Rick Dennis

The Man Who Rock ‘N Rolled by Ryan Dennis

Whenever my father needed to motivate himself while working on the farm he would say, “Come on, man, rock ‘n roll.” All day he passed between feeding something, milking something, or doing some sort of fieldwork, and if you were around and listened, you would eventually hear Rick Dennis tell himself to rock ‘n roll.

In November, my father passed away at the age of 60.

My father was often the subject of my writing. Whether it was the time he rode my sister’s pink bicycle off the end of the porch and crashed, drove around a Chevy with no breaks until that crashed too, almost burned down the farm while trying to boil sap, or the day he regretted shooting my mother with a paintball—he was generous in allowing me to share his life. At the funeral I told the story about the yellow model airplane that we watched disappear the first time we flew it, because it was a story that he often told too.

Sometimes I told him that he was the every-farmer, because in trying to write about agriculture here and in other publications I had to write about him. Although I said it jokingly, his story followed the same path of many American farmers from his generation. He had grown up on a farm and had his own herd of Holsteins while he was a senior in high school. He made money when dairy farming was good, eventually doubling the herd when our family switched from tiestalls to the milking parlor. He missed the tiestall barn and type of farming that came with it, but he pressed on until he found that he could no longer expand to keep up. In 2014 he sold the dairy cows. Like many farmers of his time, he had to suddenly reinvent himself, despite already being 53. Soon after he learned to drive school bus and kept some beef on the side.

At the time I thought I was examining his life closely for material, but now I know I was figuring out how to live my own. He was the example the rest of our family followed. When faced with difficult circumstances he believed in resilience and optimism, and had plenty of opportunities to demonstrate both during difficult situations. In 2008 he was crushed under the arms of a skidsteer, breaking his back and tearing apart his abdomen. Three surgeons refused to operate because they believed there was no chance that he could live, and the one who did attempt it told my mother that it was one in a million that my father would ever walk again. However, my father decided to live, and then my father decided to walk. Then he went back farming.

My father faced physical pain the rest of his life. He had a metal rod in his back and a wire mess to keep his organs in place. He was always sore and often limped, but recognizing the addictive nature of painkillers before it received attention in the opioid crisis, only took aspirin. Still, he carried on working as he always had, and despite the pain, was the same sharp-witted man of humor that he had always been. He never stopped being the life of the party or quick with a joke. He was an example of incredible toughness, and we know that not because he could still live through everything that he experienced, but because he could still laugh.

In preparing for the eulogy, I found myself once again writing about my father. This time it was different, however. There was more to do than tell a funny anecdote or explain something about farming. When I was young I had this naïve notion that a funeral was a perfect and grand summation of a life, like a firework show that you were stockpiling for since birth. However, now I know that it’s not like that. Those who love someone who is gone are in too much pain to get the words right. I did the best I could, but it was never going to do him justice.

In the end, there is nothing original about grief, nor is there anyone who escapes it. Still, being universal doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. Though I’ve never admitted it out loud, I find myself looking at people who were older and in worse health than my father, and for a second I resent them for outliving him. The first few weeks I would catch myself thinking that I was going to see my father in a room or watch a football game with him later, for the briefest moment forgetting that he was gone.

When my father got hurt a lot of people came to the farm to help him out. It was no surprise that some at the funeral had to stand along the walls or in the aisle, because the church was too full. He was a person others were drawn to, and he left a large legacy behind him. He taught me how to be strong and kind at the same time. Now he’s teaching me about loss. No one in that church wanted to go out into a world that didn’t have Rick Dennis in it, but now that we have to, we’ll pick ourselves up and tell ourselves to rock ‘n roll.

The Milk House logo

 

  1. I love how honest this story is Ryan. Honesty in writing is always very powerful. I remember when I first came back to my writing, my family were very fearful of my honesty. They were all do afraid of what I was going to write about them. I write everything about my life, except the bad stuff. There is enough bad stuff out there, so I chose to just remember everything that is good and kind about life. I recognize a lot about your father in me, and this is another reason why your story here resonates with me. I like to thank people for being honest with me – I know it’s not easy to do. You were being honest to yourself when you wrote this, and because of that, it was a delight for me to read it. Thank you.

  2. Thanks for the message, Pat. It’s true that writing about actual people, especially those you are closest to, is a strange act. I’m working on a memoir now, and I’m continually confronted with how to negotiate a past event as I see it, even if others may have a different opinion. Thanks for the kind remarks on this piece, and all the best as you continue to navigate your own work. I’m looking forward to your story appearing tomorrow.

  3. Thank you Ryan. I’m very much looking forward to my story appearing here.

    What I have found from writing my own truths, is that while others may have different opinions, they are not entirely offended by my truths. I’m sure most of my family and friends that I grew up with must think I’m a bit daft in the head, and they would never be heard in public agreeing with most of what I write. But many of them reach out to me in privacy and they encourage what the perceive is my attempt at bravery. I don’t think it’s at all brave of course – writing the truth has become my tower of strength. Write your honest truth Ryan. Once it’s the truth, then no one should rightfully be offended by it. I wish you all the very best getting your memoir out there…….in all of its truth.

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *