I have been quiet here the past few months. I chose to create space in my life while my dad was facing some serious health issues. On September 15, after suffering complications post LVAD surgery, he moved on to his next adventure. I cannot begin to describe what he meant to me, what he still means to me, will forever mean to me. I have been writing and writing, the words demanding expression in a way that makes me only the scribe, so there will be writing here soon. Of course I am Sad, but the overwhelming emotion is Gratitude I get (present tense) to be his daughter. And Love. And Joy.

For now, I’ll share a slightly longer version of his obituary.

Much love and light, laughter and life, Sarah

He done good, a life well lived. On September 15, 2019 William “Bill” Francis Tueting III moved on to his next adventure. His spirit lives on in those who love him, including his loving wife Pat, his two children and their spouses, and his five grandchildren. 

The man was a force. Bill loved tomatoes and cactus plants and roses that are prickly and bloom a very beautiful flower. He liked spicy food, photography, sailing, woodworking, history, mysteries, and standing night watch with his son. He loved to learn and he loved to teach and he tended not to like to loosen the reigns much, but we cut him slack on that one, so to speak. It wasn’t a control thing, it was more of a dotting the ‘I’s and crossing the ‘T’s to ensure the document is readable and life flows properly, without preventable surprises. Or something like that. 

Bill was generous and good. He was deeply kind, though he did not suffer easily fools nor hypocrites nor cruelty easily. Still, he was always kind, which is infinitely better than nice but not kind. The later are a common breed. Bill was for the more sophisticated user, a soft, generous loving Papa Bear in an occasionally salty exterior who was quick to laugh, loved fiercely, took joy in his role as a husband and father, and was constantly talking himself into a myriad of ways to enjoy life. Bill had this way of being joyfully surprised by a piece of news.  He didn’t say I love you much with words, but instead with every ounce of his being and even a unique noise of surprised delight upon seeing his family that was part screech and part yell.  “Oooo, it’s one of my favorite kiddos!” He simply loved being a husband and a dad and a grandpa. He loved jelly beans, sour patch kids, and candy corn. He loved stormy weather and clear skies. He loved. 

And, he also was grit, resilience, loyalty personified. He was the one you want holding the rope if you’re dangling over a cliff, or in the tank with you when the stuff hits the fan. He was someone you could count on. Always. He lived with a deep courage to believe in the good in life, that there’s always a solution, and the best is yet to come. Bill was a survivor and he taught his kids to be survivors as well. Take extra clothes, extra water, plan for the absolute worst, tell someone where you are going, don’t sail alone, expect to spend the night. Turn off the snow blower and lawn mower before clearing the grass or snow. It’s never the first mistake that does people in, it’s the stupid decisions they make in the panic after the first mistake. Similarly, lying about lying is never a good idea. Ice is good for a burned tongue. Fresh squeezed lemon and honey is good for a cough. Getting “up and at ‘em” in the morning is good for the soul. 

Each morning Bill made a latte and fresh squeeze orange juice and delivered both to his wife in bed, along with the morning paper. Every morning.  He loved to talk about his family and kids, some may say brag, but everyone knows it was because he was proud. He took tremendous joy in his family and that is where he gave his time most generously; to explain how to fix something or something about world politics, to explain how people work or tell a story with a lesson that acted as cautionary tales, like how not to eat hot pizza and let it fall on your chin and burn you. Regardless of a constantly robust to do list, problems encountered at any time were opportunities to stop and to teach, to instill values and lessons to navigate life. He took the time to play ping pong in the basement after work, his white Brooks Brothers shirt sleeves rolled up and work shoes sliding on the wood floor. He took time to commute in Chicago traffic with his wife, though the train would have been faster. He took time to drive to regattas and hockey tournaments and across the country to take his kids to school or to watch a game. He took time to teach them how to hold a hammer, replace an outlet, clamp and glue and repair anything. He taught them how to play gin, shine shoes, and test batteries. He taught little things that became habits: a job isn’t done until the tools are put away, expect that car in front of you to veer slightly right before turning left, to do the job right if you’re going to do it at all, air dry wet sails immediately, and wet tents, step into a throw, watch the ball all the way into the glove, keep a sleeping bag in your car in the winter. 

Bill was not much for silliness but loved a good laugh, a witty sense of humor, a clever joke. He could crack a joke in the most morbid of times, allowing others to laugh as well. He valued intelligence, and was not much for unearned authority, or idiots, or computers that didn’t work. He wasn’t much for saying sorry or for dogs that pooped on his lawn, or rather, their owners who didn’t clean it up. He was not much for cutting corners or people who lie. He was not much for sitting still. He was always moving, raking leaves, running errands, fixing, learning, growing, laughing, checking things off his list until he sat exhausted at the end of a very productive day. 

For those he loved, Bill was the ace in your corner. The wind at your back. The rock when the world crumbled under foot. When it suddenly dropped out from beneath you, he was the hands that caught you. He was the light in the darkness, the rope thrown into the well. When all was lost, he was the one phone call followed always by, “lets think about this,” “let me see what I can do,” “we can solve this,” at the other end of the line. Problems are not problems, they are opportunities to find a solution. There is always a way through, always a way to fix it. 

Eagle Scout turned Cub Scout leader, Bill knew everything there was to know about the world stage and about how things work. Way before google, he was google. Anything that needed tweaking, repairing, planting, fixing, building, he could do it, and taught his children if not how, then that they could figure it out. They can survive. They can navigate the world. They can fix it. They don’t have to be afraid. “Where there is a will there is a way.” “This too shall pass.” “Things always look better in the morning.” “Never make decisions when you are tired.” “Don’t send that letter in anger.” “Focus on the positive.” “Don’t mess with my family.” “What’s done is done. Time to move forward.” “Look at the positive.” “Pull up your socks and get on with it.” “Enjoy life. Learn something. Laugh.” He was chronically optimistic, joyfully engaged, unless he was hungry. Then he was crabby as hell. At heart, he was a lover of life. He was a lover of learning. And reading. He let himself be amused by life. He was deeply selfless and generous and fair. He loved this country and those who served and serve. He flew an American flag year-round and his parents are buried in Arlington. He loved a Saturday afternoon visit from friends, he loved to share something intelligent he read, and he loved cinnamon spice cake with brown sugar frosting. 

Bill lived with an overall sense that life is hard work; but it is also meant to be fun, lessons are meant to be learned, problems are meant to be solved, and there’s always an upside.  He loved roasting chestnuts, vanilla ice cream with crème de menthe, strawberries Romanoff, key lime pie. He loved sailing and when his kids met him at the train to walk home together. He loved his wife of fifty-three years. He loved music though couldn’t sing a lick. And on late night drives, he loved corn nuts and coffee and the top 40 country countdown.  

Now he’s on to his next adventure, hopefully enjoying salty food and drinking as many fluids as possible and a few very dry beefeater martinis on the rocks with a twist. And seeing beauty. And learning. And growing. And enjoying. And he’d want us to pull up our socks and get on with it. He was, and remains, so very loved. 

Love you Dad.