My Father's Eulogy

Jack Berglund • July 3, 1952 - July 8, 2023

As my father's eulogy opens, he was born to a storyteller.

I could have as truthfully stated, he was born a storyteller.

The most bonding and influential moments with both my grandfather and father included me listening. Totally captured by the tension and pacing of their tales.

At 13 I watched my dad stand at the front of the Catholic church in Kennedy to an overflowing crowd speaking with poise and reverence about his father's life. His voice cracked. He paused, breathed and continued. His heart was wholly broken. I realized my responsibility to come.

My brother, Jarid, joined me in the same church at the same lectern for the same reason. He told the stories. My dad accidentally drinking mom's holy water, my dad telling him and I to pretend we were sleeping at the Canadian border so the guard wouldn't check under the seat for the cigarettes, my dad confident on a horse’s reliability after it out-bucked the rankest of rodeo stock in-front of a potential buyer.

Jarid brought a lightheartedness to a somber farewell.

He stepped back and I stepped forward.

Jack Berglund was born in the summer of '52 to a storyteller and a schoolteacher. Our grandparents, Louie and Alma Berglund were well on their way in the raising of three girls; Patricia, Carol Jean and Dorothy on the home quarter in which our family currently lives. The excitement of a baby brother consumed the girls and their mother but it was an immediate bond between our Dad and his father that would forever be the example of affection and reverence which my siblings and I would be raised under.

With the passing of Grandpa in 1996, at the age of 96, our confusing sense of grief was alleviated by asking Dad to tell us stories of when he was a kid. He detailed which he would later describe as the happiest he had ever been. A young boy travelling the countryside with his father who would make house calls as a self-authorized veterinarian; his bag of folk remedies and traditional fixes. Preserving my grandfather's larger than life persona we saw ourselves bouncing down the backroads and on the fringes of card games, confrontations and endless cups of coffee.

That early connection was interrupted with my Grandmother's obligation to provide. In a time when such a thing went unrecognized, Grandma Alma brought a stability to the family with a full time job as a one room school teacher. She found work in Ossa, a small hamlet an hour southeast as the crow flies and was left without a choice but to bring her young son with her. Dad recalled the difficulty eager to see his sisters and father on the weekends. The period was quick to end and their family was reunited.

In 1959 Aunt Pat married Uncle Clifford. Dad, a small boy dressed in a new suit beamed as he was showered with compliments on his behaviour and appearance - with earnest, he intended to "keep the suit so it could be worn to all his sisters' weddings."

Then at the ripe age of 8 years old, Jack became Uncle Jack with Pat giving birth to his first nephew, Terry John Shackleton. I can only imagine this coming of age story. Knowing their connection, piecing together fragments of their accounts and matching it alongside my own teenage years, I can safely conclude that a side of my father is known by my cousin Terry and Terry alone.

In Dad's final hours, mom relayed the urgency in calling Terry. He arrived and occupied a space unlike a sibling, a cousin, or an uncle but a unique combination of the three. Into the evening he gave insights into Dad's life that only he could give - from the more wild years and Dad's beloved '75 corvette to his tenderheartedness and compassion as he provided strength for his four nephews and niece with the loss of their father at such a young age. The four boys, Terry, Jim, Garth and Blaine now about to carry my father to his grave.

Much like the mythology of my grandfather, Dad's days in Kenosee carried a similar lore. He spoke of it like a prairie metropolis, an overflow of vehicles, an abundance of entertainment, and a shoreline reaching for the steps of the Gardens. One of the few with special privileges as the area's most notorious door-lady also happened to be his mother. George Bourhis, Toady Blaise, Tom Dodd, Ken Robertson, Fred Langenberger, cohorts in a bountiful social life. As I came of age, Dad's recollections carried a riskier tone casting himself in the role as the rebel.

Clashes with authority, the casual brawl and the hunt for mischief...all encompassed in an heir of confidence. I felt a pride when seeing sun-burned polaroids of man in his twenties, a white cowboy hat, shaggy dark hair and his striking good looks. And whether he was 21 or 71 he was known for that spark of life in his eyes and a grin that carried a different meaning with every use. Dad's smile spoke sentences, relayed emotions and gave comfort.

It's no wonder my mom accepted the invite to join their table as she sat waiting for her own date to arrive that night in Kenosee. She had just graduated from the University of Minot with a masters in speech and language pathology and began work in the area. When returning home to Cedoux she shared with my Grandpa Kot and Uncle Bernie that she had met someone from Kennedy. Uncle Bernie replied, well I only know one person from Kennedy - and that's Jack Berglund. An early testament to the size of today's gathering.

A year to the day from their first encounter, Mom and Dad were married on July 25, 1980 leaving their own gift-opening to attend the Kennedy Rodeo. Shortly after that, Dad came home certain that he was to purchase The Arcola Auction Market. Regardless of the excessive overhead and high risk, Dad's conviction gave way to success with their first sale taking place in April of '82.

Tuesday was sale day and inconveniently, the day of the week which every one of his children were born. Like clockwork, all on a Tuesday, all 18 months apart and all on the 20th of the month, myself being the exception - born on the 10th.

Jarid Louie, Jody Marie Georgina, Casey May and myself were baptized, received the Holy Eucharist, Confirmed and exercised the renewal of our faith with Reconciliation. Grandpa Louie and Grandma Alma lived their Christian values outside of the church. As I sat in that pew and Dad gave his father's eulogy he recalled Grandpa Louie's team of horses named in honour; Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

Through mom's encouragement we continued to practice all while our hearts expanded into deeper and different spiritual journeys yet unified in a Catholic discipline. A toolbox that she not only bestowed upon us, but offered to Dad. The acceptance of faith is the ultimate act of devotion and although he kept his beliefs close to his chest, Dad's actions spoke volumes. First to his marriage, second to his family and third to himself. If we ever complained about not wanting to take up the gifts, not wanting to be alter servers, not wanting to play the organ...he rose almost every Sunday to lead by example. He would take up the offering, mom would recite the readings and we would follow suit.

His solitude was searched for in the second last pew of this church but it was discovered on the back of a horse. Dad didn't coach hockey and he didn't run us to piano lessons but he always took us for a ride. The lessons needed in life were taught through this metaphor, the relationship between oneself and their horse. Respect is earned, give in to trust and always remount. We rode stubborn ponies, ornery mares, lively geldings, and half-broke two year olds. Being bucked off was rarely in vain, Dad would take the opportunity to make sure we got back in the saddle, prepare us for what was to come and swat the horse on the rear.

He was taught his own lesson one evening at the rodeo grounds as he took my horse Monkey in for a disciplinary ride. Being given the boots in-front of our 4-H Club, Monkey popped Dad up into the air and met him on his way down with the horn of the saddle splitting his pelvis six inches apart. In agony, Dad was rushed to emergency by Marlene Penny, certain that she hit every pothole on the way.

This was the first time I watched my father suffer.

I was challenged as to how candid I should speak of the last few years. There are never any secrets in a community no matter the attempts to mitigate or protect. The nature of word of mouth distorts truths and denies context. We judge, we draw conclusions, and we perpetuate trauma. I do it, my father did it, our community does it. However we all share in our empathy for those that suffer.

St. John of the Cross spoke of the darkest night of the soul. A stage in one's final purification marked by confusion, helplessness, and a sense of the with-drawl of God's presence. Only from this night of anguish comes the atonement of one's spirit, illumination, and a mystical union with God.

Last Tuesday night, while alone on the farm Dad went for a routine drive to check crops and innocently walked into the trees to pick Saskatoons. Having become increasingly unstable on his feet he stumbled forward and became lodged between two trees. As the temperature dropped, he spent the night contracting hypothermia and going septic. My brother found him the following morning after 14 hrs alone. Rushed to Regina, I met him in emergency and remained by his side for three days joined by my mother, siblings, Aunt Jean and cousin Terry. He attempted to speak telling mom that on the night he fell he spoke with God. Three hours before he took his final breath we witnessed a flash of white light fill the room and collapse into a single point two feet above Dad's body.

I called his name and it happened again.

Dad, I'm sure that you've left. The farm is feels slightly lighter and our hearts are profoundly heavier.

You loved to visit. Please do so when you can.

Godspeed.

Rest easy, Dad (photo by Patsy Bourhis)

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Reader’s Note:

This post’s accompanying recording includes insight into the final hours before Dad’s passing, specifically the phenomenon of light which appeared before myself, my sisters and my mother. I feel the importance of speaking openly about that moment as it offered a glimpse into a greater mystery. I am humbled in the presence of such a miracle and can only attempt to convey the awe in which it was bestowed upon us.

BB