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December 6, 2007


For a copywriter, everything revolves around the headline. While we can doodle around with body copy - even have fun with it! - and inject a little bit of our own personality and style into an ad, building the headline takes a fine, pointed talent. It’s my biggest struggle - and I’m sure it’s the biggest struggle for many.

Writing a perfect headline is the goal. It helps sell the idea to both the client and the customer.

So when I see headlines like this one for The Lung Association, I can’t help but say “wow.”

The Lung Association Ad

Simple. Pointed. Striking. The message is there as simply as can be. And as someone who has been affected by lung cancer through my grandfather, it sure makes me think.

Bravo, TWBA.

(From Advertising/Design Goodness, a fellow 9rules site.)

Tags: Advertising and Marketing, Grandpa Boyer |

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One year ago

January 17, 2007


One year ago today.

I can’t believe I nearly forgot.

A year ago, today – in fact, at almost the time I’m posting this – Kerrie and I bundled up, hopped into the car, and drove to my mother’s apartment to tell her that my grandfather – her father - had died.

It was a year ago today that, after some final words, a warm nuzzle from the family dog, completely surrounded by family and prepared with two week’s worth of hospice, that Donald Wayne Boyer, a namesake and hero, passed away. He spent a year and a half surviving cancer before finally succumbing to it. He snuck off into the night alone, shouldering the dark, braving his last adventure, building his last character, teaching us one final lesson about life.

About love.

One year. Since then I’ve done numerous things that would have made my grandfather proud. I’ve done hundreds of things I’d have loved to tell him. He left a legacy, one that I attempt to follow each day, one that believed in character, hard work, love, intelligence, and continuing to fight and dream for your place in the world, no matter what.

It was a year ago today. I picked up the phone and my grandmother told me that he had died. We had just visited him for Christmas. For the last time. He had barely been lucid when we left. But he knew we were leaving. And somehow – somehow – he knew he wouldn’t see us again.

When she called, when we got up and left and delivered the bad news to my mother, just like someone had delivered the same bad news to my mother almost 20 years prior when my great grandmother Etta Johnston died, I kept thinking how surreal it was. He was our rock. He was the solid ground that the family had been built. He was the first stable thing that had appeared in generations. And now…

Now he was gone.

One year ago today, my hero turned from human to legend. One year ago today I had to realize what it was like to let go. One year ago today all I could do was stare. Was to try to feel. Try to cry.

One year ago today.

Tags: Grandpa Boyer |

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On fishing

July 6, 2006


If anything came from our vacation this past weekend, it’s the rediscovery of fishing – as sport and as pastime. It used to be boring. But now, in my introspectively directed mind, it’s a time to think. A time to reminisce and enjoy life, watching for every small detail that I understandably miss while rushing through the day.

Fishing is relaxation. It’s the thrill of the hunt. There’s a pull of both chance and circumstance. The fisherperson is not in control. On the contrary, the fish is in charge of the situation. We’re the one throwing a line out, reeling it back in, and repeating, while the fish sits back and idly watches, nibbling at the scraps and trying not to get caught. Each throw is like a lottery ticket, each cast representing the ultimate in hope and belief.

“Just one more toss. I know I’ll get something. I’ll stick with this rig because I know it will create good luck.” Optimism at it’s highest. It’s worked before, so maybe there’s some magic left. It’s addicting; a drug for the wilderness lover, a narcotic in an ecosystem-saving vein, with worms as junk and a fish hook as applicator.

What started as a quiet day fishing quickly became a momentous outpouring of feeling, of relaxation and nostalgia. I used my grandfather’s old fishing pole all weekend, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see some significance in the act. I never really understood the idea of fishing, but I learned it – second hand, at least – through this fishing pole that still had lures ready. For all I know, it was the last lure he ever used. I didn’t see the pole as mine. There was too much history wrapped up in the line, too much dedication attached to the hook.

That is, until I caught a fish. It was nothing special, a rainbow trout from the middle of the lake. It was one part grandfather and one part father – the Rappala I used was a gift from an overzealous father, one who loves fishing more than nearly anything else. It will take along time to shake my grandfather’s name from the title, but the fishing pole became mine – if just a little – the second I caught something on it, my first fish worth keeping. Maybe it’s the start of a new legacy.

Did my grandfather – a great fisherman and an avid sportsman – know that his final fishing excursion was truly his last? I wondered that when I was out on Bismarck Lake this weekend. I wondered if he realized that he’d never be able to do it again – the sport that had become his personal pastime over the past 65 years of his life. Did he catch anything? My rainbow trough was good enough for me. But was it ultimately meant for him? Could he have left some of his magic – his fishing “spectacle” on the pole – enough to make one of my few bites good enough to keep?

Would he have fished any differently if he knew it was his last shot? Would he use different lures? Or would he be too wrapped up in the act of fishing, the beauty of the lake and the rush of the catch, the patience and reward, the variety of lures and techniques and the trials and tribulations of new styles? Would he have even cared?

I did. I learned to fish this weekend. I always had known how to throw the line in the water and reel it back in. But this weekend, I picked up the mindset that’s always been missing.

Tags: Grandpa Boyer, On..., Outdoors |

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A grand arrival

April 14, 2006


For all that I’ve talked about my grandfather over the past four months, with all of the concerns, the saying goodbyes, the death and subsequent celebration, I’ve kept quiet about my grandmother. My grandmother, who stood by my grandfather in everything he did. Who supported him when he learned he had cancer, kept him going throughout treatments, and agonized with him as he slowly slipped away. Who at times is very lonely, and at others is still loving life and all it has to offer.

My grandmother is unlike any other. And she’s here in Sioux Falls for the first time since Kerrie and I married. Before that it had been five years. This is something that doesn’t happen often, obviously. So her showing up is cause for celebration.

I always remember my grandmother as being the nicest person I ever knew. And that hasn’t changed. She’s the most caring, sweet person I’ve ever met. I’ve met a lot of grandmothers in my life and, sounding a little biased I’m sure, she’s got to be one of a kind. She has a youthful disposition. She has a keen fashion sense. She’s awesome.

But she’s not just a little old lady with great candy – she’s a sarcastic opinionated spitfire. She is incredibly polite, but she has her viewpoints. And there’s nothing better than hearing my grandmother let loose with a complaint.

Where I would work towards pride and acceptance with my grandfather, I never had to work for anything with my grandmother. She always had pride and acceptance for me. She never had a negative word to say.

I spent nearly at least a little part of the summer for almost a decade with my grandparents in Jackson, Wyoming. I learned my history – the history of my grandmother’s side of the family, the side that helped build Jackson and settled the entire valley – and I learned the value of hard work. A little came from my grandmother. A little came from my grandfather. Both of them together taught me a lot that I never would have learned by staying in Sioux Falls.

So, with that, I welcome my grandmother to Sioux Falls. She used to live here, for a short amount of time – in fact, my mother and father met here nearly 30 years ago. And now, she’s back for a short stint. She doesn’t leave the valley often, but we’re happy to have her regardless.

Welcome (back) to Sioux Falls, Reva Dell.

Tags: Grandpa Boyer |

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Orange crush

March 13, 2006


Do you want to know why the Vietnam War was one of the most horrific things this country’s every experienced?

Because of countless deaths – both by the hands of the enemy and by the hands of the United States. Because of the aftermath, a war fought for a losing cause, a generation of men tortured by memories, a nation full of women worried their husbands, fathers, sons would not come back.

Because of the lasting effects of the war.

Thousands of men walked through the rice paddies in Vietnam, fighting a war that our government thought was necessary. These thousands of men were exposed to Agent Orange, a chemical used as an herbicide in Vietnam – an herbicide that was used to help clear the vast foliage that served as a natural barrier to the American efforts.

According to Wikipedia:

During the Vietnam War, the US instituted a massive herbicidal program that ran from 1961 through 1971. The aim of the program was two-fold, one to destroy the “cover” provided by the jungle-like forest, and another to deny food to the enemy. First named Operation Trail Dust, then Operation Hades, it was finally renamed Operation Ranch Hand…

…Spraying reached its maximum during the most intense period of the war, between 1967 and 1968. After that the program “drew down”, and ended in 1971. By this point an estimated 19 million gallons of herbicide had been sprayed on Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand, somewhat more than half (55%) of that Agent Orange, between 1962 and 1971. Early estimates from 1974 had placed the amounts lower, between 12 and 14 million gallons. In total about six million acres were sprayed in Vietnam alone.

The military effectiveness of the program appears debatable. Many of the areas sprayed were not directly involved in later military actions. Of course, this could be considered as evidence for the effectiveness of the program. Nor does it appear there is any measurable effect on the warfighting abilities of the groups involved, the People’s Army of Vietnam were able to mount full scale assaults in 1972 with little US intervention prior, which suggests that the program was, militarily, a failure.

Why is this important to me all of a sudden?

Because my grandfather was present on many of those rice paddy walks. My grandfather was exposed to Agent Orange. And, according to what the Army recently informed my grandmother, his sickness, his cancer, was caused in part by Agent Orange.

I think the scariest part is that Agent Orange has been found to affect the children and grandchildren of those who were exposed. I’m not sure of the validity of this. All I know is that the Vietnam War very well could have killed my grandfather.

Yet another unforgivable side effect of war.

Tags: Grandpa Boyer, Politics |

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What my grandfather taught me

January 25, 2006


This Monday was my grandfather’s memorial service, a full military service complete with 21-gun salute and American Legion lunch. I had thought I was prepared for it, but I found that no one can truly be prepared to say goodbye until they finally have.

My grandmother asked me to write something that I could read at the service, a eulogy of sorts. I did, but I found I could hardly bring myself to read it. I was a wreck coming into the service. As much as I prepared myself, and as much as I knew I could do it, it was the hardest thing I ever did.

I felt immensely better after I had read it though. I gained strength as I read, and though I choked up a few times I made it through with my head held up, feeling every word, trying to make my grandfather as proud of me as possible. I got a good response; I was told that my grandfather would have been very proud of me, and that it was very beautiful. Kerrie paid me an enormous compliment in saying that I reminded her of when Paul Wellstone’s son, David, read a remembrance at the Wellstone memorial. That made me feel pretty damn good.

Most importantly, however, I felt good with myself.

I needed the closure for myself, and by pouring out my feelings on my grandfather, I was able to close the book on his terrestrial life and prepare to have him live in my heart for the rest of mine.

My grandfather’s life may be behind us now, but his memory never will be.

Donald Wayne Boyer
Memorial 01.23.06
By Corey Wayne Vilhauer

My grandfather, Donald Boyer, was more than just a military man, a businessman, a father, a brother, a grandfather, a friend, a husband, and a confidant. He was more than the man that built his own house at the age of 65, or the man that was a master at shooting, or an avid fisherman, hunter, and wildlife buff. No, aside from all of this, my grandfather was a teacher. A teacher in the most basic sense of the word. He had no lesson plans, and he didn’t watch us all at recess and monitor us while eating lunch, but a teacher none the less.

Above everything, my grandfather appreciated and respected education. He knew that we all had things to learn in life, regardless of how old we were, regardless of where or how well we had been educated. He was a man full of life experiences, and his goal was to pass them along, one by one, like a schoolmaster assigning homework to a fifth grade class. We all learned something when we talked to Donald Boyer. He taught us everything he knew, on purpose or unintentionally, because he was a man that valued the idea of bettering ourselves every day.

My grandfather taught me that there’s nothing more sacred than Mother Nature, that there’s nothing that can’t be solved by taking advantage of the outdoors. He taught me that the wilderness was something to be respected. He taught me that everything we do has consequences, and that because of this we’re better off doing things right the first time, every time.

He taught me that respect is earned. He taught me that laughter is healthy. He taught me the spirit of sportsmanship. He taught me that you shouldn’t hold your aces if someone’s going to go out on you during a card game, and he taught me that years of inactivity do nothing to wane a cribbage shark’s ability to beat his grandson.

My grandfather taught me that there’s nothing that can’t be fixed. He taught me that history is a thing to be revered, to be studied and understood so that we wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes. He taught me that a person’s heritage is something to embrace, to be proud of. He taught me that owning a business can actually seem like a hobby instead of a career.

He taught me how to cut wood, though I never warmed up to actually using the chainsaw, and how to split, load, and stack wood. He taught me the labor I did up at the woodpile was going to build a necessary supply of character. I thought I had built enough of it to last a lifetime, but he later taught me that there’s no such thing as too much character.

My grandfather taught me that if a movie doesn’t have Charles Bronson, John Wayne, or Clint Eastwood, it’s probably not worth watching. He taught me that baseball was a real sport, and that the crap I listened to on MTV wasn’t real music. He taught me to appreciate everything I experienced, because you never know when the opportunity might come up again. He taught me that even a gruff and burly military vet can cry, and that it’s okay to do so.

My grandfather taught me to appreciate hard work. He taught me to keep the desire to learn, and to believe in myself regardless of what I do. He taught me to be happy first, and to worry about personal status last. He taught me to have dreams, to do what it takes to make them come true, and to never take for granted what we have achieved. He taught me that there’s no point in others being proud for you if you aren’t proud for yourself.

He taught me that my heroes shouldn’t be in the movies, or sports stars, but real life people who have made an impact in my life. He taught me that regardless of how old I get I’ll always be in a position to take something on, to push my boundaries a little each day and have the confidence to stand up to any barriers I face.

My grandfather taught me that, regardless of what my assumptions were when I was six years old, no one lives forever. He taught me that there’s nothing that isn’t worth fighting for because you’ll never succeed if you don’t try. He taught me that there can be peace in dying, though he also taught me that even peace doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

Of all the things that he taught me, though, the one that sticks out the most is that there is nothing more valuable than family. He taught me that the most important thing a person can do in their life is be a devoted husband, a caring father, a proud grandfather, a loving brother, and a trusting friend. He taught this to all of us, actually, and this might have been the most subtle lesson yet. Still, it’s probably the most important one. We all have a lot to learn from my grandfather. We all have the ability to be as sensitive, yet still be as confident; to take life and live it, yet still make time for those closest to us.

It’s this lesson that makes me the most proud of my grandfather. It’s this lesson that, for all of us, ensures that my grandfather will always be around in everything we do, for as long as we live.

Tags: Grandpa Boyer |

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The inevitable

January 17, 2006


And just like that, the inevitable happens.

My grandfather, Donald Wayne Boyer, a man that was ravaged by cancer over the past year and was given only two to four months to live, succumbed to the disease today. My grandmother called me to tell me that my grandpa had gone to heaven, and I was the one to tell my mother.

I’m without tears at this moment because I’ve shed them all in anticipation of this day. Instead I feel strangely stoic. I prepared myself for the worst, and when it came I wasn’t surprised. I am sad, but a little relieved. He’s not in any pain anymore. He never will be.

Once we left Idaho this past week, my grandfather’s condition worsened drastically. He lost nearly all of his ability to function. Hospice was brought in, a hospital bed was set up, and he prepared to leave this world.

The two to four months became days, and the days became hours. I was talking to my mom on the phone about his condition when my grandmother beeped in and told me the news.

I feel incredibly blessed to have been there for his final cognitive days – to be a memory to him before his memories became fuzzy. I know now that heading out west this past week wasn’t in vain. As I expected, those were the last moment I ever spent with him.

The mourning process begins now. I’m having a hard time thinking of him in the past tense, but I feel that I’m ahead of the curve; a little guilty even for not feeling sadder. But, with him out of his misery, the only person I feel incredibly sad about is my grandmother, a woman who adored him and was adored by him – as she said on the phone, her soul mate of 48 years was gone.

She said to us: “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”

Regardless of what we plan to do without him, it won’t be the same. Life will go on, but it just won’t be the same without him in our lives.

Damn it, I already miss him.

I love you Grandpa. And I always will.

Tags: Grandpa Boyer |

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