Many of you know that writing is a form of therapy for me. I've used it for years to convey the messages that I could not otherwise communicate well. My writing has also landed me into hot water in the past, so I haven't posted my writing since 2018. Even so, I never stopped writing.
The days leading up to the passing of my Dad brought on a tidal wave of emotions. Instead of hiding those emotions or burying them, I picked up my laptop and I let them flood onto the page. After reading it over and over, I wanted Dad to know what I had written...and moreover, what I felt. I read these words to him - in a private moment and in the present tense - while I was with him last week. And while he wasn't able to respond beyond a squeezing of my hand, I know he loved hearing it. Better yet, I know that he felt our love for him through my words.
So, in the off chance that this might help you grieve a loved one...or help you write a eulogy should you be given that awesome responsibility, I'm posting this today to honor my Dad.
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(I did add points of context as I also used this as the eulogy at my Dad's funeral)
Hello. My name is Dondi Schneider. I am the baby Bullard child … much to my siblings’ chagrin. I’m the youngest but also the bossiest …. Lisa is the sweet one, DJ is our mean girl queen, Tina is our wild child in this little Don Bullard Band…. And then there’s the boy. Our teddy bear brother Randy who is smack in the middle of all these girls … the only son … he looks and acts like Dad and carries on the Bullard name…yes, yes, yes…we’ve heard all about it.
But - we all have traits from him, so if you’re ever missing him - just call one of us. Inappropriate laughter is one of those things. My siblings and I have been laughing together for two days — all with him, for him and around him. It runs in our family that we deal with grief with jokes. And vodka. But since we are here, we will just do jokes for now. Come see me at the bar later for vodka and better jokes.
Also - life hack, you can’t cry and drink something at the same time. I learned that a women’s conference years ago. Always have a bottle of water. Life and career changing.
You may be wondering why we are here so quickly after Dad passed on Tuesday evening. It’s certainly not because we all want to get back to work or “normal life.” There is no normal to go back to. Life will never be the same. It’s simply that the distance between here and gone is vast. The gap is wider than you think it will be…so the quickest path forward seems like the least painful approach. The thought of anticipating this extremely hard day for an extended period was simply not something we could bear. While sad to be together under these circumstances, it is so nice to see so many familiar faces after such a long time.
I would first like to thank my stepmom, Sharron, without whom we would not have had my Dad these past 3-5 years. Thank you for taking care of him, for schlepping things around the US to support y’all’s love of travel and his love to see his kids, grandkids and great grands. I’m exceptionally thankful that you brought him to Pensacola Beach this past July for the Blue Angels. I know that wasn’t easy given his state of health at the time. My little family will cherish those memories forever.
If you all haven’t noticed, Sharron loved my Dad in a big, big way. Her love for him was larger than life — just like him. The same was true for his love of her. She was a constant force of positivity and the belief that he could conquer anything. Hebrew 11:1 says “Faith is what we hope for and assurance for what we do not see.”
A special shout out to Sharron’s son Corey and his wife Ashley who jumped in to help get Dad and Sharron’s home setup for hospice last week.
I would also like to recognize my sweetest, eldest, and calmest sister Lisa for being the other local constant in my Dad’s life and health journey. You have tirelessly kept your siblings up to date on nearly every breath and heartbeat of our dad for the past 5 years. You are seriously the kindest, most reliable person I know.
Alright….I will assume that each of you knew my father or you wouldn’t be here today. I don’t think funeral crashing is a thing like wedding crashing but who knows these days. If you didn’t know him… you’re about to get a little glimpse.
I feel lucky. Grateful really. We had the opportunity to say all the things, to reconcile the differences, to shower him with attention and love and peace and comfort quite literally until his last breath and heartbeat. I heard that last tick for myself…because I’m bossy and nosey and a control freak…and I had the stethoscope.
Like all of us, my Dad wasn’t perfect. He was short tempered. And created 4 more children who also have short tempers. Lisa - you are still the sweetest and most tolerant. He had a big heart, so sometimes it appeared as though he’d let people take advantage of him. Don’t confuse kindness with weakness or ignorance. Dad was strong and smart … Street smart, business savvy, a strategic executor. As I often say, he was a grown ass man. He made his own choices - on who to love, how to show that love and where to lend a hand vs walk away. We’ll come back to choices….
How lucky are we? To have known him?
And to know him was to love him - well, mostly. Everyone in here either loved, laughed, drank or fought with Dad. Many of us did all four.
He had a heavy presence in every room he entered… he was 6’2” without the boots and black, felt cowboy hat. But he was never without those things. Add his big belt buckle, Burt Reynolds mustache and grin …. And that was my Dad. He was a big, handsome dude with a big presence, a big heart and probably a big gun, cause Dad was always packing.
How lucky are we? To have been loved by him?
My Dad was a straight-shootin’ cowboy. He threatened every boyfriend we ever had … am I right, girls? … including the one that became my husband and father of my children. I’m not sorry for it. He loved his girls — and his only boy, of course. He fiercely protected all of his kids — even the ones he picked up along the way. He fiercely protected all the people he loved - whether you knew it or not. He did so in his own way. He was really more of a lover than a fighter … and always a hard working provider for his family. He was away for long stretches during my childhood doing just that - providing. I didn’t understand it then but I get it now. Pre-pandemic, I traveled every week for my career. While not exactly the same, I played a similar role as him — a provider, a builder of life. And, just like he was with me … I have been known to be softer on discipline than I should be. I say “have been” because I don’t travel as much now, and I have my head on a swivel with my traveling circus over there.
But to be clear, as soft as he was on disciplining the girls (except Randy)… he would still fight YOU if necessary. I can’t let you leave here today thinking he wouldn’t hurt you if he needed to.
How lucky are we? To be a student of his?
He taught us tons of things over the years.
Like how to use almost every tool in his garage — even if that meant me knocking his thumb flat from practicing my hammer skills. Do y’all laugh when people get hurt? No? Is that just us? Cause we’ve spent years crying laughing at my dad when he would hit a finger with a hammer or stub a toe.
He taught us how to wrassle … (That’s WRESTLING if you’re anyone except my Dad.) If you think Lisa can’t put you in a “holt” (read: hold) and pin you to the ground right now, you’re wrong. She’s sweet, but she’s got wrassling skills. You gotta keep your eye on Tina and Randy too, cause they’ll jump on you from the top rope…and you won’t even know it. Some of our favorite memories were wrassling in the living room and screaming while he tickled us until we couldn’t breathe …. Right up until DJ stabbed him in the hand with the scissors to get out of a choke hold.
He taught me how to unscrew the regulator on my tiny little three-wheeler to make it go faster. His version of the story is that I figured it out because I’m so smart, but I simply watched him setting it up on the first day. I was only 6, but a hell raising, speed demon, mean-as-a-snake 6-year-old. When I tell you that apple doesn’t fall far from that tree, I mean it. He loved telling that story. Over and over. He would also tell people that I hated mud so much that when I got that three-wheeler stuck, I’d walk 2 miles back to the house, cry and whine to until he helped me. And by help, I mean simply picking up that three-wheeler and putting it back on the road again. That’s how small it was…or maybe that’s how big of a hero HE was.
He taught me how to fish, how to shoot a gun and how to manage an angry mama o’possum. He did not teach DJ how to fish because I have multiple scars on my body from her hooking ME instead of the fish, but I digress. I’ll also have better DJ stories at the bar later. There’s also a story in there about a 12-gauge shot gun nearly taking my shoulder off when I was 9, but I’m not allowed to tell that story without my mama here. That was one of those summers where all 5 kids were in Mississippi together and I remain surprised that we all survived those summers.
He taught me how to drive a stick shift … at the ripe age of 8. Yep. We had a red, Toyota truck that I think was missing actual body parts … and I drove it everywhere on our 100-acre property in Mississippi. Back to being surprised we survived — I cannot believe I didn’t run over a sibling or an animal.
Speaking of animals …
My dad told me only 1 lie that I know about. I mean besides the usual lies and bribes that come with general parenting. He lied to me about where the two cows went. At one point in my early childhood, two cows came to live in the pasture next to the house. We named those cows. Oscar and Jimmy Holsteen. Oscar for Dad’s dad – who I never knew because I’m the baby. And younger. … and Jimmy for my mom’s dad. Holsteen was the type of cow. I thought they were our pets. They were so fat. I put a rope around their necks and walked them daily. Dad would get so mad. “Stop walking the cows, Dondi, we want them to be fat,” he’d say. I petted them and brushed them and talked to them. Then one day they were gone. The freezer was full. And I became a vegetarian.
He taught us so much but most importantly, he taught us that “we all make choices” ….. And to be unapologetic about those choices. Those choices are what make us all unique … and sometimes that’s what makes us love or laugh or drink or fight. And, that is just life. Daddy did exactly what Daddy wanted to do. He was exactly where he wanted to be almost all the time. That’s what gives me comfort. He lived a good life. He was a good man, a good provider, a good father, a good brother, a good friend and a good husband. He was loved and he knew it. People clamored for his attention. He knew that too and loved it.
How lucky are we?
To have had the opportunity to be in his heavy, larger than life presence that could fill up a room?
How lucky are we to have known him, to have loved him, to have been loved by him, to have learned from him, to have laughed with him - or at him, to drink with him and even to have fought with him?
I was not the child that was at home the most. I wasn’t the child that visited the most. I wasn’t out running the streets and getting in trouble either though. I was out building a life for my family. I was providing – just like you taught me to do. While I was (am) the baby, I wasn’t the child that was the closest to my Dad nor did I make all the choices that he wanted me to. But I loved my Dad. I will miss my Dad. May his heavy, good hearted presence live through me all the rest of my days.
Thank you for being here today. Please know how much it means to him.