Gwen and I returned from a shopping trip on Friday evening, September 25, 2006. I noticed that the antenna on our telephone was blinking; announcing that we had missed a call and there was a message. I pushed the Play button on the telephone, and the thick U. P accent of Gwen’s brother, Ted, filled the room. “Gwen,” he said haltingly, obviously choking back emotions, “I just got a call from the nurse at the nursing home in Crystal Falls. Dad passed away at 7:05 this evening.” He then went on to tell us about funeral plans, but we only partially heard them. The news was not unexpected. Casimir, or, as his friends knew him, Barney, was 90 years old, and had been in failing health. Nevertheless, the news of the death of a loved one is always sudden. We had called Barney on a weekly basis, and our conversations with him hadn’t contained any indications that his death was imminent.
Just four months before this we had received the devastating news that Gwen had Stage IV lung cancer. We had not told her father about it; feeling that, in spite of the grim prognosis, ongoing treatments had at that point stabilized her condition, and there was no point in adding to his burden. We now made reservations at a motel in Iron River, and prepared for the long trip to the U. P. to bid him a final farewell.
Specific requests concerning his funeral that Barney had made were honored. His casket was surrounded by his “toys:” a fly rod, his hunting rifle, a pair of snowshoes, and his favorite pair of boots. Deer horns and beaver pelts were also on display. And, oh yes, there were some traps there too. He lay in his coffin in full glory—wearing a red and black plaid flannel shirt and wool hunting pants. On his head he wore a hunting cap that matched his shirt. As a tribute to his beloved wife, Bertha, his hands, roughened by years of hard work, held a rosary; even that, out of character as it may have been, seemed OK.
As I stood before his casket with Gwen, our four children and three grandchildren, I reflected on how my relationship with him had grown over the years. A relationship that began with a gruff NO! when I told him of my desire to marry his daughter, to grudging acceptance and numerous misadventures as he tried to make me into the kind of man he wished I had been had evolved into an easy friendship. I was grateful that there was no unfinished business between us.
As I turned and walked away from his casket I saw a pedestal, and on it was his most treasured possession; the book that Gwen had typed and I had gotten printed and bound for him. The name of the book was in gold lettering on the cover: Memoirs of a Hunter, Trapper, Fisherman and Jack-of-all-Trades by Casimir Arthur Bartczak.
I thank him for his daughter, my soul mate for 50 years. In spite of our rocky beginning, I grew to love him, and I miss him.
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