Silver Creek Park Manitowoc, Wisconsin Saturday, July 21, 2007 I could see him there at Silver Creek. He’d have looked like a defiant but thoughtful teen – sitting at a picnic table, sucking a can of beer, smoking a cigarette and contemplating his options in life as the river tumbled by, nearly to the bay of Lake Michigan. His three older sisters told me they’d sometimes find Danny here after school or even earlier if he’d cut classes. They tried to keep an eye on him, but World War II had left the family without a breadwinner and each of them was left to fend for themselves. Danny could not, would not, depend upon his mother, sisters or anyone else to take care of him. The world was certainly not fair, but Dan realized at an early age that it was in his power to choose his future. Yes, I could easily visualize this rebel teen, the man who would be my dad, looking all James Dean-like -- with his long, dark, duck-tail hair, a pack of cigarettes sticking out of his left shirt pocket or rolled up in the short-sleeve of his white tee-shirt, sitting by the side of the river wondering what in the hell he was going to do. It wasn’t long after he graduated from high school and was tending bar in Manitowoc that he met my mother, the newly divorced, young woman with two baby girls. We were without a father, just like Dan. But our fate would not be similar to Dan’s. He saw to that. We never doubted that we mattered to this man, we knew only as our Dad. He succeeded at giving us, what had been denied to him – a father and a foundation of love and security. We were what he chose to do. More than forty-five years later, my sister and I walked out onto the sandstone slabs that still crossed Silver Creek and poured Dad’s ashes into the shallow, rushing water. A few yards away, the family gathered around several picnic tables, speaking in turn about the boy, the man, the dad, uncle, and brother we so terribly missed. I never realized how much my cousins admired him. I had never heard some of the stories my aunts shared about Dan’s antics, or how incredibly hard it had been for them just to survive. His teenage run-ins with the law were familiar and expected, but I knew few of the tales that highlighted the generous and truly kind ways he had given of his time and talent to help his extended family. Dan had chosen to live an honorable, hard-working life that truly mattered to those of us gathered together this day at his final resting place. I didn’t even think about what I would share. I just let it pour out of me, like the can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer we emptied into the creek for him. I expressed my passion to help others as a teacher and I realized that commitment of caring came from my Dad – the one who had not been cared for. I looked over at my Aunt Janice, and saw her bobbing head and tears streaming over her smiling face, as she shared with everyone that he had inspired her in the same way. Next to me at the graffiti-filled picnic table, my husband Glenn sat with his head-hung low, listening to us all. He was next to speak and I wasn’t sure what he would say. Perhaps he’d talk about the first morning after we were married, when he called Dad because our car wouldn’t start. “Jeeesus Christ!” Dan barked into the phone. “I thought I was gaining a son-in-law, not another car to work on!” Of course, he was quickly at our rescue. Glenn did tell that story and others that highlighted so well the oxymoronic facets of Dan’s personality. In the midst of tears and laughter Glenn paused and cleared his throat. We could feel the tone of his dialogue changing. He said he had a message from Dan. Glenn then related how he was enjoying all of our anecdotes and thinking of what to say, when he looked down at the picnic table and saw carved into the table top, between his resting arms, these words: I love all you people. Remember that. I love you too Dad, and I haven’t forgotten your message. Each day we choose, and we can always choose to love. Written by Julie Gibeault, Dan’s oldest daughter Submitted to the Online website memorial, Much Loved: http://www.muchloved.com December 2, 2008