A Remarkably Ordinary Man

               Friday, January 16, I had the incredible opportunity to eulogize my father. He and I shared a special relationship. I was his model for his photography, his museum companion, his darkroom assistant, and his biggest fan. (My other siblings may contritict this but it's my blog so I'll tell it my way.) He had been declining with dementia and other issues so the past few months have been really hard. During this time, I have grown closer to God and my siblings and I've learned many valuable lessons. I wanted to publicly share what I delivered at the funeral because I relish the opportunity to tell others about my dad. May we all aspire to be so remarkably ordinary. 

​        My dad, Dana Crawford Booth, will be remembered for the remarkably ordinary life he lived. Now, I know eulogies are supposed to be full of remarkable achievements and accomplishments, but remarkable achievements are not what he believed was important.
       How many of you did he tell that he won prestigious awards for his photography?
       How many of you did he brag to about his stock-market tinkering?
       How many of you did he tell that he spent over forty years as a tool and die machinist, leading not by title but by example, and serving as a mentor to others in the shop?

(Okay—maybe I’ll be able to sneak a few remarkable things in.)
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       No, he didn’t tell everyone about his achievements. His photography was a creative outlet, something he did purely for his own enjoyment. I once asked him about publishing or pursuing more recognition as an artist, and he said that would ruin the enjoyment he got out of it.
His financial success allowed him and my mom to live a comfortable life, but the achievement he would actually brag about was being able to eat at a restaurant for ten dollars—for both of them.
       His work as a tool and die machinist was something he truly enjoyed. It gave him the satisfaction of working with his hands—and, importantly, it allowed him to start a program and then read while it ran. He read Tom Clancy and John Grisham, along with many classics, including Crime and Punishment, which I’ve never even been able to get all the way through.
I describe his life as ordinary because he didn’t seek high achievements. He sought a quiet life—minding his own business, working with his hands, and learning for the sake of learning. He read widely, read the newspaper every day, and loved visiting museums. His legacy of curiosity lives on in everything I do today.

       Growing up, who needed Google?
       “Dad, where do wolves live?”
       “Dad, what kind of tree is that?”
       “Dad, how do I play tennis?”

       He knew it all—or so I thought. A few years ago, my sisters and I were bragging about how he knew everything. He got a mischievous grin and said, “Did you think I always knew the answer?” We were appalled. “What?! You mean you made stuff up?” He smiled and said, “Sometimes.”
       Not five minutes later, we asked, “Dad, what kind of flower is that?” Without hesitation, he said, “Sweet pea.” Then he paused, smiled—and we realized he’d done it again.
       He was probably right, though.
       He was ordinary because he was secure in who he was and knew what mattered to him. He was wearing cardigan sweaters, growing a fabulous beard, growing his own produce, recycling, and drinking iced lattes long before any of that was cool. (The grandkids say he's the OG hipster.)
       One extraordinary thing I do have to mention is his hair. Even at eighty-seven, he had incredible hair. Sometimes it was longer, sometimes it was shorter—but it was always fabulous. He carried a quiet confidence that touched everything he did.
       Looking through old photographs, we noticed how often he was looking at one of his kids or grandkids. He loved being surrounded by family, content to sit back and soak in the joy of togetherness—especially the simple happiness of watching his grandchildren play.
He was comfortable in who he was and never pressured anyone to like him. If you liked him, great. If you didn’t, that was your loss—and he bore no ill will.
       He didn’t need to prove that he was brilliant. He didn’t need to tell others how much he loved his family. He didn’t need to persuade anyone that he was a faithful believer. He just did it. He was faithful, quiet, and hard-working.
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       If my dad taught us anything, it’s that an ordinary life—lived with curiosity, humility, and faith—is more than enough. So keep learning. Stay curious. Be faithful in the small, quiet ways. That’s where a good life is built.