The eulogy Tom wrote for Dad’s funeral. It was read to the congregation by our childhood friend Corie Verges.

Note to Cory: You can introduce yourself first and make any opening remarks you would like...then...

I have been asked to read these words on behalf of the family.

Grandpa Beaver. Dad. Uncle Bill. Fremont. William F. Beaver. Bill. Awesome Bill Beaver. Sweet William. 

This is the multi-facted man we are here to remember and say goodbye to. A man of many talents, many friends, many adventures and stories, many years and, it could sometimes seem, many lives. 

He was definitely a man who wore many hats. You could almost say he needed a hat to help hold all his ideas. And that he needed so many different kinds of hats because he had so many different kinds of ideas and interests.

When his health failed in a major way eight and a half years ago it looked like Dad would have to slow down at last. Walking was suddenly very difficult, and his power of speech was impaired. Certainly he would never drive again. But Dad saw it differently. In typical Bill Beaver fashion, he believed himself into action. He somehow got himself a car. He moved to a new town — Caledonia, Missouri — striking out on his own like he was twenty years old again. Living on his own, he made new friends, started two or three new businesses, started a whole new chapter of adventures and accomplishments.

He certainly got his power of speech back. Walking, not so much, but then that’s what cars, scooters, golf carts and helicopters were for. But not being able to express himself in words, to tell stories, to put his endless flow of business ideas into seductive words, to joke with a paramedic during a heart attack or sing a song that has just come into his mind — that was a limitation Bill Beaver could not accept, and didn’t. 

Father. Grandfather. Brother. Husband. Brother-in-law. Uncle. Friend. World War II Navy sailor. Airplane pilot. Pioneer in the selling of antique car parts. Real estate developer. Promoter of local tourism. Rescuer of historic buildings. Restorer of old cars. Designer and manufacturer of custom auto parts. Entrepreneur. Nightclub singer. These are just some of the many roles played by William F. Beaver, the doer. 

“I like to get things done,” he would say. 

Well, BIll Beaver, there is no doubt you got a lot of things done.

He was proud of his accomplishments. He was proud of his grandchildren and children. He was proud of Grace Ann, the woman he picked to be his wife. He knew he had done well.

Although Dad was rightfully proud of the things he had done, it’s not clear if he realized what his greatest accomplishment was. What we, his children, are most proud of is not that our Dad made his mark in the world as a businessman and inventor, or that he had so many colorful adventures and made so many friends. We are very proud of all those achievements. But what we think was greatest about our Dad was simply the kind of person he was when he wasn’t even trying.

Optimist. Storyteller. A man who would tell you he loved you. A man who was loyal and generous to his friends. A man who looked you in the eye as he listened to you. A man who could make any baby smile without talking to them in babytalk. We are proud of and can never forget the man who checked himself out of nursing care and started a whole new life for himself because he believed in himself and trusted in his own gusto to do what medicine and therapy couldn’t.

We are proud of the passion and drive he had as a  younger man, the self-confidence, the ability to take big risks, his ability to get a good night’s sleep instead of tossing and turning with worry. We are proud that he had all of these strengths as an older man, too — as a patient. That even in his last few weeks he was unafraid, confident, taking joy in simple things, enjoying the funny side of things, telling his family and nurses he loved them.

Dad lived a long life. There is no doubt he would have liked to live a longer one. He was shooting for a hundred. But he told us he was ready to go when the time came. “Jesus has a place ready for me,” he said just a few weeks ago. He felt his life had been deeply blessed so far, and he was deeply sure that God would continue to protect and bless him: in this life, and then in the next one.

Dad’s grandchildren can be happy knowing they gave him a reason to smile and be proud, time after time, each in their particular way. His relatives and friends can be happy knowing they remained in his thoughts and in his stories during these past few years. All of us who knew and admired and loved William Beaver can be happy knowing he was himself up to his last minute, enjoying things his way, expressing himself in his unique, effortless fashion, looking forward to whatever the next small pleasure of the day was going to be; confident that, one way or another, tomorrow, whatever tomorrow turned out to be, would be another good day in the life of Bill Beaver.

There is one story in our family that seems like a good one to tell right now. Once when us kids were still in school Kathy had a school performance. Dad wasn’t able to attend. But then as Kathy was up on the stage and the crowd was still quieting down, Kathy heard a cough ring through the auditorium. It was a cough that Kathy or any of us would have recognized anywhere. Strong and distinct, nothing held back, and leaving quite an echo. Dad had made it to Kathy’s performance after all.

WIlliam F. Beaver has always left quite an echo. We are sure he will echo in our minds and  conversations and maybe even in how we ourselves face setbacks and challenges for many years to come. Bill Beaver is a commanding, distinct personality even when he’s somewhere in the distance and not quite visible. 

He wasn’t embarrassed to stand out in a crowd, and he wouldn’t mind if we continue to feel that he’s nearby, saying what he thinks, telling a favorite story again, saying about something very ordinary, “That’s soooooo good.”

We are sad to have him leave us, but us kids think it would be fine with Dad if all of us remember him with more happiness than sadness. Memories and stories of him will be echoing in us for years to come: maybe when we see an old car sitting beside the road with a “For Sale” sign on it. Maybe when we hear an old romantic song. Or we see a mustache. Or an old man in a flamboyant hat. When we have a sip of cold water and remember how Dad could make a little thing like that seem like the best thing in the world. Dad liked making us laugh. Or making us feel excited and motivated. Or making us feel appreciative of some simple, good little thing. Or reminiscing with us. He was like that for 84 years, and I don’t seem him changing his personality now. If remembering him makes us feel good in any of those ways, now and in the years ahead, Dad would be pleased. He liked inspiring people. You could say he lived for it.

We’ll each have have our own memories of him. I think we are all proud of something about him and proud to have been one of the lucky people who knew him.

You were very successful in life, Bill Beaver. Your optimism and talent, your love of being alive, your appreciation for so many things, your zest and affection, your creativity and imagination: you were extra-large in all these things. These qualities rubbed off a little on all of us, but didn’t diminish your supply — you seemed to be a perpetual spring of all the rare qualities that made you such a rare individual. Thank you for all that you did. Thank you for making life so much more interesting than it would have been without you.

You kept your adventures and the people you loved alive in the stories you told yourself and told us, and now we will sadly, but also happily, keep you alive in our stories, and by being unable to forget a father like you, a grandfather like you, a brother and brother-in-law and uncle and friend and unique spirit like you. 

Goodbye for now, Sweet William.