Dave Hood

Dave had boundless energy, a flair for shenanigans, and the sure touch of a star athlete--the ideal match for this scrawny, mild mannered, cautious and unconfident cousin just one year older. I always knew that with Dave, we would be venturing something new or trying to get away with skirting the law of the household. I had heard that my Aunt Olive thought I might temper and train her son to behave like the milder child I was, but all I remember is getting caught on the edges of discipline that he had to face for mutual acts of sinister activity, that could be no more harmless than giving a neighbor dog a haircut or flicking a neighbor girl's skirt to see her panties. When the Hoods moved to Big Timber, Montana I spent a fair chunk of the summer at their house at around age 12, dropped off on our family's trip home from Flathead Lake Montana. I suppose it was not more than a couple of weeks before I headed back home to Brookings on the Northern Pacific train, but that summer in Big Timber defined my youth for a few years. Dave and I would spend more than one day at his friend's ranch, and it was thrilling: we rode horseback for hours--with sore thighs for days after; we road bikes to the river to explore and fish, often taking with us what became my favorite sandwiches: peanut butter, lettuce, mayo and banana on fresh white bread. Dave was naturally athletic, so he kept me challenged, a kid who never survived team sports. We learned how to cuss by following the older boys around on our bikes in that little town at dusk. Other summers Bill would take us on a camping/fishing trip to Glacier Park. I remember my Dad and I setting up our primitive boxy canvas tent on Kintla Lake, way up in the remote northwest corner of the Park. Bill and Dave had a bear nosing around their tent in the middle of the night so didn't get much sleep. We even brought the cabin boat and motor, but I don't recall how we got my Dad Everett and two uncles Bill and Roy, along with assorted kids, into that little 14-footer! We must have taken turns. I remember uncle Roy saying he always caught the rainbows at Kintla--or was it the bull trout-- if he chewed snuff tobacco while trolling--spitting that brown goop in the water brought the trout his way. Even more important were our overlapping days at the family cabin on Flathead Lake near Glacier Park. Dave would always take the lead on pranks or other mischief. A favorite hangout was the outhouse (no indoor plumbing in those days). We called it the Green House . . . the color Dad and others painted it, not because we gardened there. Sometime after Dave and I had built a lean-to wood and cardboard hut, our clubhouse, right behind the outhouse, he brought a hand auger to drill a peak hole through the rear wall of the outhouse. I don't remember having any informative views before the mothers of the inhouse made sure we nailed it closed. Dave and I had our first romances one summer across Hughes Bay. Dave of course took the lead, but I don't recall how we met the two of them, staying at a relatives cabin across Hughes Bay. What I recall is that we decided to swim from our dock over to theirs--it must have been over half a mile. The reward was my first kiss. Now I am sure Dave could regale you with many stories of our youth, but stretchier--Dave was never one to downplay the drama of life, nor discount the opportunities any story offered. He was bold in word and deed. He was a bit careless with risk and on details. We complemented each other, indeed, but I can tell you that Aunt Olive must have been disappointed that her nephew didn't lead Dave to a more safe and sane childhood. Quite the opposite: Dave took my hesitant, self-questioning self and brought me to the front line of his balancing acts, his caution-to-the-winds gusto for life, his taking chances, for making that kiss with life happen. Whenever we met over the last several decades, I knew I could count on Dave to delight us with stories of his creative work in a wide range of endeavors, though most were tied in some way to his fervent Christian faith. From producing all the media for the national biennial Lutheran youth gatherings for years, to off-beat greeting cards, to filming in Israel, to packaging Christian evangelism with professional sports stars, he was always ahead of the field. I am sure it was a bumpy road for the family, but he hit home runs and grand slams time and again, even if he never was paid for the dependable inventiveness he surely deserved. So our reunions were always special for me: they brought forward those childhood days of play together that made me a more confident and daring person, they inspired me with his endless stories of remarkable inventiveness, despite the failures and dead-ends that accumulated. Dave seemed never to be discouraged, always ready to pick himself up and head out for a new adventure. He filled me with hope as a beacon of human creativity to overcome any obstacle--seen especially in his later years when he suffered serious injury and illness, striving to take on one more project. What a wondrous life he led. Aunt Olive, bless her heart, thought I might be able to tame cousin Dave. Fortunately, for our family and for the world, his wild holy spirit survived and thrived, and through him I carried forward from childhood a thin bright streak of Dave in my life and work, and for that I am eternally grateful. Thank you Dave--so filled with the Spirit--for being you.