My Father’s Eulogy

My name is Myah Bowermaster and I am my father’s keeper.

Dad truly had nine lives and I was his keeper in all of them. He was 53 when I was born, so I grew up knowing that I was always in some way on borrowed time. Doctor visits, medications, hospital stays, blood sugar, heart surgeries, cooking us healthy meals - I have spent the last 20 years - 2/3 of my life - caring for my dad. Trying to squeeze every last ounce of life I could from him. And I would do it all 10 times over again.

There were many times that we had hard conversations, when I had to be a big girl and talk to doctors, when I had to face his mortality. Grieving my father as he still lived was harrowing but it also taught me the value of a moment, of a memory. It taught us both how fleeting life could be. It made us both cherish the time we had so deeply. Treating every goodbye like the goodbye. Every embrace as if we’d never feel it again. Which meant that the last time, we made it count and for that I’m eternally grateful.

I’ve burned every conversation in my mind no matter how short, saved every voicemail, even those without words because I knew that some day, the pain would be that much worse if I hadn’t.

I mean, It’s bittersweet. Because how lucky am I to have had some warning, to make the most of the time that we had, but also to endure the pain of anticipating the end… It’s unfair.

I turn 29 in 10 days, and I’ve realized that I will spend more of my life remembering my dad than I got to experience with him. He lived so much life before I got to be a part of it. I can’t possibly eulogize the entire essence of who he was. But what I can do, is tell you about the parts of him that I got to have and hold. To love and be loved by.

Growing up, I sometimes felt like a black sheep in the Bowermaster clan. Though not at the fault of anyone but my own anxiety. I’m not an artist or a musician. I can’t sing and I’m not very crafty. I felt like I just didn’t quite fit ya know? Dad didn’t care though; he celebrated everything I was and never focused on the things I wasn’t. He went to great efforts to make sure I knew that the only thing separating me from our family was highways, never hearts.

A few years ago I was going through dad’s drawers looking for something, and I found this old tin box. I opened it and inside were all these different scraps of paper and print outs of blog posts or poems I had written. They spanned my entire life, from crayon scratched words to crumpled up journal entries tossed away, and typed prose I shared with the world. I asked dad why he would’ve kept it all and his answer was simple “because it’s your art! You’re a writer!”

Well dad, I bet you never thought I’d be writing your eulogy, but I hope you like this piece, I hope I make you proud today.

When I was little dad would do that rocket ship thing.
Ya know where they grab under your arms and lift you up into the sky - but it wasn’t the sky. It was your sky.
When you’re that little, the world seems as small as you are. And by the time it isn’t, they can’t lift you high enough… but they try.
They can sometimes get you high enough to see over the next hill but one day their best isn’t enough and you’re on your own.
One day it’s you that does the lifting. Giving all the strength you have to give them just that moment, a second, to feel that joy again. The joy of seeing the world for all it could be, instead of all that it is. To feel weightless.
It’s reminding them that you did it in repayment, even in a small way, as a token of thanks for the love that got you here.
But its also loss and grief, as the lifting becomes more constant than fleeting. It’s knowing you’re losing him, and you knew you always would but not now, not right when life was getting good.

Losing a parent isn’t something you can ever prepare for. I naively thought I could. But I couldn’t have been any more wrong. Losing a parent is a paradox. On one hand you become the ultimate adult, in charge of laying them to rest, telling family, arranging an obituary… and on the other, it makes you feel 5 years old again. Like you’re standing alone in a crowd at the fair and no matter how frantically you search for dad, no matter what hand you reach for, he isn’t there.

To open your heart for love, is to prepare it for pain. What is grief… if not love, persevering?

As hard as this grief is, it’s a gift. It’s a reminder of how deeply I loved and was loved by him. So in some ways I hope it never leaves. I hope I never stop searching for his hand in the crowd. I hope I never stop craving the sound of his belly laugh or the shuffle of his feet.

You all knew and loved dad but I want to take the time to tell you some things you might not know. To share the pieces of him I will hold close forever.

Dad always got a chuckle when I called him a worn out hillbilly. And while, if we’re honest, he was - he went to great lengths to also be everything I needed. I got a different version of him. He slowed down. He couldn’t run around the yard with me but he could hold my feet while we watched a Hard Days Night.
As a 6 year old in 2003 I stuck out a little given that my favorite band was the Beatles instead of the backstreet boys. My friends didn’t know who Moe Bandy was but I made sure they all knew that my dad was a retired rock star.

When I was really little dad would hold me up to the sky and I would say “dad look at the moon!!!” And dad would say “I know little honey and guess what? I love you to the moon and back” And I would say “oh my goodness that’s so far!!!” Then when we were in his favorite place, the hill country, dad would point to the sky and say “Myah, look at all the stars!” and I would say “I love you for every star in the sky!” and he would say “oh my goodness that’s so many!!”. There were many things dad loved about the hill country but most of all he loved the silence. But it was more than just an absence of sound. It was the feeling of looking at the stars and knowing he was part of something so much bigger than us. When he looked at the stars at night deep in the heart of Texas, he felt connected to it all. And that brought him so much wonder and so much peace.

While Dad loved the stars and I loved the moon… I was his sunshine and he was my whole world.

He loved everything and everyone so deeply and with no reservation. He didn’t do half truths or half commitments. He either loved you with all he had or frankly, he didn’t think about you. So congratulations, if you are in this room you should know that dad really really really loved you.

Alright now it’s time I say the quiet part out loud – it was a little weird growing up with brothers that were old enough to be my dad. But it was also just as special. I remember looking at them and seeing one half of our dad in each of them. Feeling that same peaceful calm in the blue of their eyes. Admiring that same deep belly shaking laugh. That same gentle way about them. All 3, these immoveable forces. Warm hugs that heal, warm hands that comfort, a safe place, a soft landing, with gentle words and loud jokes. Dad loved to see any 2 of us together but especially all 3 of us. He is absolutely beaming that 1000 watt smile right now.

I wasn’t around when Dad became a dad, or even when he first became a granddad. But I know how special it was to him. I know he giggled with adoration every time his grandkids called him Cowboy, and then rolled his eyes whenever an adult would try to. I still remember the day he found out he was a GREAT grandfather. The only thing better than his belly laugh was the choked up version with his misty blue eyes. So overjoyed. So mesmerized. So filled with gratitude and pride. Being on the receiving end of that reaction felt like winning the lottery. There were so many of you who never got to see it, but were still the object of it.

Dad liked to be strong and somewhat stoic. He wasn’t afraid to have or show feelings but he still tried to be cool calm and collected around so many. But around me he had a tendency to pull back the layers. When he did I got to see these quiet emotional moments first hand as he watched all of your lives. But you also got to see his.

When I was 8, I almost lost him. We almost did. I think his heart surgery changed something soul deep in him. It was a preview of his own mortality, a chance to take stock. And he didn’t like what he saw. He wanted to be better. And so he was.

He took accountability and ownership at every opportunity, he cared more to listen and understand than to be right. He showed up. He gave 100% of himself 100% of the time. He refocused the center of his world from his own life to that of all of us, especially to his kids. He softened his hard parts and sharpened the weak ones. And for me, that meant that he became super dad.

While dad held multitudes he was also a creature of habit. I had a hard life growing up, but he always worked hard to be my constant. He wanted to do everything he could to give me a sense of normalcy. For us that meant routines. Matlock after school, Jeopardy at 6 while we shared a can of peaches, and on Sundays, I would cook us dinner, then we’d watch the Cowboys disappoint us, and end the evening baking a tray of brownies together.
Every day before school dad would make me the same breakfast. 2 PB&J sandwiches with red plum jelly mixed with the peanut butter before it was spread, no crusts and cut in 4 triangles each. Arranged artistically with exactly 3 M&M’s in the middle of the plate and a chocolate milk extra chocolate in my Mickey Mouse cup. He served me that breakfast from age 10 to the day I shipped out for basic training. Maybe not the breakfast of champions but it was the breakfast of love. And it sure beat those kitty litter sandwiches he liked to threaten me with.

Dad also always let me pick the movies. Be it Abraham Lincoln vampire hunter, pride and prejudice zombies, WolfMan, or Harry Potter. He just loved to share things with me. He even went the extra mile and started watching the Vampire Diaries with me. Every Thursday evening we’d settle in with dinner that I cooked and watch the new episode. Don’t worry I traded his time with teen dramas with episodes of Gunsmoke and Rawhide. The movies I picked weren’t all new, I picked some of my favorite classics like Casablanca, Help, or True Grit. 50 years between us but we loved to share our interests with eachother. I showed him how to use an iPhone and he showed me how to use a record player.
He taught me how to check the oil in my car and I put his doctor’s appointments on the calendar. He did my laundry and I laid with him in every hospital bed. Right to the end.

Dad really did try his best to relate to me. The very first concert he took me to was a surprise. Right before we pulled into the parking lot he was trying to get me to guess who the artist was. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. I guessed everything under the sun and his face kept the smile but slowly started to fade as I guessed Aaron Carter, NSYNC, the Cheetah Girls, Avril Lavigne… he finally gave up and said “come on Myah, what’s that song you sing in the car every day… you know the one, who who who, who let the dogs out.” Dad really thought that the Bahama men raggae group were my favorite band. And let me tell you – we had the very best time. I wore that men’s adult large shirt from the merch stand to bed for the next 10 years. God, we laughed so hard that night. Hearing my dad scream the lyrics to Who let the Dogs out with me on his shoulders was enough to make me feel like I was at Woodstock.

My favorite sound was his big whole body laugh with his squinted eyes and hand on his belly. More often than not laughing at his own jokes. I’ve always liked to say that he invented the dad joke and I’m sure he’s feeling pretty smughearing me say that now. Alright dad, I’ll finally admit it - you’re funny. And he was.
He wasn’t just a comedian or a musician - he was an artist. I was fortunate enough to get a front row seat to his painting journey. From sketching out his newest piece to picking the colors and all the under the breath expletives (though occasionally quite loud) as he tried to overcome his tendency for perfection.

I learned that patience isn’t just a virtue, it’s a tool. I watched him paint careful strokes, admired the crease in his brow as he concentrated, and saw that million dollar smile when he put that last perfect finishing touch. I watched him practice his signature for paintings after decades of signing Bill Bowers. I strolled the aisles of Hobby Lobby holding his hand, and became an amateur art critic at his request. There is something so special about seeing creativity personified in someone’s eyes. I sat mesmerized by his talent, his love of art, and his humility despite his genius.

Dad taught me the value of pausing to take it all in. He had this unique ability to see the beauty in the mundane. He wasn’t someone who saw the upside in everything or was always happy. But he was someone who noticed the things others would overlook. The smell of bluebonnets on a sunny day, the stars on a summer night, the smell of the air when fall is rolling in, displays of everyday love around him. If you paid enough attention you’d catch these moments of his quiet reflection. He would sit back and have the most peaceful smile. Just observing the things that make life beautiful and feeling grateful to be a part of it.

Dad was a lover, not a fighter. His first instinct was not to defend, it was to hold. Not to punch but to console. Sometimes this annoyed the hell out of me. Sometimes I wanted to see the rage in me reflected in him. But life taught me that wants and needs aren’t always aligned. I needed his peace to calm my chaos. I didn’t need a hammer, I needed a hug. And he was always that for me and more. I wish I could say that I will carry that spirit of calm with me, but I’m still my mother’s daughter. Thankfully, I took one lesson to heart – marry a man like your father. And I did. I married a man that my father loved dearly, who shares his kindness, calm, his ease of humor. 

Dad loved love. He was so happy to see that I - we - got it right in the end. Even if it took some of us more than 1 try. He hated when we would remind him how many tries it took him!

I have so many memories that I hold dear, but the one that is most precious to me is our father daughter dance at my wedding. Dad’s health had already been declining, and he was doing everything he could to stay healthy so he could be there for me. We danced to Butterfly Kisses, the song that was playing in the hospital room when I was born, that we danced to and sang hundreds of times as we gave butterfly kisses after bedtime prayer, on my 16th birthday that fell on Father’s day, and then at my wedding. As we danced, he and I held tight to each other and decided to say everything we could ever want to say before the clock of his life ran out. The tears streamed down our faces as we said our own special early goodbye. In that moment it was just us, carving out this pocket of the world where death, pain, and age couldn’t touch us.

All I wish is that I could preserve his personality.
To have the power to make infinite the mortal being that taught me what it means to be free, to be fallible, to err, to be human.
I beg to taste that innocence of butterfly kisses, rocket ships and a sky full of stars.
Of a world so small that he was the biggest part of it — but he still is, and that’s why it hurts, that’s what I’m going to miss.
That’s the part I’ll lay to rest along with him.
That’s the father I’ll never forget. That’s the piece I won’t ever get back.

My future children will never meet him, but they will know him.They will listen to his records, his laugh, his jokes. They will hear a dozen stories, meet the people he loved most, and wear his cowboy hat. They will not possibly go untouched by such a legend, even with time and space in between. The life and legacy of William Bowermaster, Billy Jay, Bill Bowers… of Dad… it is a flame that we will carry and keep alive for generations to come. 

There will never be another like him.

 In the end Bill was a Son, a Brother, a Nephew, a Cousin, an Uncle, an Airman, a Musician, an Artist, a mentor, a friend, a dad, a granddad, a great granddad, and above all – the center of our universe.

Dad, I love you to the moon and back. I promise to see your smile in every wax and wane, in every phase I will feel your warmth. I promise to go outside every night and look up at the stars. To live a life of gratitude and wonder. To carry your legacy. 

We’ll see you again on the other side.

Please make sure to save us all a seat and a song. We’ll play you off…