Column: Outside Looking In

In the summer of 1995, I worked a three month internship at The Warroad Pioneer, which I'm sorry to say has since ceased operation. This was the first professional newspaper that I worked for in my career, and it turned out to be a wonderful experience. I had only worked at Bemidji State University's newspaper for about a year and half before landing the internship. At The Pioneer I gained experience in sports, feature, beat and government reporting. I designed pages, took and developed photographs and was responsible for community relations. The best part is that I remain friends with the owners nearly 30 years later.

June 13, 1995

By Devlyn Brooks

I would like to tell you a story. A story about a man named "Bud." That was his nickname; everybody that knew him called him "Bud." He had had that nickname since anyone could remember.

I don't remember much about him myself; I was too young to remember a whole lot. A lot of what I am telling you is what I foggily remember, but I believe it to be a pretty close approximation of the truth.

He was a police officer in Crookston, Minnesota, for many years, and is probably well known among the old police officers that are still there; he was well liked. He was a policeman of the "old school" I've heard people say. He wouldn't give you a hard time as long as you didn't give him a hard time.

In fact, a friend's mother once told me a story about how she and her friends had been pulled over by him because they were being rowdy. Basically, they were being kids. She said he let them go on the condition that they behave themselves.

One of his favorite activities was to go to auction sales and buy stuff. It didn't have to have a particular purpose, or even have to work, for that matter. He just enjoyed going to auction sales and buying boxes of stuff that could have contained anything from rusty nuts and bolts to priceless treasures such as empty jars and coffee cans.

A lot of the time, half of his garage was filled with these boxes that he would have picked up at those auctions, taking up space that a car could have easily fit into.

Another thing he enjoyed was gardening. He loved it. He planted huge gardens every summer, full of everything you can imagine. Corn, tomatoes, beans, cabbage, peas, raspberries, carrots, etc. I'm sure every vegetable I can ever remember seeing was planted in that garden of his at one time or another.

He would spend hours rototilling, weeding and canning the fruits of that garden. It was so very enjoyable to him.

He used to read westerns, also. I was told that he probably had read every western that Louis L'amour had ever written. And if you've ever seen the number of Louis L'amour books, you'll know this is no small amount.

Hunting was also every important to him. Deer hunting was so big that it was a family event. "Bud" and his kids would load up one of those campers that fits on top of pickups, and off they would go. They would spend the entire weekend out there, driving woods, posting, bantering, playing cards and once in a while getting a couple of deer. He would pack enough food for the weekend so he didn't have to go back into town.

His kids would usually be antsy by dark and head back into town, but not him. He probably would have stayed out there forever if given the choice.

Well, if there is such a thing as justice, it was probably served well in his case. He passed away one night on a deer hunting trip due to a heart attack. Probably the way he would have wanted to go.

People say his sons are chips off the old block. They all are rather tall, dark-haired an dark-hued. Most of them could be described as husky, and all of them love to be mischievous -- just like he used to.

I was there that day when his family said goodbye to him. Many tears were shed, and many hearts were broken that day. You see, he was only a middle-aged man when he died. He was in his middle 50s.

His family had believed that he would be around forever. He wasn't. I know for a fact that one of the sons feels like he didn't say he loved him enough.

what is the significance of this story? ... I don't really know what it is. I might never be able to tell you. Maybe it's a story about saying "I love you" before it is too late. Maybe it is just another story about a great father. And maybe, just maybe, it is the putting to rest of some very old thoughts for one grieving heart.

Lawrence Brooks was the man's name. He was my father.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.