Pop was born on June 21, 1918, and lived 101 years after that. He died the day before the first case of the pandemic was reported in this country. He had impeccable timing.

Pop was a well-known mountaineer. You can find him here in wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dee_Molenaar

But more important to me, personally, than his mountaineering achievements, was who he was as my dad. In the last years of his life, he lived near me, and we were able to spend a lot of time together – going on drives, and exploring the highways and byways of this part of the state.

I wrote a couple books about our adventures together in his later years. Here’s an excerpt from the first one, *Are You Taking Me Home Now?: Adventures with Dad*:

“I Don’t Want to Run Errands”

May 29, 2017

Dad: Let’s head out into the open countryside, head towards the coast.
Karen: Let’s do it!
Dad: I don’t want to go into the city. I don’t want to run errands with you.
(I nod my head in understanding.)
Dad: (His voice cracking.) I love you.
Karen: I love you, too.
Dad: It’s nice that we have each other to love.
Karen: Yes, it is!
Dad: Thank you for including me when you take these drives.
(I smile – I take these drives FOR Dad.)

I turn onto Samish Island Road, thinking maybe I’ll go to Bayview State Park.
Dad: Have you ever been to that little island that’s connected to the land?
Karen: Samish Island? Do you want to go there?
(Dad nods his head, and I head out to do the loop around Samish Island.)
Dad: Is Mom alive?
(I shake my head no.)
Dad: I had a dream that she’d died. (He starts tearing up.) I think I’ve already mourned her.
(Dad’s quiet for a bit. We’ve almost finished the Samish Island loop now.)
Dad: Can we see Mount Rainier from here?
Karen: I think it’s hidden behind those hills.
Dad: Let’s go someplace where we can walk on a beach.
(I head for Bayview State Park.)

After parking, Dad and I make our way to a bench near the beach. When I’m getting Dad’s walker out of the back of the car, I see the cans of root beer I put in there months ago – I’d bought them for Dad, and had forgotten about them. Now I grab one, join Dad on the bench, and hand the root beer to him. His face lights up and he smiles and takes it from me.
Dad: Do you ever dream about Mom?
Karen: Yes. I had a dream that she was sitting on the top bed of a bunk bed, dangling her feet over the edge. She had a happy, mischievous smile on her face. There was an open casket on the bed behind her. She said, “I’m done with this!” and hopped down. I felt like she was done with the whole dead-thing, and was happy. Have you had a dream about Mom?
Dad: Yes. I dreamed she died.
Karen: She loved you, and loves you very much.
Dad: She was such a wonderful person.
Karen: Yes, she is!
(Dad and I are quiet for a while, just enjoying the sunshine.)
Dad: This is nice here. I’m glad we made this stop. That’s a nice, gentle breeze. It smells like saltwater. (He belches and laughs at his own belch.)

When we get back in the car, Dad says he had a dream where he had to fart once, but there was no place to fart. He starts laughing – cracking himself up. I’m laughing, too. Then Dad asks, “Do you and Mom have a lot of nice conversations?” And I tell him that we do.

As we’re heading back to Dad’s home, he turns his head and points, “That would make a happy picture! That house all covered in flowers! But I don’t have my camera with me…” I turn the car around and head back to the flower-bedecked house, and get out my camera for Dad to snap a photo.

We get back to his home, and Dad doesn’t recognize it at first – he has moved three times in the last year, and it’s all a little confusing. I explain that their last home couldn’t take Mom and him back when Mom got sick. And then when Mom passed, we had to find another home for Dad. I tell Dad that I felt that Mom had directed us to this place – a place with hummingbird feeders and cats and dogs. Dad asks, “So Mom knows these people then?” And I think about this, and then nod my head yes. (I believe Mom does know these people, even if they never actually met in the person.)

Dad gets back in the house and doesn’t recognize anything. I ask him if he wants to go to his room – and he asks, “I have a room here?” I point the way, and once he enters he says, “Oh! I remember this place now!” He sees his paintings on the walls, and pictures of his friends and family. He realizes he’s home. He starts grinning at himself and says, “I’ve been thanking these people for allowing me to stay here.”

Dad points to a book by Leif Whittaker about Leif’s father, Jim. “I think I got that book for Christmas.” I tell him that I think Jim Whittaker gave him that book when he came to visit him here. “Jim visited me here?!” Yes, I tell him, also his friends Rick and Cindy, and Tom Hornbein, and Mary from the Mountaineers. Dad is shaking his head in amazement now. He says, “The things I’ve forgotten would fill a book!”

Karen: Are you going to take a nap now?
Dad: Yes, I want to make that transition into the dream.
Karen: What dream is that?
Dad: (Tearing up.) The dream about the real world. (And I know he’s thinking about the world where Mom is still with him.)
Karen: I love you, Dad.
Dad: I love you, Karen.