Frederick "Fred" Joel Melberg Jr.

Pilots shout "Clear!" before starting the engine to be sure no one is near the propeller when it's about to spin. We all remember clearly Dad yelling out that warning, and we use the same alert now to gain our footing after his passing at an astounding 98.5 years.

We've long wondered how we would ever condense Dad into a short story. He was born on New Year's Eve 1927 to a mother who ran a boarding house and a father who owned a service station in Seattle. Dad loved to be with his dad at the station, running the till, making change and setting the cast-metal letters to print fliers before he was five. He skipped a grade in school, finally graduating from Lincoln High School, and later had a short stint in the army. He went to university for two years before he felt if someone bought books and taught themselves, university was an unnecessary expense. He got his pilot's license when he was alarmingly young. Dad was a bush pilot on expeditions to the Yukon and Alaska in his early twenties, and he flew for the Gang Ranch northwest of Williams Lake, southern B.C. It was one of the largest cattle ranches in North America (think Yellowstone). Early on, he was flying his own planes (a Piper Super Cruiser and a Seabee, among others), carrying supplies and geologists to the Mendenhall Glacier in Juneau Icefield, and climbers to various peaks in the Coast mountains ranges. He was a climber himself, and set a few records in the West Coast Cascades.

Mom came west from the farm in Minnesota and after training as an LPN, she later worked as a telephone operator. She arrived to rent a room at Gramma Melberg's boarding house. It was some time before she realized there was a son living in the basement suite. He was often away flying, skiing or mountain climbing. It was a fateful decision to rent a room. Their wedding was followed by a "memorable honeymoon" in a boat with a two-horse-power motor, alone together for weeks on the isolated northern Athabasca River in 1954 because Dad thought it would be "interesting."

Married 72 years, Mom and Dad moved nine times, travelled to remote places like Inuvik, and Tuktoyaktuk on the shore of the Beaufort Sea, and lived in conditions few people would tolerate, let alone enjoy. Mom explains their nomadic life by saying Dad had a "wanderlust." They once lived on a leaky houseboat on Lake Union in Seattle. They bought 160 acres near Tofino on Vancouver Island in 1954, lived in a dilapidated shack, and subsisted on razor clams and potatoes. They moved to a small farm a hour east of Seattle, there nearly 10 years before moving to Canada in 1969. They lived in a boarded-up 1916-era hardware store in a remote Gold Rush village in northern B.C. with an outhouse, no running water and no heat other than a wood cook stove. Later, they spent months in a small travel trailer, sometimes squatting, other times on the move. They ran a small dairy farm in northern Alberta, and later stayed put for 25 years in Yukon before moving to Saskatoon in 2018 when Dad was 91, and Mom 87. A search for adjectives to describe their personalities comes up with "quirky."

 Dad was an electronics engineer. For nearly 10 years in the 1960s, he worked for United Control Corporation, an aerospace engineering firm near Seattle. The company had contracts with Boeing and NASA, among others. Dad built gadgets used for the Gemini and Apollo space missions. We knew to be quiet or better yet scarce when news of the moon missions was on TV.

 Dad was headstrong and had definite opinions about himself, us, the people around him and the world in general. In recent weeks when we told him about the state of the world and the bizarre political climate, he often shook his head and said, "I'm glad I don't live on this planet." He was a science fiction fanatic, particularly a fan of Marion Zimmer Bradley, and he thought her world of Darkover would be a much better place to live.

 We are thankful for all the people who have crossed his path, too numerous to mention for fear of missing someone, most recently at Luthercare, in particular the Luther Special Care Home in the last three years, for treating Dad with such respect, kindness and good humour. For a man who called the shots all his life, we know keeping him comfortable and content was not always easy.

 Fred is survived by his wife Doris, who marks her 95th birthday by receiving Dad's ashes and a trip to Beppi's gelato while Dad sits in the car; son Nels (Gwen), grandchildren Jenna (David) and Joel (Deanna) and great-grandchildren Seqoiah, Hannah, Hailey, Kenadi, Theo, Bailey and Taylor, all of Oregon. Daughter Karin (Richard), grandchildren Jim (who shared many popcorn and wine visits with Grampa at the care home); Erin (Michael), Benjamin (Julia), and great-grandchildren Alexander, Pearl and Dahlia of California. Nieces Nancy Welin and Cindy Hoiland and their families, and nephew Stuart Nordling and his family, all of Minnesota.

 We sent him off on his final journey with one of his Darkover novels, a small bottle of watered down scotch (Nels had sneaked scotch and watered it down when he was 15. Dad noticed), a stuffed dog I knitted for him when I was nine and he kept in his bedside drawer (a surprise to me), their 71st wedding anniversary card, two hankies, a family photo, a photo of him with the Viking battle axe sent by Whitehorse friends who knew he needed it to enter Valhalla, and a copy of his favourite poem, The Cremation of Sam McGee.

 Safe flight, Dad.

 Clear!