GAYLORD

John Gaylord Hoffman. Dad hated his middle name. Which is why we often threw it out there.

What do I remember about dad.

He and mom were struggling to raise five kids. I don’t think we ever felt like we were struggling. Maybe it was different for my siblings, but I remember life being pretty good—aside from being the youngest of five siblings.

He was a playful man. As children, he’d wrestle around with us on the floor. We’d sit on his stomach and pull on his tie. Pulling on his tie made him fart. That was a great thing for a kid. Mom was not so thrilled.

Dad was always doing, being, helping, ministering, working.

Even when he was a pressman at the Marion Star he had side jobs. He sold insurance. He sold Worldbook Encyclopedias. He sold a chemical deicer for snow and ice—when it came in contact with either, it heated up and melted the snow and ice. After leaving the Star, he became a real estate agent and later a broker.

Dad wrote letters to me every week after I left home, for I’m not sure how many years. EVERY SINGLE WEEK. I left home in 1977. Many were lost to termites in New Orleans. Damn termites. But I still have a treasure trove from 1985 through ’87 and a couple from ’88—some 70+ letters. I was thinking he wrote to me just the first year or two I was in California, after visiting and seeing that my life was ok. But 10 years later he was still writing me nearly every week. So I’m thinking the first time they were able to visit was after Scott and I were living together. After that the letters became fewer and further between—although I have no proof of that. He said they felt more comfortable with my wellbeing and liked my circle of friends.

My dad and I were close, especially as I got older. I’ve always felt fortunate that, as the youngest, I had a few years with mom and dad after my siblings had gone off to college or left home. It was just the three of us. Those were some tough years for dad. He’d left the Star. There was a union strike/dispute with the paper, after which, they refused to pay anyone’s pensions. He went into real estate and was moderately successful, but continued to do as much other work as he could.

He managed home rentals for a company/developer who handled Fair Park—a single-family home development Northeast of downtown Marion. I would sometimes accompany him on rent collection days. Occasionally tenants were evicted and dad had to inspect the property after they’d moved out. I was with him on one of these inspections. I wandered through the house, looking around. I slid open a closet door in one of the bedrooms and there was a little beagle puppy huddled in the corner, shivering. The puppy came to me when I got down on the floor to its level. I called to dad.

Of the many things I wanted as a kid but never got—#1 being a horse—a dog was on the list. Dad said we could take it home, but only until he found out if the owners didn’t want it or we found someone else to take it. I had high hopes. Tiger, my cat, was not amused. It was Tiger’s house after all. I can’t say I did my best to find a home for it, but after maybe a week, Tiger was back in control of her domain.

Dad struggled getting his real estate business going. There was little income coming in except for mom’s pay as a cook/baker in the kitchen at Harding High School—one of my brothers estimated she baked over 3,000 pies in her 25 years there. He got depressed. He despaired at his inability to properly support his family. While my brothers and sister were probably aware of the problems, mom and I were the ones living through it with him on a daily basis.

I don’t think dad graduated from high school, but he read a lot and became very self-educated—I’ve had to change that idea after coming across his graduation photo recently. At some point he got into and became very accomplished as a Graphoanalyst—a handwriting expert. Later in life he created a bit of a second career at it, supplementing his real estate commissions. He worked on a number of court cases for forgery and fraud charges. He spoke to various organizations about the profession, using large sheets of paper to demonstrate how the writing of different letters and words could reveal personality traits, good and bad—before whiteboards were a thing. He was able to use that part of handwriting analysis to aid in counseling kids and adults who were struggling with various issues. He often spoke to teacher and counseling organizations. His letters often included blurbs about a case he’d worked on, a group he’d spoken to, or kids he’d worked with. Handwriting analysis can be important to counseling as you can change certain personality traits by changing your handwriting. It’s true.

I wonder how many graphoanalysists there are in this day and age. No one handwrites anymore.

Dad always encouraged me in whatever I did. By the time his letters pick up in ’85, I was no longer trying to break into the entertainment business. Jon Ross and I had our talent agency going. Dad often wished us success and wished he could send us money to help out. He often said he hoped I’d keep singing even if it wasn’t professionally. “Maybe in the church”—hint hint.

JG—how mom called him—was awesome at backrubs. These also included a foot massage and a head massage. As kids, we were often on the receiving end of pre-bedtime relaxation treatment. Part of his routine was, he called, the karate chop massage. He used both hands, fingers spread apart, and would begin chopping up and down our backs—he always pointed out that you have to keep your fingers spread or it will hurt. And it did. I’ve demonstrated it both ways on David. Into my 30’s, 40’s, maybe even 50’s, whenever I was home dad would oblige me and give me a pre-bedtime backrub.

At the beginning of writing this memoir, it was clear to me early on that it was going to be more of a story, not just writing down what I remember. I credit my dad for that. As kids we had our own children’s stories. Dad made them all up—such an amazing imagination. Some were standalone stories, others were series with the same characters in different situations. They weren’t always religious but always had a moral to them. I remember we’d all be laying on Twyla’s bed, with dad in the middle, to hear the latest installment of Chad and Marsha…or whatever tale he had for us that night before going to bed. Mr. Pop Pop Popkinoff!

Dad was very active in the church, especially with teens and younger kids. He coached our local Bible Quiz team, which I was on. I think Kim Scholtz and Craig ?? were also on the team—we were the same age. He might have taught a Sunday School class. He created a character, Uncle Johnny, to tell his stories to the younger kids who didn’t attend the main church services yet. Mom made a red, white and blue stars and stripes shirt to wear for this. He accessorized with a matching tie, red Converse High Tops with white stars, and red sox to match. Somehow, his story telling fame spread and he was often asked to share his stories with kids at other churches.

He befriended a number of boys over the years, becoming a beloved mentor without really trying to be. He would wrestle around and box with the Persinger boys. There’s a great, sort of blurred action shot of him in his skimpy shorts throwing a punch—which I’ve not found yet. Jimmy was a troubled youth. Not sure how he came into dad’s life. Dad did his best, but Jimmy was in and out of trouble and juvie hall numerous times. Dad never gave up on him, though the rest of us did. Years after dad was gone, mom came home and the house had been broken into. My brothers were convinced it was Jimmy. I wasn’t so sure. They said some very disparaging things about him, which surprised me. It didn’t sound very Christian to me.

Mom and dad came to visit me a couple times when I first lived in Seattle. I was working for the Victoria Clipper then. Employees could ride up to Victoria, BC for free on a stand-by basis. And guests could too, I think. They made a trip to Seattle as part of a road trip with old friends Joe and Gloria Grace. We all planned to take the Clipper to Victoria, but there weren’t enough standby spaces. Though they told us to go ahead, dad didn’t want to leave Joe and Gloria behind. We didn’t go. Mom was visibly disappointed. They were driving a big boat of a car, so we decided to drive up to Vancouver, BC instead.

It was pretty quiet in the car for a good part of the trip. Mom was still a little upset, and dad was upset that he’d upset her. We stopped at a rest stop along the way to stretch our legs. They walked off together, talking quietly. When we were ready to continue on, they came back to the car holding hands. I don’t think I could have loved my parents more in that moment.

There are several good restaurants there. I wanted to treat them to somewhere special, but dad had other ideas. The first Denny’s he saw, that was where he wanted to eat. “Dad, you can eat at a Denny’s anywhere back home.”

We had lunch at Denny’s.

We did at least wander around the historic downtown area, Gastown, watched the steam clock do its thing. All in all, a good time was had by all.

I think Joe and Gloria continued on to Oregon to visit friends or family. So mom and dad finally made the trip up to Victoria with me on the Clipper IV. We did the touristy thing and took the island bus tour with a stop at Butchart Gardens. It’s a great way to get an overview of the island and operates sort of like a Hop On Hop Off bus tour. The gardens are a beautiful spot on the island. Butchart is made up of five separate gardens: Rose, Italian, Mediterranean, Japanese, and a sunken garden created in an old quarry, all on 55 acres. Dad and I enjoyed it well enough, but it was especially delightful for mom.