Good afternoon. My name is Veronica, or Ronnie to many of you including my dad, and we are gathered here today to say goodbye to my father, Daniel Gutierrez. I was the youngest of three, behind my big brother Daniel Jr, and my big sister Wendy.
Dan was a man that savored life. He was full of an infectious energy that seemed to never deplete. My earliest memories of my dad have him constantly busy. I don’t remember him with idle hands. He had an iron-clad work ethic and used that not only to provide a very comfortable life for his family, but to pursue his passions. Whether it was designing and building a playhouse in the backyard for me and my sister, being active in the Y Indian Guides with my brother, or searching the grass for night crawlers before an early morning fishing trip. He played 3rd base in the softball league with his post office buddies for years.
Many times his passion was for helping people with their car troubles. I would sit next to the driveway in the grass while he would spend hours on his back under someone’s car. Lying there in in his coveralls, covered with grease and a cigarette in his lips he’d say, “Ronnie, tell me a story,” So I would entertain him with elaborate tales about my stuffed animals. He was my first support as a writer. Through him, I got my love of adventure and the written word. The only time I saw my dad sit still was to read the newspaper when he got home from work. I can still see him sitting in his chair with a cup of coffee and the smoke from his cigarette curling up toward the ceiling.
He also enjoyed novels and Gary Jennings was his favorite author. I learned from my dad that you can live a thousand lives if you develop a love of books. One day Dad told me, “Ronnie, I want you to write something. A story either for me, or about me.” I promised him I would and I’ve spent the better part of the next 40 years thinking about that.
My dad was a mountain man. He loved sitting in silence for hours with a fishing rod and the gorgeous rocky mountain scenery to gaze upon. Dad was a man of patience. Proven by the fact that he didn’t lose his cool when his little shadow couldn’t sit still or be quiet. He simply told me, “Shhh. You’re scaring the fish.” His favorite fishing spot was Foxton and you could find him there nearly every day with my mom or my uncles. He loved that his work day ended early so he could rush home, change clothes, grab my mom and his tackle and go.
He took us camping nearly every weekend in the summers. And with our entire Gutierrez family, sledding in the winters. The harsh Colorado weather didn’t seem to matter to him, so it didn’t matter to us. He’d drive our little blue Toyota station wagon up to O’Fallon Park in the dead of winter. There we’d have a huge bonfire and go sliding down the mountains on inner tubes, sleds, or, in a pinch, the floor mats from the car.
Camping was another epic event full of aunts and uncles, and cousins by the dozens. Each day was capped off by the campfire singing, while Uncle Gerry and Cousin Terry, and Cousin Ralph played the guitar. My dad’s velvety voice stood out. Deep and rich and reminiscent of Nat King Cole. I’ll bet heaven sounds fantastic with all 4 of them now. When we were very little he sang to us and one of his favorites was Harry Belafonte’s Jamaican Farewell. Wendy would pull on his arm and say, “Don’t sing that, Daddy! You know it makes me cry!”
Dan was a master of the grill, and barbeques were on the menu for the entire summer. He kept our freezer stocked with rainbow trout from our fishing trips and we enjoyed an un-ending flow of grilled fish with our extended family in the backyard and next to the house playing horse shoes. This was a regular thing, birthdays, holidays, no reason at all. It felt good to be with family.
Through his example, I learned to connect to life through nature. With every lake, river, mountain, forest, rock, and animal, he taught me respect for the earth. He taught me to leave only footprints behind, and take the indelible memories with me. He gave me so many.
In preparation for this celebration of his life, my sister and I poured through photo albums and noticed, through the birthdays, holidays, and Disneyland vacations, there weren’t many pictures of my dad. And then I realized, he was the man behind the camera. Documenting 3 childhoods and ensuring they were idyllic.
Generous to a fault he would give whatever he had to help others. He gave money, belongings, advice, and most valuable of all, his time. But he wouldn’t be Dan if he were to have been selfish. And my dad was true to his own nature. Helping others made him a rich man. Rich in love of family, and the adoration of many friends.
Like his mom, he had a wicked sense of humor. He teased people relentlessly. Sometimes you didn’t know what he was doing until he’d throw back his head and laugh. And by that time, he’d gotten the best of you and you’d be fighting mad. At his nursing home while everyone was in the dining room playing bingo, he’d roll by in his wheel chair real slow and yell, “Bingo!” Everyone would stop and clear their cards and he’d already be down the hall laughing.
The last 4 years of his life were lived at Wheatridge Manor. There he was cared for by a team of angels on earth. I didn’t ever worry about my dad because I knew what capable hands he was in. Everyone on staff from laundry to nursing to the kitchen, to the administration. They not only cared for him but they spoiled him rotten, even when he was being stubborn and frankly, sometimes a little mean.
Over the last year I spent most of my time with my dad and the angels of Wheatridge Manor. They’ve not only cared for him, but they’ve cared for me and my sister. We’ve gotten to know each other on a deep personal level. And I consider them not just a blessing, but my family.
Please forgive my limited view of my father. I know he was so much more than my words could express. And I am only one perspective of his nearly 77 years on this earth and the countless lives he’s touched. Even though I am my father’s daughter, I am but a facet of the jewel that was his life. A polished, crimson red garnet.
And 40 years later, Dad. I’ve fulfilled my promise to you. I’ve written a story about you, AND for you. And I know you’re here laughing and listening to every word.
Thank you.
