Update

Dad died on May 22 with loved ones at his side. More than 200 people attended his memorial service on May 27 in Aberdeen, S.D. His old Harley-Davidson Road King was parked out front as friends and family members paid tribute to Mike during the service.
On May 26, my sister Dana organized the first Mike Eaton Memorial Day Memorial Shoot. Dad loved to shoot guns, so we fired weapons at all kinds of targets, including an old water heater, beer bottles and more (See video below and photos here).


Mike Eaton Memorial Day Memorial Shoot from Tracey Eaton on Vimeo.

Links:

• Spitzer-Miller Funeral Home condolences page
• Obituary in Aberdeen American News
• Obituary in Durango Herald

Skidding sideways

Dad and I during a motorcycle trip through Colorado

In the 1950s, the BSA Gold Star was one of the fastest motorcycles around. It had a top speed of more than 100 miles per hour and could rocket to 50 mph in first gear.
I knew none of that when I climbed onto my dad's BSA with him as a passenger. All I knew is that he wanted me to go fast.
"Get on it!" Big Mike yelled.
So I hit the throttle and we were off, roaring through a new New Jersey suburb called Princeton Junction. The houses there were new and most of the trees had just been planted.
We lived along Slayback Drive, coated with a fresh layer of asphalt. Later on, workers would come along and add another layer, but for now, there was only one layer, leaving the manhole covers jutting above the surface.
Mike, at 6-foot-5, sat on the back of the BSA wearing sandals and shorts. There were no passenger foot pegs and his long legs dangled off the bike.
He didn't say a word - at least I didn't hear anything above the roar of the engine - when his foot hit one of the manhole covers. It wasn't until we got back home that I saw his foot was a bruised and bloodied mess. But dad didn't complain - it was one helluva ride.
I've been thinking a lot about my dad lately. He's been sick since October and went into hospice care in South Dakota earlier this month.
Seeing him slip away has been hard on everyone, but I find some comfort when I think about time we spent together. (See family photo album).

Mike, middle, with Mom

Michael Davidson Eaton was born in Nebraska in 1940, but grew up in Denver and was proud of his Colorado roots. He and my mother, Carolyn, met at a church dance. They were both students at Smiley Junior High School in Denver. Carolyn said:

He used to take me home from school on his bicycle. I sat on the handlebars.

They went to East High School in Denver and married when they were teen-agers. Mike was tall for his age. Carolyn said:

He kept growing for three years after we were married.

Dad bought his first motorcycle when my sister Dana was born. Then when I came along in 1959, he traded that motorcycle for another one. I guess there was something about kids being born that triggered the need for a new motorcycle.
Dad belonged to a motorcycle club named the Tea Drinkers because members rode Triumphs, BSAs and other English bikes. He competed in motorcycle races in Colorado and won at least a half dozen trophies. He raced through the hills, across frozen lakes and up 14,410-foot-high Pikes Peak.
Claude Chapman, his brother-in-law, said:

He won a lot of trophies. He was a good rider. He was 19, 20 years old. He was fearless.

Claude said Dad rode a Triumph Bonneville and raced for a Triumph dealership. He competed at Englewood Race Track. Claude said:

It was a dirt track. They raced around it counterclockwise. The bikes didn't have brakes. They leaned over and skidded around the curves.

I came home from school one day to find all his trophies in the trash. I don't know why he was throwing them away, but I picked out the best one, saved it and gave it to him years later. He was happy - I think he almost cried.
Mike attended Denver University. He was a member of the Beta Theta Pi fraternity. New members, known as "pledges," had to undergo a number of rituals. My memory is foggy on the details, but I recall my dad telling me that pledges were once ordered to lie down outside the house while upperclassmen on a balcony dropped eggs into their mouths.

Racing across a frozen lake in Colorado

Dad left college after two years and took a job as a management trainee at a Woolworth's store in Denver. He did everything from sweep the floors and stock the shelves to clean the bathrooms.
He worked his way up and was eventually a manager and later a district manager. Woolworth's had hundreds of  stores back then and transferred dad from Colorado to Kansas, Nebraska, Iowa, Minnesota, and then back to Kansas.
When it was time to take a vacation, we usually headed back to Colorado by car. Dana and I would try to see who could be the first to spot the mountains.
One year, while Dad was speeding along Interstate 80 or some other straight and agonizingly boring stretch in Nebraska, a patrol car came from behind, lights flashing, siren blaring. Mom was asleep in the front seat. Dad woke her and somehow persuaded her to switch places while the car was still moving. We wound up spending several hours in dinky Nebraska town before the justice of the peace lectured Mom, then issued the ticket. I don't remember the details, but I know Mom was furious.

Dad with Dana

At the wedding of his brother, Bob

We sometimes rented a cabin at Estes Park in Colorado. I remember fishing with Dad along Bear Creek. One morning, we saw workers stocking the creek with trout.
"Grab the poles!" Dad yelled and we ran to catch as many fish as we could. Grilled trout for breakfast is hard to beat.
In 1974, Dad was transferred to Woolworth's headquarters in New York City. That's how we wound up in Princeton Junction.
When I didn't have to go to school, I sometimes took the train with Dad to Manhattan. He'd go to his office at 233 Broadway while I'd explore New York City. Chinatown and Fulton's Fish Market were among my favorite stops. I liked the World Trade Center, too. I remember stepping off an elevator 80 or 85 floors up when the buildings were under construction. I walked to an open window, enjoyed the view and rushed to leave before someone saw I didn't belong there.
I am grateful that Dad always supported me while I pursued my dreams. He let me go to Turkey as an exchange student when I was just 16. He didn't object when I went to Mexico and Ecuador to study. And when I came home from the South American jungle with a half dozen blowguns, some of them 8 feet long, he showed up at John F. Kennedy International Airport with a rented stretch limo, the perfect vehicle to transport my unusual cargo.
All the relatives have their own stories about Big Mike and they've been telling them at his bedside.

Dad with Chappy Finnigan

Dad's sister, Marno Jensen, said Mike had a paper route while they were growing up in Denver. He delivered the Rocky Mountain News. And, Marno recalled, his dog, a Cocker Spaniel named Chappy Finnigan, sometimes followed him on his route along with the family's pet chicken.
Marno said a neighborhood dog named Tar Baby sometimes rushed out to try to bite the chicken, but Chappy rushed to protect the bird.
Mom also had a dog stories. When she and Dad first married, they had a Dachshund named Fritz, she said. The dog drove people crazy with its barking and so Dad got rid of Fritz. He told my mom he took it out into the countryside and shot it and so they went shopping for a new dog.
They visited a couple that was selling a Great Dane. They were about to buy the pooch when it let loose a tremendous pile of, well, you know what, on the floor.
Mom and Dad told the couple they needed a minute to go out to the porch to discuss the deal.
"Do you want this dog?" Mike asked his wife. "I don't want it."
"I don't want it, either," Carolyn replied.
And so they took off into the night without the Great Dane.
Little Fritz was suddenly looking pretty good.
Mike confessed he really didn't shoot the Dachshund. He had left it at a dog pound. So he and Mom decided to go to the shelter to rescue Fritz.
They didn't get there until around midnight. Mom waited in the car while Dad somehow got inside and found Fritz. Dad ran, but not before releasing all the other dogs.
Back then, Mom said, every day with Mike was an adventure.

Maira, Mike and Gaby

Dad with Hillary Clinton during a swing through the Dakotas

I learned a lot from my father. He always had a strong work ethic and I'd like to think I picked up that from him.
Mike kept his sense of humor even after he got sick. Even when he's hurting, he treats nurses and others with courtesy and respect, whispering "please" and "thank you."
Here in South Dakota, Dad enjoyed spending time with his grandchildren and his great-grandson. He also liked prairie dog hunting with his son-in-law, Jon Locken. Jon said:

It wasn’t about the hunting as much as getting out and enjoying the outdoors. He really enjoyed his friends here. He was on the go all the time. He was a roving ambassador around town.

My wife, who is from Cuba, said:

He'll always have a special place in my heart. From the moment I first met him on Nov. 29, 2005, he always treated me with a lot of affection. I appreciate that he always tried to speak to me in Spanish to make me feel more comfortable. All I remember is that he always tried to make sure I was OK. He definitely left a mark in my life for the love and attention he had toward me.

His granddaughter, Gaby, said:

No matter what, I will ALWAYS love you, Grandpa.

Mike and Gaby were close. He took her to get her first tattoo. Dad got a tattoo that day, too - I think it was his fifth.

Dad with Gaby

Dad started getting tattoos when he was 60. He fit right in when we rode to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally.
We had our own bikes this time and managed to avoid the manhole covers as we sped through the Black Hills of South Dakota.
Now, all these years later, Dad is sleeping peacefully. I am sitting next to his bed as I write these lines. Some of his biker memorabilia hangs from the wall in front of me. There's an old black-and-while photo of him on a racing bike along with a Tea Drinker jersey and a Triumph motorcycle patch.
There are more mementos in Dad's garage: A sign reading Harley Parking Only, an old Mobile gas pump, a Pabst Blue Ribbon neon light.
Nearby is a single sheet that Dad taped to the wall. It reads:

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, cigar in one hand, favorite soft drink in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming, "Wow. What a ride!"

Godspeed, Dad. We love you.