all the details of our visit, I do remember the joy and the breaking of that gray day.

After the Disneyland experience, I was not sure there could be more, but Daddy was just getting started. He slung that rental car onto a freeway and headed south. “How far south does this road go?” he asked. Mexico.

And so my father took me across the border into Mexico, on some gray Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday in LA, after taking me to the most magical place on earth. I have no memory of how we cleared the border, but I do remember that he took the wrong road out of Tijuana, and should have taken the toll road, but then we were driving in that rental car over mountains and mud and sliding down to Rosarito by the beach. I saw the shacks and people living on the hillsides, the vague beacon of highway, and watched my father pilot us through it all in the rental car, chortling a bit as he navigated it. He was in charge, and he knew he could drive the hell out of any road, and he did.

We dropped into Rosarito in the late afternoon, and Dad took me to a store and told me to pick out anything I wanted. I picked two dolls, one to send to my friend Ambriel, and one for me, because they looked like her, long black braids and a Mexican dress, and a horse, a mighty stallion Black and glistening with a white star blaze on his forehead, full out running, much more exciting than the Breyer horse models I already had. Dad also bought some supplies.

We went then to the beach, and I ran and ran and ran, laughing at the waves, and my father chased me and laughed. We followed the beach trip up with a mighty dinner in a nearby restaurant, and, in the sake of honesty, that night in the hotel my father was puking drunk from all the supplies he’d bought—tequila—and blamed it on the food, but I felt just fine, sleeping in my motel bed, thrilled to be on such an adventure.

My father never was sick in front of me from the drink before that or after that that I remember, but he did like to drink. This trip is just the first time I understood that. And no, I don’t remember the hungover morning—I was 9-10 years old—or the trip back, but I do remember the memory, the magical man taking me away from my gray world. I also remember the horse and dolls, and I had them both for many years until time and everything erased them. Thinking about this memory tonight, I am so profoundly grateful to have had a father, a Daddy, who could make such magic happen.

                  Dad Story #3: Goodbye to Daddy

                  My father’s health had been an ongoing issue for years because he was diagnosed with prostate cancer back when I was in college for the first time, but in recent years it had gotten worse. Add to that the calamities, like the house in Talent where they moved from 190 Wistful Vista burning down, Paula’s breast cancer, then Dad’s infected foot, but in September 2023 Dad took a bad fall, and I got the call, “Jenny, I’m in the ER with your Dad…” We had been planning to fly up for his grandson Jordan’s wedding, but we shuffled plans and drove to the hospital in Medford. Dad was there but in pain, on serious drugs, and I don’t know how much he knew about our presence. We stayed, he stabilized, then we flew home. Dad battled his way out of the hospital and into rehab, Paula beside him every step of the way, getting him better care, and then he was home. We came again in November, and there was my Dad with his wicked grip, but so, so tired now. I remember one of those days with his beloved helper Scherri making his breakfast, just sitting with him in his bedroom in the sun, holding hands.

                  And so, I knew the season was changing, but I was so happy to be gifted with my father once more. I made him a Father Christmas doll to replace the one that had burned, but we did not make it up in December. One great gift from life was that Jacob, Paula’s son, was able to be there with my folks at this time, and I have heard wonderous tales of the meals he made, and I know this is true for I ate Jake’s food myself when we were there in November. I’m so sorry I don’t have a picture of Jacob but picture the most attractive man you know making food.

                  Then Dad had a really terrible pain episode in January, the cancer in his bones, and I was supposed to be on strike, (long story about work redacted) so I flew up. The first day I was there my father was completely muddled by the medication he’d been given, but I was able to be there and support Paula in her decision to move him to at home hospice care to better manage his pain. By the time I left on that quick trip, my Daddy was back, talking geology, Turbulence (his pet theory for everything), and laughing at the dinner table, telling all the old stories.

                  I thought we had some time. We always think we have some time. However, on February 22^nd, I got that call again: “Hi, Jenny, it’s Paula…I’m in the ER with your Dad. He took a fall.” Paula had been out in the yard briefly, and Dad, always wanting to know where she was, tried to find her and fell, hitting his head. At first, it seemed he would be OK, or as OK as a dying man could be, but then I got a second call. We had run out of time.

                  Robert scrambled to change the plane reservations, for I had planned to come up alone after the fall, but now I needed him to come, too. We landed at Rogue Valley International Airport Tuesday night, February 27. It was late and we were eager to get to bed, but Paula said we should come by, and so we did.

                  I opened the familiar door to be greeted by a giant, wonderful man, my nephew Jordan, whispering in my ear, “I got your Valentine, thank you. Inside I could see another long, lanky and gorgeous man, Zach, so his grandsons were there.  Inside the house I could see Bree, Tom the Magnificent, and Paula, and a bewildering medley of dogs. Tom had brought his dogs, Shelby and Zorro, and Zach had his essential Chihuahua, Zooey, and of course, there was Tucker, so happy to see me, and no doubt expecting a walk.

                  That night I was agitated, stressed, tired, scared, and Dad was in a hospital bed where his recliner should be. He had taken some yogurt with his meds in the morning, but now he was pretty non-responsive, only coughing from time to time. I took his hand, his dear, gnarled hand, and felt just one last time that grip. “I’m here, Daddy, “I whispered in his ear, but there was no reply.

                  And thus we entered a strange space most Americans don’t like to talk about, the time of dying. Paula made it clear that we should always be holding his hand, and we took turns. We sang him songs, recited poems, listened to Tom the Magnificent and Robert playing music, and old friends called or came by. When Ben called to say that he loved my father, I broke down crying. We brought my brother Tom with his longtime caseworker from the psychiatric facility where he lives, and Tom looked great—either like a Hassidic Jew (think Fiddler on the Roof), a member of the Shakespearean Green Show, or a player in a Jug Band, circa 1967. Tom did not totally understand what was going on, but he was able to connect with his father and did eventually show some emotion about what was happening.  Trish Malone, longtime and cherished friend, was there to celebrate my father, and dear Harriet and her son Jordan and his exquisite wife Maite were there with their son to offer goodbyes. Harriet and Steve’s daughter Leah was also there and her kind calmness and knowing she had just lost her father and thus navigated this ground was so meaningful to me.  And Scherri, Scherri, Scherri—my father’s biggest cheerleader and cooker of breakfast –with the wonderful eggs from her chickens. It was a sad time but happy to have so many people—many unnamed here but appreciated so much—to say goodbye. And Bree, Bree, Bree, Paula’s daughter and a nurse and all she did to help in this time, I don’t have words. Thank you, Bree, for every mouth swab and giving of nasty meds (with some brandy) and for being my wonderful, beloved sister. 

My brother Tom:

                  And laughter! There was so much laughter as we told stories of the man, both funny and confusing and vexing, but we were all waiting for his daughter Ariana to appear. Ariana had been helping her own mother, Bonnie, recover from a broken hip, then late one night she was suddenly there. I remembered that Dad used to say he wanted a recording of her laugh, her bells ringing laugh, and I was so happy to have that sound added to our room watching this tough man slip away, and yes, there was much to laugh about, because there are so many stories about my father, so much memory.

                  And then the snow came! We had some flurries early in the trip, and Robert was a consummate Angeleno, dancing in the snow, but then one day (was it the Thursday?) The Friday? I woke up and saw the light, and I knew it had snowed. We drove to Dad and Paula’s house in falling snow, the blossoms on the trees mixing with the snow, Robert’s first and valiant drive in snow. “All the roads to Ashland are closed, I can’t work the register, my bakers are stuck,” said the man at the A Street bakery called La Baugette, but he sold me day olds and I walked carefully, carefully over the snow to load them in the car.

                  I sat that day with my father, my Daddy, and watched the snow fall, then melt, almost hoping we would be stuck there forever in an endless snow globe. The irony was not lost on me, for my father hated driving in snow. “It’s a frickin’ winter wonderland out there,” he’d say, and yes, Daddy it was, but so lovely to us Californians who had not seen that at all or rarely, and so lovely for your death, as if the weather or the universe had decided to shower you with confetti.

                  Saturday night, March 2^nd, and it was time to say goodbye, and although I thought the snow might stop us from leaving, and although every part of my bruised heart wanted to stay, I knew I had to go home to my work and my dog. Paula and Bree and I picked out clothes for Dad’s final journey, and I was crying as I pushed my last valentine into their hands. My father, maker of lists, had written inside 1. Call J. 2. Get flowers for Paula. And Dad did call me on Valentine’s Day, the last time I ever talked to him. “I love you Jenny,” he warbled. “I love you dear, so very much…” It was one of Dad’s made-up songs, but I was able to tell him I loved him too, and that matters more, now. But I had to say goodbye, and leave on the jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again, but oh, babe, I hate to see you go, one of the only 8 track tapes I remember Dad playing in the Bus. Leaving my father, that family, that was one of the hardest things I have ever done, and I still wonder if I made the right decision.

                  We flew from Rogue Valley International (i.e. Medford) early on the morning of March 3^rd, my mother’s birthday. We came home, got some food, took naps, and when I awoke, there was a call from Ariana: “He is gone, and I was holding his hand.” I am so happy she was there with him at the last. I know he was surrounded by love, even if I couldn’t be there. I hope he knew how I loved him, and how I will carry his story for all of my days.

                  I opened this with a quote I have always if imprecisely recalled: “Tell me how you die and I will tell you who you are” –Octavio Paz

My father died a peaceful death, surrounded by women who loved him, and there is no better epitaph for him, but oh, how I miss him and will always miss him, and oh, how I thank my family for being there in his time of need.

Celebration:

We are planning a celebration of his life in the summer.  If you want details, please contact me at my e-mail: jenny_91030@yahoo.com. The Bus will be there, and we will be there, and I like to think that Dad will be haunting that party, the guy named Bill just sneaking out with a bottle of Champagne and some hors d’oeuvres tucked in his pockets.