Happy Father’s Day to all dads!This is a rather lengthy post this morning remembering my dad.
Our friends, Ron Whitmore & Karen Whitmore created a beautiful book, The Way of The Worrell in honor of my dad Bill Worrell. Memories, photographs, and Worrellisms written by friends and colleagues fill this wonderful labor of love. It can be found at Worrell Gallery in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
(I am so fortunate to have met and danced with Bill at my former stepdaughter and Ron's home years ago. I loved his artwork, and was such a gentleman)
Worrell. My dad.
When I was near 4, my mother loaded my 3 year old brother, Bill, Doggette (our cocker spaniel mix), some suitcases, me, and herself and moved us from Lubbock, TX to the Gulf Coast. It wasn’t long before my dad came to Sweeny to see us. That particular visit is significant for me, being the first after the great migration. Living close to Surfside and Sargent, there were many trips to the beach, but going with my dad (anywhere) was always a different sort of adventure! There was crabbing at the mouth of the San Bernard, locating seagull nests in the dunes by use of binoculars and tracking with army men and other found objects on the beach, digging up sand crab holes to find the crabs, canned tuna and sand covered Fritos in thunderstorms, camping with mosquitoes so thick you breathed them, and even in the most remote parts, always a wandering soul or two with their story.
It was the mid to late 60’s, back when the beaches were still full of sand dollars, whole shells, dunes, and blue water. My dad would sketch and watercolor paint, the steering wheel and his lap being his easel as Billy and I sat beside him watching, trying not to squirm. That first visit he didn’t tell us it was his last day and that he was leaving, but I figured it out when he took us to 7-Eleven to get an ICEE. (An ICEE for us back in those days meant something was up.) I have experienced emotional pain throughout my adult life, but remembering that day is still really tough.
So began the life as a child of divorced parents. What a ride! Although there were many hardships, my brother and I had the best of bipolar worlds.
My dad. Worrell. People ask me (and have asked me for years) what was it like to have Worrell as your father? I just smile. I mean really. From the spelling of my name to the naming of his beloved home, The Independent Kingdom and Sovereign Nation of New Art, my dad is the most creative person I have yet to meet. I can’t imagine my dad not being my dad. He was the furthest from a traditional father as one could know. Yet his core being could not keep him from practicing some of that traditional fatherly guidance. My brother is the only person who knew my dad like I knew him. We often speak of the lessons he taught; those wild, unconventional, even questionable teachings. My dad never spanked us. His words were enough.
And those words could be quite colorful at times. We learned the art of cursing: when it was appropriate to do it, how to do it the right way, and where to do it (which seemed to be only when one was alone or with one’s kids during a life lesson of sorts. Grin.) Above all, he taught us honesty, honor, and integrity. He taught us that nothing was free and he taught us to be good citizens. He taught us that there are three sides to every story: yours, mine and the truth. My dad gave us the love for the land, the love for The Supreme Architect of the Universe, the love of music, travel, and humans all by providing hands-on experiences for these loves. Christmas gifts were a sketchbook and a charcoal pencil along with a road trip in the VW bus to Las Vegas, New Mexico where we would spend the holidays at a friend’s cabin on the Gallinas River hoping to be snowed in long enough to miss the start of school. Summers were spent traveling in the VW bus from the coast of Texas to New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and on to Wyoming. There were weeks when we saw no humans other than each other. We slept on the ground in our sleeping bags; there were no tents. Dinner was freshly caught rainbow trout over a campfire or the Coleman stove if there was enough fuel. Baths? Grab a bar of biodegradable soap and head for that crystal clear (and extremely cold) mountain stream. The hikes, the sunrises, the sunsets, the baiting of salmon eggs and corn on the hook, the canoeing, that first smell of mountain air at the Palisades Sill in the Cimarron Canyon near Eagle Nest, New Mexico, making birthday cakes and popcorn in the Go-Cooker, frying okra next to a Utah trout stream in the Uinta Mountains, constructing a raft with fallen timber and rope, capturing non venomous snakes at each campground, chipmunks, hummingbirds, elk, eagles, flowers, bears, massive amounts of green flies biting the eyelids and crawling up the nostrils while waiting on that Red River brown…oh, the finest of childhood summers!
Story and song was our entertainment while traveling these long distances. Nothing quite like the sound of Davy Armistead on acoustic guitar singing the Field Mouse Song while puttering through the Rockies in a VW bus. My brother would ask questions like “Daddy, how did that mountain get there?” And thus began my dad’s words, “Well, son, millions and millions of years ago, while the Earth was just beginning to form…” Makes me smile. I can just almost hear their voices.
Ralph and Gobel were my imaginary traveling pets. I remember being quite delighted that my dad could see them, too. Ralph was a lizard and Gobel, a horned toad. It’s been fifty plus years and the song we wrote still plays in my head.
One of my favorite parts of these trips was the look of curiosity that we received from people as we traveled through small towns. My dad adamantly stated that we weren’t hippies (yes, I asked him), but I thought we were pretty close to it. After all, I wore sunflowers and Indian paintbrush in my long braided hair and a swimsuit with a peace sign plastered on the front. Long haired friends wearing Jesus sandals, headbands, and ponchos would hang out the sliding door of the VW playing guitar while in the parking lot of grocery stores. We ate wheat bread (in the days of Wonder), granola, and took spoonfuls of soy lethicin and vitamin C every morning.
What a glorious education for this small town girl!
My dad has always been a gatherer of people. The folks we encountered as children on these adventures certainly enriched our lives. Some I have known since I was age seven and are now my adult friends. One of these fine humans is a lovely lady named Gg. Gg and my dad were married for several years. I struggle to find the words to express the impact that she has had on my life. Gg was the coolest chick I have ever met! I am so grateful that our paths crossed on this Journey, and that we continue to have our special friendship. Thank you, Worrell!
Art and my dad. Life is Art. Art was life. The first sketchbook that my dad gifted me is full of animals, mostly horses. Horse hooves, eyes, manes, tails; everything about horses. There are a lot of dog and insect sketches, too. I fell hard for ceramics when my dad took us to Odessa College and gave us a lesson on the kick wheel. I can still smell the oil paints and turpentine in the paint studio. I learned at an early age that there is no cheap paintbrush and no cheap watercolor paper. During those summer trips, there were numerous stops at galleries in Taos and Santa Fe where my dad would gather his paintings and pottery and go inside for hopes of having his work accepted.
How could we have known what the future held for him!
Oh the sweet irony!
I watched my dad paint, sculpt, write, create, and WORK all of my life. He would stop down for a few hours when it became too dark to accomplish tasks, but I believe his mind was always on To Create. I have yet to know a man who worked so hard and played just as hard. I watched him mellow as his grandchildren grew older. I watched while others took advantage of his kind nature. We spoke of this and both agreed that it’s better to have loved and given than to have not.
My dad and I had many conversations about so many things. I knew my dad for 59 years. That’s a lot of talk. From the time I was old enough to question government, organized religion, death, philosophy, rules, love, and human nature, these discussions continued until my dad was just too ill for me to ask. My parents did not falter in their teachings that people are where they are in life because of the choices made.
I am most grateful for my dad’s guidance in regards to my Spirituality.
I am a Believer, but struggled deeply with religion and theology in my early adulthood...for many reasons (as Worrell is known for saying.) During this critical time period, I brought to my dad my fears, my questions, and my concerns. My dad looked at me and said, “Well, Monster, you have to figure that out for you. Listen to your heart. The answer is there.” Then he quoted the Biblical verse from John 8:32 and smiled.
To this day, I am THERE.
My dad was my parent. He was my advisor. He was my counselor. He was the wisest man I have ever known. And as it was for many, my dad was my Spiritual guru, too. Those friends who have been on the Worrell scene for these past five decades and who truly knew my dad, know how much we are alike; the good, the not so good, and the good intentions.
My dad went to the AfterLife on April 29, 2021. I miss him. But I can feel him.
He is nowhere, he is everywhere. It is an infinite emptiness.
06/09/23 sun just rising over the Llano River, a herd of axis in the campground, and a hummingbird visiting at the window.
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