“You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” (Mae West)
My dad was a throwback to a different time. A different era. He could fix anything. Build anything. Seemingly do anything.
He had been a fire fighter, police officer, truck driver, elected official, army vet, and Hillsdale College maintenance worker.
He was featured in the top lawn and garden tractor magazine (he was so excited that he was finally a centerfold model). He also got more than half a million views on Facebook for his customized John Deere lawn mower/fire truck. In all, he built 5 custom tractors that have seen their fair share of parades.
Unfortunately, my father passed away a year ago.
My brother and I recently met up at the family property to prepare to auction off my dad’s stuff. He had every tool imaginable. He had tools to fix tools. Obviously, the sadness of him being gone weighed heavily on our hearts. But I also more clearly understood something else that I’ve only given lip service to in the past . . .
We can’t take this stuff with us when we go.
He had 50 acres, a pole barn, a workshop, 9 antique firetrucks, countless John Deere tractors, a made-from-scratch Civil War era cannon, and a house that he and my mom literally built by hand. My brother and I found old trophies, memorabilia, and family keepsakes. These seemed so important at the time but have been reduced to junk in dusty boxes. We also burned decades worth of receipts, bills, and tax returns that were in storage.
Essentially, his time on earth was reduced to dust and ashes . . . Except it wasn’t.
You see, we had visitor after visitor stop by and tell us what my dad had meant to them. Every person we’ve met since my dad passed has spoken of him like he was their best friend, uncle, or mentor. He had that effect on people. He never met a stranger. When he passed, the funeral home director mentioned that the line to get in for the viewing was as long as they had ever seen.
Sure, he had cool toys. But it was his interactions with others that cemented Frank Bechler’s legacy. Long after his toys, tools, trophies, and tractors rust and decay, the memories of what a good guy he was and how he helped people will live on. He had a positive impact on so many.
What about us? Do we want to own a bunch of valuable things or live a life that has meaning and significance? I am thankful that my dad had such a lasting legacy.