Paying tribute to my dad, Timothy Welton, by helping up-and-coming welders

Tim Welton (left) and his son Josh Welton.

October 20th was my dad’s birthday. Tim Welton would have been 64 this year. Instead he passed away in his sleep on March 12, 2020, on the eve of our country’s descent into madness.

I always measured my life, accomplishments, attitude, and actions on a scale of Josh to Dad, with Josh being me mostly wandering around bewildered, just trying to exist, and Dad being completely in control of every situation, humble and kind, and a legend in his time. I’d hit a certain age and think, “Well, dad did (insert awesome feat) by the time he was (insert age)” while I don’t even know how to barbecue.

Before he was out of his teens he was wrecking motorcycles, repairing snowmobile engines, building dune buggies, and marrying my mom. In his early 20s they began growing a family. He’d started his career at Steelcase while also going full Paul Bunyan by building a log house with timber he cut, prepped, and nailed together by hand. He was also a leader at our church, but not in a loud way. He had a reputation for being incredibly intelligent, reasonable, resourceful, and caring. His peers sought out his advice and respected his words. Not only did my parents raise and educate nine of their own biological kids, they took in or mentored youth and young adults for as long as I can remember.

Me? I could never keep up. But having that gold standard to reach for usually kept me from falling too far below Josh. The example he set is both frustrating and inspiring, if that makes sense. I witnessed my dad mad three times in my life, each instance due to someone disrespecting my mom—twice that someone was me. I’d literally never heard him swear; meanwhile I throw wrenches and curse like a sailor on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. Often I reflect on my actions, trying to imagine dad doing what I did or saying what I said, then thinking how preposterous that image is and promising myself I’ll do better.

When he got a deal on an old Miller Dial Arc, he took it to his garage and asked me to come help him troubleshoot the setup because he wanted to TIG with it. It was so exciting thinking that, for once in my life, I could show him a trick or two!

The problem he was having turned out to be in the foot pedal. It’s one of those giant metal old-school versions and something inside was catching and not returning to “off.” I took it apart, diagnosed the problem, and then fixed it and put it back together. Something about his reaction hinted at the idea that he already knew the problem and solution before I proudly ran it down for him. We laid some beads with a coat hanger as the filler. Even though he rarely TIG welded at all, he was still dropping dimes. Of course.

After the funeral my sis Melody and I talked. “I keep asking god why he couldn’t have just one more chance …” she said, and then almost in unison we both replied, “But he already had so many!” He was a young 63, but we started recounting his close calls. At least two motorcycle accidents in his youth; many chainsaws that kicked back on him; trees that dropped where he didn’t intend more than once; a slip into a giant brush fire and popping out with his eyebrows gone; two falls (that we know of) off roofs; a tumble out of the garage attic onto a front end loader bucket on his way down to the cement; a slip off a ladder that ripped his hip out of its socket. Once, barely breathing on his way home from work, he got himself to a doctor who then called an ambulance and rushed him to the ER due to a major asthma attack.

We kept going; the stories of his nine lives piled up one after another. And these were only the times we knew about! He played his cards close to his chest, and I can only imagine how many near misses he had growing up on a farm and later working alone while building the log house for his family. But he remained unassailable, and it’s hard to fault us for thinking he would live forever.

Nobody actually lives forever, of course, but his legacy will. He positively affected more lives than I can count and brought peace and understanding to every situation he touched. I still have years to catch up, to measure up to Dad, but it’s a task made more difficult without his ear to bend.

I miss you, Dad.

A note from Darla Welton, Josh’s wife

Josh’s dad worked with his hands, but never for his own purposes. He truly had a heart of service for others. Whether it was for his family, friends, or strangers, every nail hammered, roof shingle installed, weld laid, and car repaired was with someone else's needs in mind.

Josh's family decided to have memorial contributions made to The Clay Hills Farm Fund at the Barry Community Foundation. The foundation provides support to at-risk students from the local high school for costs related to vocational training, with preference for funding given to students who are pursuing a career in welding or auto mechanics.

We are thrilled to see Tim's spirit and legacy continuing to provide for students needing a hand up. This year's scholarship given in Tim's name went to a young woman who is now pursuing a career in welding. We hope to interview her for the Still Building America column, which will appear on thefabricator.com next year.