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My letter to Mason Peek about his father, Andy
Dear Mason,<br>
I hope I’m still around to deliver this letter to you when you are old enough to understand it, but if not, I’ve asked your mother to give it to you.<br>
I have just returned from a memorial service for your father, Andy Peek. There were about 1,300 people at the service – some of them standing outside in the rain – to honor your father. Many more would have been there if a nasty storm hadn’t blocked their path from Oregon, where your father had many friends. He had a lot of friends everywhere, as many fine folks traveled halfway across the continent to be there today.<br>
Mason, your father loved you very much. During his operations and treatments, he yearned to go home because that’s where you were. You made his pain-deadened eyes light up with pure joy.
Today, even though you were only two years old, you stole the show when you left your mother’s arms to stand in front of a large picture of your father projected on a huge screen. We could all see the striking resemblance.<br>
And, when you pointed to the picture of Andy and said, “Daddy, Daddy,” there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. These were no softies, but hardened ranch families who deal with life and death on a daily basis. Yours was the most gut-wrenching speech of the day.<br>
I took the death of your father hard, as he was one of my best friends. And I mean that in every sense of the word. Quite simply, your father was the most decent human being I ever met. He never dwelled on the negative and saw only the positive. Your father saw the best in people, merely because he didn’t go looking for the worst.<br>
You come from good stock, Mason. Your father was humble and never received any credit for all the good things he did, because he walked in the shadow of your grandfather, Ellington Peek – a legend in the cattle industry. It can’t be easy to walk in the footsteps of a giant. Greatness in the father often defeats the son. They stand too near each other, and the shadow stunts the growth.
Not your father. Greatness oftentimes skips generations. Not in your family, Mason.<br>
Your father sure got a lot out of his too-short life. He was a successful businessman, the manager of one of the largest livestock auctions in western America and president of the second-largest video auction company. He built dozens of houses and many businesses.<br>
Unlike most businessmen I’ve met, your father never was in it for the money. He never got used to the high life, nor did he spend his years acquiring expensive toys. Mostly, he acquired friends and satisfied customers and admirers.<br>
Your father would work like crazy 51 weeks of the year and then one week a year, he’d be off to some exotic locale that I never heard of. He had such a thirst for knowledge, a taste for adventure, and was wise in so many ways.
Mason, in dying your father taught us all how to live. He fought a valiant battle until the end and, when he could no longer talk, he balled his hands into fists and gave cancer a couple upper-cuts. Never once did he utter a defeatist word. Plenty of tears were shed, but I never heard of a single one that came from your father’s eyes.<br>
He was good, sweet, decent Andy until the end – without bitterness, depression, fears or tears. Your father handled his dying as he did his living, with grace, dignity and courage.<br>
After his final operation, your Uncle Brad called me and put Andy on the phone. (Keep in mind that your father had, just hours earlier, been told he had only weeks to live.) Your dad said, “Lee, I know what the doctors have said, and I haven’t figured it out yet what I’m going to do, but I’m going to think of some way to turn this into a win.”<br>
And he did. As always, your father was a man of his word. Mason, I like to think that you are your father’s final victory.<br>
Sincerely,<br>
Lee Pitts
2/27/2008