Jason Daniel Depew: Gone way too soon

With his favorite plane, the Icon A5 seaplane

Possibly his first airplane.

This is a hard one to write. In fact, it's so hard to write that I'm going to copy and paste an excellent obituary written by someone else.

Our oldest son, Jason, was a pilot in the United States Air Force. When he quit the Air Force, he became a pilot for Delta Airlines. Jason always kept himself physically fit. The FAA requires all pilots to pass a cardiac health exam every six months. According to the doctors administering the exam, Jason's heart was in great shape.

Except for one day. On Thursday, October 31st, 2024, Jason and his wife, Jennifer, were out on a run. Jennifer turned one way to go home, and Jason turned the other way to go further. Some time later, a neighbor observed Jason running up the street, nearing his home, but "having trouble" as he ran. When Jason was in front of the next-door neighbor's house, he collapsed.

One neighbor called 911. Another neighbor checked his pulse and started CPR. Another neighbor ran to get Jen.

Depending on what statistics you glean from the Internet, only 10% to 40% of people who receive CPR after a heart attack survive. Jason was not one of the lucky ones. By the time the EMTs got there, he was turning blue. They had to shock him twice to get his heart going.

His brain did not recover from the extended lack of oxygen. Jason lingered on life support in the ICU of the Pepin Heart Institute at AdventHealth Tampa for five days, before his family chose to discontinue life support. His death affected many people, starting with his immediate family and radiating outward to touch hundreds, possibly thousands, of people worldwide. 

Here's the official obituary. Tailwinds and strong thermals, my son.

Old Cowboys Never Die, They Just Ride off into the Sunset

October was a difficult month for me. It marked the death of one of the most influential men of the 20th Century, even though you may never have heard of him.

Donald Albert Depew was born on December 20, 1933, in Raymond, Alberta, Canada, in the Mormon farming and ranching colonies of southern Alberta. His father was William Warren Depew, and his mother was Leah Enid Lybbert Depew. The Depews were from Payson, Utah, and the Lybberts were from Vernal, Utah. They were all ranchers and horsemen, and lived on the plains of southern Alberta, east of the Canadian Rockies.

One day when Don was two years old, his father was in the barn taking care of the horses, when something spooked them and they ended up trampling him to death. The Depew and Lybbert clans rallied around Enid and her two young children. Don was raised as much by his aunts and uncles as he was by his mother, and never lacked for love, nurturing and good role models. 

When Don was 5 years old, Enid married a good man named Bill Hass. Enid and Bill had four children, which, together with Don and his older sister, made six children in the family. The family moved around Alberta as Bill pursued different jobs, ending up in Edmonton in 1945, at the end of World War II.

Starting at age 10 ½, Don would live with his family during the school year, and then spend summers on his uncles’ ranches in southern Alberta. He became a cowboy, working alongside the other cowboys on the ranch, learning about horsemanship and care of horses and cattle. He developed a deep love for horses, which stayed with him his whole life.

He also developed a solid work ethic, which guided his life and which he passed on to his children. In fact, I can remember working on the house with him, at age 17, and hearing him say to me, “I finally taught you how to work, and now you’re leaving.” It sounded like he was complaining, but I think he was pretty satisfied.

He got his first job at age 12, as a paper boy for the Edmonton Journal. This gave him money in his pocket and taught him independence and self-sufficiency. In the summers, he would line up substitutes for his paper route so he could go down south and work on the ranches. At age 16, he bought his first car, a 1940 Nash, and used it to drive the kids in Edmonton to early-morning seminary.

At a youth dance, he noticed a pretty little 16-year-old girl from school, named Patricia French. She was not a member of the church, but was attending the dance with some friends. She was quite different from the “pruny Church girls” his mother kept trying to set him up with, but who did not interest him at all. Don began dating Pat, got her connected with the missionaries, baptized her, and added her to the list of kids he would pick up for early-morning seminary.

Don wanted to go to college, and had applied to BYU to study geology, but then the Korean War broke out, and those plans were put on the shelf. 

Bill Hass decided to start a long-haul trucking business, and eighteen-year-old Don became one of his drivers. Don drove trucks across Canada and the United States, but he knew this wasn’t the kind of job he wanted to do long-term. Besides, he and Pat were courting by now, and he wanted to spend time in Edmonton with her.

In March 1954, Don and another driver were at the customs office on the border in Manitoba, when they received word that Bill had died of a massive heart attack. They hurried home, and the family ended up selling off the trucking business. Don and his mother used the money from the sale of the trucking business to build a boarding house, which they called the Hasshold. The income from the boarding house supported his mother for many years, and one of the boarders ended up marrying Don’s sister Carolyn.

With his mother taken care of financially, it was time for Don to start his own family.

Don and Pat got married in 1955. He was 21 and she was 19. Pat was working as a school teacher, and Don got a job as a lab technician in Edmonton, in the exciting new world of plastics, with an up-and-coming company called Canadian Industries Limited. They had four children: Cheryl, Ray, Craig, and Doug. After Doug was born, they put their station wagon and their children on a train and moved from Edmonton to Toronto, Ontario, again with CIL. 

From there, Don followed new job opportunities and promotions across the border, to West Chester PA, Wilmington DE, Montreal Quebec, Naperville IL, Detroit MI, Marietta GA, and Bainbridge GA. His willingness to work hard and to move around allowed him to work in sales, engineering, research and management, eventually retiring as VP of Engineering for Amoco Fabrics, in Atlanta, without ever having a college degree. He was proud, however, of his certificate for the Executive Management course he took at the University of Michigan late in his career.

Don and Pat added Susan to the family in Toronto, and Shelly in Wilmington, making a total of six children. Over the years, they have taken in strays, that is emancipated or foster teens, and young adults, single or married, who needed a hand up. So, depending on how you count it, you could say they have dozens of children.

In 1975, Pat started showing symptoms of what was finally diagnosed as multiple sclerosis. They soon moved to Georgia, so that Pat could get better medical care. Don arranged his work responsibilities and his residence and office locations, so that he could drop everything and be home in less than 15 minutes if Pat needed him. He took training to become her primary caregiver, and he took care of her for 12 years. His devotion to her, and his single-minded care for her, was a powerful example to his family and to others, who have attempted to emulate his devotion in their own marriages.

Pat passed away in 1988, at the age of 52. Don was 55. In Pat’s final years, one of the frequent visitors to Don and Pat’s house had been Pat’s best friend, Linda Bess. Before Pat passed away, she told Don and Linda (separately) that she wanted them to get married. So they did.

Don and Linda lived in Acworth GA and Dothan AL. They went on adventures, including trips to Ireland, Hawaii, the Mediterranean, and their timeshare in Colorado. Linda supported Don’s passion for horses, and they more or less adopted each other’s grandchildren. The marriage ended in 2014, after 25 years, but they kept in touch, and the grandchildren and Don are still close.

Don and Linda served a mission together in Nauvoo, Illinois. Don worked as a sealer in the Atlanta and Birmingham temples, and this gave him the chance to officiate at the marriages of many of his grandchildren.

Because Don was raised on the ranches in southern Alberta, he became an avid horseman and had a passion for horses his entire life. He had a special interest in quarter horses. In Montreal, he built a barn for two horses in the backyard, and arranged with the neighbors across the road to keep his horses in their pasture. He eventually acquired some real horse property in western Cobb county. Later, when his son Doug bought some property for a horse farm in Acworth, Don served as barn building contractor, groomer,  feeder, ranch foreman, head horse wrangler, chief hay thrower, bushhogger, fence fixer, horse shoeing supervisor, tree cutter, and ditch digger for as long as he was able. Doug has inherited Don’s passion for horses and continues the tradition of horsemanship. There will always be cowboys in the Depew clan.

In Don’s later years, Doug and his family made room for him in their home. They gave him a great deal of independence, dignity and private space that allowed him to grow old gracefully. He enjoyed holding court in his chair in the sunroom, entertaining the third and fourth generation, and driving around the ranch in his golf cart with the big knobby tires. The siblings from Way Out West acknowledge and appreciate the unmeasurable time and resources that Doug and Vicki, and also Sue, put into caring for Don all those years.

Don enjoyed presiding at family reunions, where four generations would get together to honor him, and to enjoy each other’s company. The first reunion was at Doug’s ranch in Acworth. It was organized by his 12-year-old granddaughter, Ashley, who has since turned event planning into a career. Since then, reunions have been held in Morganton, Georgia, and Estes Park Colorado. 

Don Depew leaves behind two sisters and a sister-in-law, six children, 28 Depew grandchildren, 4 Bess grandchildren, 37 great-grandchildren, many nieces and nephews, and the hundreds of people who have been affected by his generosity, his faith, his service, and his friendship. His legacy extends beyond his immediate descendants to include all of the people whom he and Pat took in and sheltered and nurtured over the years, and the many people that he touched in a lifetime of teaching and leadership.

Photo credit: Gene Praag

Things you don't have to do when you don't have a dog

When you don't have a dog:

You don't have to put the couch cushions up when you leave the dog alone in the house.
You don't have to cover the living room furniture with blankets to hide the shredded cushions.
You don't have to find chewed-up books and other important stuff around the house.
You don't have to go through the ordeal of potty-training the puppy.
You don't have to clean the dog poop that's been smeared on every square inch of the bathroom floor by a puppy that didn't want to be left all alone while the family went out to dinner.
You don't have to shut all the bedroom and bathroom doors, all the time.
You can throw your used Kleenex tissues in any trash can you want to, because there's no dog to fish them out and chew them up and swallow them.
You don't have to chase the dog off the couch, off your bed, and so on.

You don't have to vacuum up dog hair every week. (However, you will find it in the vacuum cleaner bag for several months after the dog is gone.)
You don't have to pick dog hair out of the food you're preparing.
You don't have to tell the dog to shut up whenever someone knocks on the door or rings the doorbell.
You don't have to tell the dog to shut up when the UPS or FedEx truck goes down the street.
You don't have to tell the dog to shut up in the middle of the night when his snoring and whimpering wake you up.
You don't have to go sleep on the couch because he won't stop snoring and whimpering even when you tell him repeatedly.
You don't have to open the front door carefully or shut it quickly to keep the dog from bolting.
You don't have to drive around the neighborhood on July 5, helping your children post "lost dog" signs because he ran away during the fireworks the night before.
You don't have to carry him into the house after Animal Control returns him to you three days later, with the pads of his feet worn away and bloody.
You don't have to go to court, plead guilty and pay a massive fine, because he bolted out the door and bit the mailman one day when you weren't even home.
You don't have to rent a P.O. box because the mailman won't deliver mail to your house as long as you still own the dog.
You don't have to fight the dog to see who goes through the doorway first.
You don't have to deal with his incessant begging for food from the table.
You don't have to deal with him scratching or licking himself inappropriately in front of guests.
You don't have to take him for walks in cold, wet or otherwise miserable weather.
You don't have to pick up his poop, put it in a bag, and dispose of it in your trash can where it can smell up the place until garbage day.
You don't have to clean up after him when he poops or pees on the carpet.
Or when he vomits on the carpet.
You don't have to protect him from rambunctious little children who tend to run over him.
You don't have to take him to the vet when he overdoses on jars of pills he pulled off the counter.
You don't have to yell "it serves you right" when he eats an entire batch of something off the counter while your back is turned, and he looks at you with pure misery in his eyes when you notice.
You don't have to trip over him in the dark when you get up in the middle of the night.
You don't have to endure his cold nose waking you rather abruptly in the morning.
You don't have to worry about running over him when you push out your chair after a meal.
You don't have to step over him or yell at him to move while you're preparing meals or cleaning up after meals.
You don't have to take him to a kennel when you're leaving on a long trip.
You don't have to pick him up from the kennel and endure his enthusiastic welcome-home affections when you return.
You don't have to take pictures of him frolicking in the snow like a puppy, in the winter.

You don't have to wish you had taken video of him running at full speed, pure beauty in motion, in the fields near your house.
You don't have to imagine the rabbits laughing with glee as he chases them up and down the street at 11 at night.
You don't have to take him for rides in the car, and think of how much like a little kid he is, in that back seat with the windows down.
You don't have to sit with him and comfort him during thunderstorms or fireworks shows.
You don't have to sit and scratch his head, his back, his belly or any other body parts while he snuggles up next to you during a movie.
You don't have to feel even the least bit guilty about leaving him at home alone, yet again.

You don't have to endure his joyful welcome when you're the first one to return home in the evening.
You don't have to call out his name and listen for the sound of his tags or his footsteps when you return home.
You don't have to fill his food or water dish every day.
You don't have to receive his thanks for filling his food or water dish every day.
You don't have to give him doggy treats and see the look of delight on his face.
You don't have to make him do tricks for doggy treats.
You don't have to see him smile when he's playful or happy.
You don't have to waste perfectly good bacon or ice cream on him, or see the doggy joy in his eyes when you do.
The same goes for waffles.
And steak.
And anything with cheese.
You don't have to deal with him snuggling up next to you, or lying on your feet, or lying next to your chair, or nuzzling up to you and fishing for affection.
You don't have to envy him snoozing in that patch of sunlight on the carpet.

You don't have to pretend that you don't like him when people are watching.
You don't have to watch him slow down as he gets older and arthritis sets in.
You don't have to give your money to a veterinarian as easily as you would give it to a pediatrician, if only the doctor can make him stop hurting and be healthy again.
You don't have to worry every time he lies down, that he might not be able to get back up.
You don't have to wonder if he's in constant pain and just being stoic about it, because he doesn't want his humans to worry about him.
You don't have to make that agonizing decision about letting him live in misery or putting him to sleep.
You don't have to hold him in your arms and love him while he takes his last breath.
You don't have to watch his lifeless eyes staring at you as you gently lower him into that hole in the ground.
You don't have to endure being eaten by mosquitos as they fill the hole with dirt, burying him once and for all.

You don't have to scratch his name into the dirt of his grave as a first, makeshift memorial.

You don't have to keep finding his possessions around the house for weeks after he's gone, and enduring the heart pains when you do.
You don't have to miss him when he's gone.

Mark Miller: Another Life Well Lived

Local builder, artisan, and businessman Mark Miller passed away July 5, 2012, of a heart attack. The heart attack was a surprise to everyone, and an autopsy revealed that Mark was such a superfit athlete that he had an enlarged heart. In the words of his 10-year-old daughter, the muscles of Mark's heart had grown so big that the nerves couldn't keep up with them. When the heart attack hit, he was relaxing on the couch reading a book, after having spent an enjoyable morning with his girls.

This strong and gentle man had enjoyed the perfect life with his sweet wife and young daughter, and although his passing was a time of sadness, it was also a time of comfort and peace – and cheer, actually. He had prepared well for the eventuality of his death, and he and his family knew that death is just a transition between two phases of living, and that they will be reunited one day. Until that day, Mark will live on through his legacy: the things he made with his hands, the property he beautified for his family, the hundreds of young people he coached in cross country, and the friends and other people he touched in his lifetime.

Mark Miller, August 26, 1959 - July 5, 2012

Mark's family hosted a Celebration of Mark's Life on their beautiful property yesterday. It would have been Mark's 53rd birthday. I was invited to speak at the celebration. There was no eulogy or sermon, only people from the different circles Mark had lived in, telling about the influence Mark had had on them. Here's what I said:


I’m speaking for all the parents of all the kids that Mark and Kathy ever coached. Three of our children ran XC at Loveland HS, and so we got to know Mark and Kathy very well: we did lots of pasta dinners, killer hikes, Rattlesnake runs, and Fall River Road runs.

Mark and Kathy have been a team for as long as I can remember, but Kathy asked me to concentrate on Mark in my remarks. I don’t know if I can separate the influence of the one from the other, but I do know that Jason, Kellie and Lori, especially Kellie, thought the world of Mark. If he had asked Kellie to run across Lake Loveland without getting her ankles wet, she would have done it for him. 

They called him their coach, but Mark was a masterful teacher. By example and by precept, he taught our kids a lot, about running – about life – and about believing in something. We have observed over the years that it takes a special breed of kid to be an XC runner: with only a few exceptions, it's the ones who are serious, studious, smart, and more importantly, morally upright – "righteous" might be a better word. Mark was always careful to nurture and encourage those character traits, and the kids responded to that nurturing. As a result, in addition to Molly, he has a posterity that numbers in the hundreds. 

If you count all of the runners like Kellie, then the 128th Psalm finds real fulfillment in Mark's life: 

1      Blessed is every one that feareth the LORD; 
            that walketh in his ways. 
2      For thou shalt eat the labor of thine hands: 
            happy shalt thou be, 
            and it shall be well with thee. 
3      Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine 
            by the sides of thine house: 
            thy children like olive plants 
            round about thy table. 
4      Behold, that thus shall the man be blessed that feareth the LORD. 
5      The LORD shall bless thee out of Zion: 
            and thou shalt see the good of Jerusalem 
            all the days of thy life. 
6      Yea, thou shalt see thy children's children, 
            and peace upon Israel. 

Kathy, thanks for everything you and Mark have done for our children. May God give you peace.

About Funerals

At my grandmother's funeral in 1993, my uncle gave the eulogy. He prefaced his remarks with this little lecture, aimed at certain members of the congregation:

"It has come to our attention that some of you were offended by the goings-on at the viewing last night. We make no apologies for our behavior. It was just the way Grandma would have wanted it; and if she had been alive, she would have been right there in the middle of it."

It's better if you go back and reread it in my uncle's soft Scottish brogue.

The offensive behavior he was referring to? Well, let's see. My aunts and my adult female cousins were chasing each other around the funeral home, snapping each other's bra straps. My younger, teenage cousins were in the kitchen, playing poker for Smarties (M&Ms, for the Yankees reading this). The preteen cousins were playing sardines or freeze tag or something. And the rest of us were laughing and telling stories about our time spent with Grandma.

In my religious tradition, we weep for the temporary separation from our loved ones, but we rejoice that it is only temporary, and we look forward to a happy reunion with them upon our own death, with all family relationships restored. So we wept at Grandma's funeral; but before and after the services, we enjoyed each other's company at the massive family reunion that her passing had occasioned. And like my uncle said, we had nothing to apologize for. Grandma would have loved it.

A life well-lived

I have written about two so-called "Christian" preachers who predicted that the world would soon come to an end, one in May 2011, and one in May, 2012.

A lot of New-Agey people have made a big deal about the fact that the Mayan calendar ends sometime in 2012, asserting that the ancient Mayas knew that the world would end on that date and therefore there was no need for more days on the calendar.

For those who believe in God and an afterlife, the date of the world's ending should be totally irrelevant. Whether you're here on earth when it happens, or whether you die first, doesn't matter. You're going to meet your Maker one way or the other.

What matters is not when the world ends, or when you die, but how you live. This is true whether you're a New Ager, a Buddhist, or a born-again Christian.

If you don't believe in an afterlife, then you still have some measure of immortality to look forward to, and again, it all depends on how you live.

At the end of this life, if you believe in an afterlife, all you can take with you are your deeds, your memories, and your character. Everything else, rich or poor, you have to leave behind. And what you left behind becomes your legacy.

How you live determines, in large part, the legacy you leave behind, and it is your legacy that makes you immortal (that is, if you don't believe in an afterlife - but stay with me here, okay?). People like George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Rosa Parks and Mother Teresa will live forever, because the things they did have impacted so many generations.

Small people who live out their lives in front of a TV with a beer in their hand don't have much of a legacy to leave behind. And rich people who hoard their money while they're alive and leave it to be divided up among greedy and ungrateful heirs don't leave much of a legacy, either. And the legacy of tyrants, although their evil deeds will still be felt for a few generations, eventually crumbles to dust like the statue of Ozymandias in Shelley's poem.

Your legacy comes from all the things you did to try to make the world a better place. I had a Sunday School teacher once, an immigrant from Finland who could barely speak English and was so poor that she wrote out her lesson plans in pencil on scraps of cardboard. No, I'm not kidding. But we, a bunch of rowdy 14 year olds in Montreal, felt the warmth of her love and the power of her testimony, and it made a difference in our lives.

I know many wealthy people who are determined to use their wealth to make the world a better place - by generously giving of their time as well as their money to help other people. Their legacy will be measured in the lives that they changed, not in the money they made.

* * *

Today I celebrate the legacy of a woman who was born on March 16, 76 years ago, and who succumbed to multiple sclerosis at age 52. I honor her for how she lived.

Patricia Ann French was born and grew up in western Canada, the only child of a young bank executive and his pretty wife. She attended teacher's college for two years and became a schoolteacher in the early 1950s. Her legacy began with her students, who adored her as much as she loved them, and who carried the lessons she taught them into successful careers all over Canada.

Pat Depew as a young schoolteacher

She married Donald Albert Depew, the son of  a cowboy and the stepson of a long-distance truck driver, a high school graduate who dreamed of doing something more than driving a truck. When children started coming, she quit teaching to become a full-time mother. When Don got a job as a lab technician for a large chemical company, she packed up the kids and followed him, first to eastern Canada and then all over the eastern U.S., as he gained experience and changed jobs, following promotions and opportunities across the continent.

Wherever they went, she used her hands. She played piano and organ, she sewed and quilted and knitted, she painted and wallpapered and upholstered and hung curtains, she cooked for her growing family and for others in need, she tended sick children and sick neighbors, she planted gardens, she dipped chocolates and gave them as gifts, and she made costumes and decorations for countless parties and school plays. With her hands, she touched hundreds of people - no, more like thousands - all of whom were permanently changed by her touch and made better in some small way.

She was an only child, and yet she managed to raise six children - three boys and three girls - and all of them became contributing members of society. None of them were ever drunk or stoned or high. None were ever arrested or thrown in jail. None of them became pregnant in their teens or out of wedlock. None of them beat their spouses or children. All of them attended a college or university. Of the three sons, one is a doctor, one an orthodontist, and one an engineer, and all three have become teachers and mentors of young people, passing on her legacy to another generation. All three of them have been missionaries in foreign lands, spreading her gifts of music and love on three different continents. Of the daughters, one became a banker, one an accountant, and one a real estate agent.  All three have been married, and although only one is still married, all three of them are raising daughters of their own (huh! and only two sons among the three of them!) who are growing up to be much like their grandmother.

Don, me, and Pat, April 1979

She gave all of her children the joy of reading, the joy of learning, and the joy of music. She and Don gave all of them the gift of teaching and the gift of writing. Pat and Don worked together to teach their children morals, values and character. They worked as a team to support their children in activities in school and out of school.

At age 40, Pat began to develop symptoms of multiple sclerosis. Back then, the drugs and treatments used to combat MS and drive it into remission did not exist, and she endured 12 painful years before losing the battle. In those 12 years, she affected more people than she had in all the years before.

Even in her weakened state, she and Don opened their house to young people and not-so-young people who had nowhere to go, giving them a safe and reliable place to call home until they were back on their feet and strong enough to strike out on their own. She insisted on holding parties which included square dances and other fun activities, even though she just sat on the side in her recliner and smiled.

Long after she had lost the use of her hands, with which she had blessed so many people, Pat published a book: a history of her ancestors, which has become a reference work for people she has never even heard of.

Even when Pat could no longer walk or see clearly, and when she could barely talk, people were buoyed up by her cheerfulness and enthusiasm. She never let the pain get her down. People called her "indomitable." Her example inspired everyone around her to see their problems differently and to rise above them.

Passport photo, 1984

Her greatest gift was one that she gave to her beloved husband, Don, and to her best friend, Linda, shortly before her passing. It was a selfless gift, one that few can comprehend, but one that continues to bring people joy today, 24 years later.

Patricia Ann French Depew left a legacy of thousands of lives made better for her having touched them. But her greatest legacy is her six children, 28 grandchildren, and  11 (so far) great-grandchildren, and the difference they will make in the world. If you believe in heaven, then Pat is already there, waiting for everybody else to join her. If you don't believe in heaven, then Pat is still immortal, because she has left a mark on the world that will never be erased.

ADDENDUM:

Pat and Don were reunited on October 27, 2022.

ADDENDUM #2:

For other examples of lives well-lived, see the following entries at Zyzmog Galactic HQ:

- Don Depew

- Jason Depew
- Steven R. Covey
- Steve Jobs
- Ray Bradbury
- Mark Miller