A tribute to discovery on Father's Day
I always liked the adage “All you leave behind are memories” because it's true north.
My Dad, Donald Joseph Beaupre, was a case in point. While he died 17 years ago at the still-too-early age of 67, he left me with glowing embers of curiosity and discovery.
Don Beaupre was substance, not flash. He had a winning smile, was always kind and a great listener. He never preached but instead taught by example.
His father died when he was 10 years old, so he had a busy role helping his shoe mill-working Mom and three siblings. The Great Depression was tough but it nurtured a creative imagination. 
He took the Navy oath in 1943 and became a Commanders Mechanic and occasional gunner. The USS Essex aircraft carrier was his home in Southern Japanese waters during WWII.
A prized possession of mine is his handwritten “short daily diary.” Here’s an excerpt from March 20, 1945:
“Today we were at G.Q. most all day and had battle rations. The Japs know they crippled the Franklin bad and are out for the kill today. They were dropping flares all last night trying to keep track. We shot down about 25 Bettys in all today. Brother, if a guy says he is not scared out here, he can honestly be called a damn liar.”
Here’s another one from April 17:
“Shot down three bogeys today. I almost got shot too. The 20 mm slug missed me by about two feet. If that thing had hit me, I guess I wouldn’t be writing this now. If I ever get back to the States, I’ll be the best boy in the world. There is always something to be thankful for."
After the war, he married Rita (my Mom) and sold door-to-door for Fuller Brush. That must have been a tough gig. Then, with two little kids on his watch, he decided to pursue his passion and attended/graduated from photography school in New York City. He caught the entrepreneurial bug and opened a portrait studio on New Hampshire's Seacoast.
My Dad exposed me to many things; photography was one of them. I first discovered what light could do to paper in his darkroom, a mysterious, magical place. A naked red bulb was the only light source; it cast an eerie glow; the enlarger loomed above. Chemical jugs lined the plywood counter where mixing buckets, a paper cutter and one of those white plastic "minute timers" kept watch.
My job was to gently bathe photo paper in a tray filled with developing solution. Hanging on with wooden tongs, I’d watch a black and white image s-l-o-w-l-y appear from a sheet of paper that was blank seconds ago. Then we'd hang it on a clothesline rope to dry.
Don J. Beaupre was a nuanced man, interested in many other things.
Boxing was a prime time event on TV in my early years; he loved it and wanted his son to know how to defend himself. I gave him a bloody nose at three years old after landing a right hook with the gold boxing gloves he had bought me.
Dad loved the outdoors, so he'd take my sister Fran and I exploring the seashore –not sitting on a blanket – but discovering marine life hidden before our eyes. He devoured the books of environmentalist watch guard Rachel Carson. 
He loved music, especially jazz. He'd take half hour cat naps lying flat on his back on the living room rug, digging John Coltrane and Dave Brubeck.
Dad was a big history buff. We visited forts, the Nation’s capital, drove to the Midwest and the South visiting historical landmarks. No seatbelts in the backseat, no air conditioning.
We climbed a mountain together, caught fish and drove to Boston to watch movies on the extra-wide "Cinerama" screen. He built ice skating rinks in the back yard, a play log cabin and took us to Red Sox Games.
He taught me how to whistle; snow ski at age five; how to swim at six; and was the patron saint of patience helping me understand the confounding world of math. He introduced me to Dale Carnegie and Kenneth Roberts.
Today, I'm an entrepreneurial, photographing, seashore-loving, music digging, history buff who skis, enjoys movies, likes to see new places and whistles. Who still struggles with math.
Thanks Dad, for who you were and what you gave me.
Happy Father’s Day.
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