(Just a note to let y’all know why I’ve been away from the blog for a while. Contests have not been forgotten; I will be contacting winners later today.)
John Delbert Bateman (3.December.1949 – 27.December.2011)
More than anything else, he was my dad.
So much goes into that simple statement. My dad, John Delbert Bateman, was my hero; he was the example I looked up to; he was my friend, and sometimes my enemy; he was my mentor and my protector.
Many of you who knew Dad knew him as a strong man, a humble man, a caring man. He was the kind of man who touched lives on a daily basis. He befriended those whom others ignored, and was the first to greet any new person he saw. Never was he unwilling to help out when a friend or neighbor needed him to lend a hand.
When one of his kids needed help, he was always there for us, usually without reserve or want of anything in return. Except one time when I wanted to take the car to a dance but it needed an oil change. Dad was in the middle of milking, and since I didn’t know how to change the oil, I had to take over the milking chore so he could take care of the car for me. The cows got milked, the oil got changed, and Dad sent me off to the dance in his car. I spent the entire night at the dance smelling cow poop. Unfortunately it was me I was smelling.
Dad was born in Afton on December 3rd, 1949. Verda and Reynold Bateman, his parents and my grandparents, were thrilled to finally have a son. Grandpa always said farmers should have sons first so they can have someone to teach to farm. Grandma remembers that, since Dad was nearly ten pounds when he was born, it didn’t take long for him to grow up and be taught.
Dad spent his early years doing the typical things kids did: camping with his family, playing with his cousins and school friends, and the like, but from an early age he was required to help his father with milking the cows and other chores. Once, when he was about seven or eight years old, he was having too much fun with a friend. Mom says she thinks it was a girl. He came home late, and, knowing he would be in trouble, crawled in through his bedroom window and climbed into bed. Later, some cousins came in to visit and his mother told him that since he couldn’t come home in time to help his dad, he could just stay in bed and not play with his cousins.
Dad loved to ski. He got his first pair of downhill skis for Christmas when he was fourteen years old. When Jordan was a lad, he found Dad’s old skis in the basement and decided it might be fun to try them out. So he went out and found the biggest snow hill he could, climbed to the top, strapped on the skis in their oversized boots, and went flying to the bottom.
The skis were very old and the tip of one broke as he hit the bottom. Being upset, he went and found Dad and, with tears in his eyes, told that he broke one of the skis. Dad, being the patient man he was, said it was okay and that he hadn’t used them in years.
Years later Jordan still felt bad, so he went to the basement and pulled the skis from their resting place. With some epoxy and wood chips, he repaired the skis the best he could. When the epoxy had set he went and showed Dad the ski and told him he should go try them out. So Dad loaded up his snowmobile with skis and Jordan loaded his with his snowboard, and together they rode up to the mountain. They spent the day together, skiing, snowboarding, hiking, and chatting.
That was how Dad always was – never quick to anger, always able to take time out for his kids, despite how busy his life was. Corbin remembers a specific instance where Dad took extra time for him. In Corbin’s words:
It was a temperate fall day, a Saturday to be exact. It was an afternoon much like any fall afternoon. I was hanging out with Dad, milking cows – a task which I often abhorred, but most days it did give us a chance to talk. On this particular day, I regaled Dad with my adventures of the day.
In the company of my cousin, Richard, I had hiked the densely wooded trail to the top of Call Canyon, a Winchester .270 rifle slung over my shoulder, in search of an ever-elusive herd of elk. Our hopes of finding them were extinguished that morning as we only found signs that they had moved to a different location. After a non-productive morning, we searched for a different way to descend the mountain. We settled on a ridge that divides Call Canyon from neighboring Wolfley Canyon and began our trek downward. Within what seemed to be a short amount of time, we discovered the remnants of a marble mine. Legends of this marble mine had reached everyone who lived in the area, but no one I knew had ever found its location.
After sharing this tale with Dad, we decided to engage in a quest to locate the mine. Dad was excited and we ventured out that evening without sharing the details of our plans with anyone – in retrospect, a bad idea.
At first it was easy, hiking up the ridge in the evening light, the amber leaves of the Aspen trees mingling with the constant green of the pines. The ultimate goal – the marble mine – had not been located by the time the sun settled across the valley and left us bathed in a river of darkness. At this point, the decision to turn back was made, much later than it should have been. Our excitement – mine at leading Dad to a treasure I had found, and Dad’s at finding the treasure – had overpowered any sensible judgement.
With only a sliver of moonlight to guide our descent, we headed back down the mountain ridge, our goal unfulfilled, but our adventure just beginning. Descending a mountain in the dark is not the easy task one might think, and soon we found ourselves mired in a sea of shrubbery. At this juncture, the best idea seemed to be lowering ourselves to the canyon floor by way of a draw that seemed passable in the dark. Upon entry into the draw – which was too steep to re-ascend – we found a pile of large rocks impeding our travel to the bottom. The rocks, being only slightly more passable than the impossible climb back out of the draw, were eventually traversed with some teamwork and effort. Home free! The canyon floor lay just below us. We continued downward momentum until a fallen tree, with no shortage of dead, sharp branches, blocked us again. Dad, warning me to be careful, led me through the maze of branches and over the long dead tree. We acquired small abrasions and probably a contusion or two, but Dad, ever protective and always agile, led me through the treachery and we reached the canyon floor mostly unscathed.
Ultimately, we did not reach our goal but the night was more of a success than either of us realized at the time. It happened more than twenty years ago, but the memory of that night’s adventure lives on. Dad and I both remember that night fondly and have reminisced about that evening many times since. The last time I saw him, Dad talked about that quest with a smile and laughed at the lack of common sense we shared that evening. He was happy we had that story to share and remember always.
***
Dad went to elementary school in Etna with about twenty other kids, only four of which were girls. He went to junior high and high school in Afton. He played the tenor sax in high school, and passed the sax down to Corbin, who also played in high school. Dad graduated in 1968.
After graduation, Dad went to work for the Forest Service, spraying bugs and clearing trails. He liked to tell the story of how he bathed while he was working out on the trails. There was a small, freezing cold lake out where they were. He needed to clean himself, but it was too cold to stay in the water. So he would strip down on one side of the lake, then swim across holding the soap. On the other side, he would lather up quickly, then swim back across to rinse off.
In January 1969, Dad received his mission call to England – the Southwest British Mission. He left January 23rd, 1969, and returned January 6th, 1971. Mom was the first person to see him when he got back – before even his parents – even though she was engaged to another man at the time.
Dad met Mom – the love of his life – in July of 1967. He was 17, and she was only 16. Mom says the first thing she thought when she first saw him was, “I’m too young to meet him,” meaning she knew he was the one she would one day marry. At the time she was dating his cousin, DeLynn, who made the mistake of bringing Dad on a dinner date. I guess DeLynn didn’t fully grasp that for a double date he needed another girl too. Dad wasn’t very focused on girls at the time, and it always took him a few weeks to answer Mom’s letters.
The following May Dad was graduating from high school and needed a date for the commencement dance. He remembered “that girl” who had been writing to him and invited her up to be his date. Then he didn’t even recognize her! They spent many hours talking and getting to know each other. It would be three more years until they could get married, with his mission in between. Mom tried her hardest to marry someone else while he was gone – even getting engaged twice in the process – but it was always Johnny for her.
After Dad’s mission, he and Mom started dating again. On March 23rd, 1971, Dad took Mom out on a drive. It was a dark and stormy night. As they rounded a corner, they saw another car coming, so they dimmed their lights. Immediately they hit a pile of tree branches that had been dropped in the road. When the cops came, they kept looking at Mom funny. Later Mom asked Dad about it, and he said, “I told them I was getting engaged tonight.” The ring came a week later; he slipped it on her finger as “We’ve Only Just Begun” by The Carpenters played. When it came time to pick a wedding date, Dad picked a date between haying weeks, and Mom knew then that she was not only marrying Dad, but also his farm. Dad milked cows from the time he was six years old and helping Grandpa until this April, when his illness forced him to stop milking.
In their early marriage, Mom and Dad lived in Idaho Falls, where Dad was studying at Eastern Idaho Technical College in the Diesel Mechanics program. Corbin was born in Idaho Falls; Tifany came shortly after Mom and Dad moved back to the valley. After six more years of trying, I was born, followed by Kelvin and Jordan.
Dad loved his children almost as much as he loved Mom. He told Kelvin a few times that he regretted not taking his kids on more trips, for being so tied down to the farm that he couldn’t take us on more vacations. Kelvin always enjoyed riding in the tractor with him, or tagging along as he fed the cows or worked on the equipment. I don’t think anything made Dad happier during a long day on the tractor than having one of his kids come and join him.
Dad loved his time with each of us. He would read to us every night, but my favorite stories were the ones he told from memory. He had a way of making the stories come alive like we were right there watching it happen. I used to love snuggling up to him at church; he would always let me lean into him for a while before making me sit up on my own, since I was “old enough” to sit alone. He said later he wished he would have just let me sit on his lap when I wanted to so he could have more time close to me.
Always showing his love for his kids, Dad was quick to help any of us out of a pinch, as long as he figured we learned our lesson. He hated to see his kids hurting, but he wasn’t about to bail us out of a learning experience. I think we’re all grateful for that now, and I think each of us kids remember times when Dad has helped us out of a jam.
He was never a vindictive man, but he sure enjoyed it when someone got their “come upins” as he put it. Tifany remembers complaining once about something TJ had done. Dad got that sparkle in his eye – he always showed his emotions through his eyes – and started chuckling. He must have figured Tifany was starting to get her “come upins” for putting him through so much grief. She tried not to complain about her kids after that.
Dad was a wonderful man, a hard worker, and an artist – though maybe he would deny that. He built Mom’s house; they moved in in 1994, and ever since he’s been adding woodwork and detail, making it more of the palace he thought Mom deserves. Last Christmas, he made us all checkerboard wooden cutting boards. Kelvin got to town and, thinking Dad was only making cutting boards for us girls, helped him out. They spent hours together sanding and oiling cutting boards for Tifany, Grandma, and Me. Imagine Kelvin’s surprise Christmas morning when he opened his very own cutting board – the first one Dad made. Dad always liked to say that he didn’t have many fancy things, but we all knew that he could make beautiful things.
I know my Dad was an icon to many of you here today. He was well known in this valley – the family name is as entrenched in this valley as the valley is entrenched in the family. Along with my family, I want to thank all of you for your generous support and service throughout his illness. It was by the love and support of friends and family that Dad was bolstered up this last year. Your kindness and generosity will not be forgotten.
My hero has passed on now, and leaves my mom, my siblings, and I to carry on his legacy. We are proud of him, of all he was, and all he would have been if times had been different
I am most proud to say this one thing: Of all that he was, he is my Dad.
(Written by Rachel Bateman. Delivered by John’s daughter, Alissa Papi.)
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