Josh Welton: Remembering my dad and the legacy he left

 Josh Welton reflects on the life of his dad, Tim Welton, who recently passed away, and the impact that went well beyond Josh’s career as a metal fabricator. All images provided by Josh Welton

My dad, Tim Welton, recently passed away. Out of the blue, in his sleep. He was 63 years old.

I’ve tried writing about it; I think there’s even an expectation from friends and family that I’ll write about him and his legacy. And I cherish that responsibility, and I will. But I want to take my time with it.

So much of my writing is done in a frenzy, which is what’s happening right now. The idea pops in my head and I type ferociously until the piece is done. This other thing I’m working on is obviously different. There’s a gravity and responsibility to do justice to who he was, how he lived, and how many lives he touched and often how that influenced them to their benefit. The nine kids, spouses, and all our friends. The grandkids. The many young people, who were in need of love one way or another, my parents took in. His peers. One of whom spoke at the funeral:

“He made me want to be a better person. I looked up to Tim. I’m older than him! I’m his elder! But every time I was with him, I thought to myself, ‘I need to be more like Tim. I need to live more like Tim.’”

As he ended, he just sort of kept repeating those words like a mantra as he sat down.

Looking back at my writing, I’d taken for granted how many times he appeared in my posts (from helping me haul old welding equipment to highlighting his lumberjack skills to him sharing old Popular Science magazines with me). He was and is a huge part of my life. That will never cease. I’ve measured myself against him my entire life, sort of as an unattainable, impossible bar to strive towards even though you know it’s just too damn high.

He passed too soon, but the things he accomplished were ridiculous. Often we look back and romanticize a life after it ends; exaggerate the good to great, the smart to genius, and a kindness to sainthood. There’s no need to do that with our dad. He was a walking, talking, tall tale waiting to happen. Not because he wanted attention or to create a legacy, but because that’s just who he was. Those are the stories I want to tell. That I will tell.

It’s still surreal. My mom and dad were the best superhero duo ever. They are the gold standard for life partners. She’s so strong and it’s so hard to see her in pain. But she’s continuing to attack this new, weird world and, if anything, it’s brought me and my three brothers, five sisters, and our partners closer together. We want to be there for Mom like she’s always been there for us. The good karma my parents sowed for years has brought folks from all over to help her too.

Dad was everything. We always had him in our back pocket. He was the ace up the sleeve to all of us when we hit a wall. Trust me, we all played that card often. I still have the urge to text him when I find a cool tool or make a neat thing or run into a problem, and to call him as I crave advice to navigate this bizarre world. I can’t now, but hopefully I can lean on the four decades when I could. God, I miss him so much.

Gone, but always there.

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