My Last Night With Dad

“There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.”     David Eagleman, Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives  

Just a few years ago...

Just a few years ago…

It was a Wednesday afternoon when the first text came.  Dad was in the hospital again.  There had been another fall, but this time, it was bad.  He had hit the back of his head on an end table in the bedroom and the internal bleeding wouldn’t stop.  While there had been falls in each of the past several years, this looked like it could be it.

My wife, Victoria, and I caught a morning flight from Seattle and arrived at Harbor UCLA Hospital by Thursday afternoon.  In less than 24 hours after our arrival, he would be gone.

Dad was speaking when he first arrived at the hospital, but as the blood pooled inside his head, it began squeezing the brain, slowly shutting down his body. By the time we arrived, dad was just breathing.  He was unresponsive, looking like he had so many times before, as if sleeping.

The hospital moved him to a private room upstairs so that we could have more family members in the room with him. Around 11pm, everyone headed home to grab some sleep, while I volunteered to stay with dad.  The last stages of life had been described to us, so it was my job to keep an eye on him and, if his breathing changed, I was to notify everyone so they could come back and say goodbye one last time.

It just felt like ‘this was it.’  The doctor said it could last hours, days or weeks, but the chance of dad improving from his current state was pretty much nil.

I’d stare at him, cry a little, then stare some more. As his body worked on shutting down, I remembered someone saying that hearing was supposed to be one of the last things to go. So, I pulled up a chair and began recalling Dad stories, talking with him about every moment of my life where he was involved. During this time, I came to the realization that I had only ever called him two things—Dad and Pop. Then the rambling, tear-filled stories began. There’s no way I could remember everything I talked about that night, but here are a few of the memories I shared with him:

  • First, the days of Little League Baseball came to mind.  There were the Pee Wee Pirates and then the minor-league Giants (an amazing fact, considering his Dodger Blue loyalty).  I only had one home run in my Little League career and he missed it.  Dad was trying to get some of the rowdy boys in the dugout to calm down when he looked up and saw me circling the bases.  It was a story he liked to tell often.
  • We played catch in the backyard a lot. He’d use this mitt I’d swear was once worn by Ty Cobb that he had from his World War II days.  Dad made up a wood ‘home plate’ so that he could crouch down and I could work on my pitching technique.
  • When we weren’t playing catch in the backyard, we’d be out in the driveway playing basketball.  Even through my teens, he liked going out and shooting hoops.  While my high school coaches promoted the one-handed jump shot, he stuck with his famous West Virginia two-handed set shot.
  • I remembered when he worked the graveyard shift at United Airlines and would come home around 7am. Mom would make him breakfast and dad would enjoy his scrambled eggs with ketchup on them.
  • There’s the bird bath that still sits in my folks’ backyard.  Back when I was a senior at Torrance High School, as class president, I led the charge to repaint the Senior Pond.  We used some Sky Blue paint to give the bottom a nice look and then I took the rest of that paint home.  Dad used it to paint their bird bath and was still using that same can of paint 42 years later to touch it up.
  • There were times that, as a kid, you knew things were different, but you didn’t know enough back then to worry about it.  That’s what parents do.  When United Airlines mechanics went on strike in the 1960s, Dad went down and worked on the Long Beach docks, unloading bananas and doing anything to keep a paycheck coming in.
  • Oh, yeah. There were those United Airline company picnics and Christmas parties.  Those were the days.  The picnics were held at the Los Angeles Police Academy, with games, a swimming pool, endless hot dogs & sodas and a clown.  The Christmas parties were cool, ’cause every kid got a present and we got to sit with Santa and tell him what we wanted for Christmas.
  • There were countless trips to Dodger Stadium, to see our Boys in Blue play.  This was back in the day when very few games were on TV and most of our weeknights were spent listening to the radio with Vin Scully and Jerry Doggett calling the play-by-play.  The Hunters were definitely Dodger fans.
  • To be fair, we also followed the Los Angeles Lakers, back in the days of Jerry West (Zeke, from Cabin Creek….West Virginia), Elgin Baylor, Wilt Chamberlain and more.  Working on the ground crew at United Airlines, dad was occasionally able to grab some autographs of the players when they flew commercial airliners (and boarded from those stairs on the ground).  I have one 3X5 card filled with autographs of players like Jerry West, Mel Counts and others.  One day I took it out of the book and flipped it over and there all by itself on the other side–the autograph of Lawrence Welk!
  • There was the time up at Crestline near Big Bear Lake that my sister Terri was running down the side of a hill, couldn’t stop and ran smack dab into the lake.  Not knowing how to swim, she panicked, dad went into the water to get her, clothes and all.
  • There were the times while growing up that we would go over to his mom’s house, where his sister and brother also lived, in Gardena.  They would have dances out in the garage, playing records.  I just assumed that’s what everyone did on their Saturday nights in California.
  • I remembered our South Dakota fishing trip with dad, my uncle Jim and myself, on the Missouri River.  We went out and caught a nice string of Northern Pike, with me and my kiddie fishing pole landing the biggest.  I believe that’s when my fishing addiction officially started.
  • It seems as though we have more home movies than most families.  My dad isn’t in a lot of them because he was the guy operating the camera.  Now I know where I get that.  For the 8mm camera to pick up things inside, Dad had to use a light bar, that I’m sure is used by some Third World Countries during interrogations.  My sister Debbie theorizes that it’s why all of us kids ended up needing glasses.
  • We went camping a lot while growing up.  It made for an affordable vacation and we even worked in a trip to Washington State once.  I know the Redwoods were among mom’s favorite spots, but dad pretty much liked ’em all.
  • This was the guy who bore the brunt of my bad decision to make my first car a 1962 Volkswagen Van. It broke down 3 weeks after I bought it. Dad, in his spare time, rebuilt the engine out in the garage and then we sold it. I might have remembered a mild “I told you so”, but it was a classic example of letting me make a mistake, then being there as my safety net.

Those are just some of the stories I shared with Pop.  I pretty much talked Dad’s ears off for two consecutive hours, half expecting him to sit up and say, “Would you shut up?  I’m trying to sleep here.”  I thought it best to at least grab a little sleep, so around 1am, I set the alarm to go off in an hour.  That way I could check and see how he was doing.  I did that every hour until the morning.  Each time, there was no change in his breathing.

Around 7am, I realized with modern technology, I had the means to put on some music for him.  While he enjoyed big bands, I remembered he was very fond of the Mills Brothers.  So, I used iHeartRadio and put on a Mills Brothers channel.

I continued talking with him until around 10am when more people showed up.  Around 10:40am that Friday morning, with the sounds of his family, friends and the Mills Brothers filling the room, dad slipped away.  No final gasps, no unusual movements, he just stopped breathing.  He was at peace.

Living over a thousand miles away to the north, I wasn’t able to be there for a lot of his later years.  My mom and sister Debbie bore the brunt of all the hospital trips and doctor appointments, for which I’ll be forever grateful. We managed two or three visits a year, with most of those seeming to be at hospitals or rehabilitation centers. Saying goodbye to any family member is never easy, but when it’s your role model and the guy who taught you how to ride a bike and throw a curve ball, that’s tough. I take comfort in the fact that Dad made his life count. People continued to come up to me for the never several days, telling me what a great person he was. 91+ years on this earth, with a wonderful family to show for it—well done, John Hunter.

I appreciate so much being able to spend that last night with Dad. All of us made it pretty clear during those final days that he was loved and will be missed. My goal is to think of him as often as possible with joy, not sadness.

And by saying his name, we’ll put off that third stage of Mr. Eagleman’s theory just a little bit longer.

Love ya, Dad!

Tim Hunter

Yeah, I've always been a goof

Yeah, I’ve always been a goof

The Week I Said Goodbye

Me & Pop

It started with a phone call.  It was a Wednesday afternoon.  My sister Debbie was letting us know that dad had taken a nasty fall.  As in, backwards, hitting his head in the bedroom on the corner of an end table.

Now, in recent years, the annual call from Debbie had become a tradition.  Dad would fall and the result was a broken something which would usually require a 6-month stay at a rehabilitation facility.

But this time was different. My 91-year-old father, John Hunter, had really done it this time.  The ambulance came and took him to Harbor UCLA, where he was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit. There were stitches and staples and they put the skin on the back of his head together…but it was what was happening inside that didn’t bode well.

For all he had been through in recent years, dad was tired.  He had lost interest in the jigsaw puzzles that occupied hours of his time. His hearing was mostly gone, although as many times as he’d say “What?” he’d surprise you with a comment on a topic that had been discussed near him earlier.

The first CAT scan showed internal bleeding.  The doctors tried giving him platelets to stop the bleeding.  The next CAT scan showed more blood pooling in his head. The bleeding just wasn’t stopping.  After coming back to the room, dad’s speech was garbled, as if he had a stroke. By the third CAT scan that showed even more blood, he had been reduced to a breathing body.

I was still in Seattle, getting texts, dozing off, getting a phone call, talking half-awake and soon, it was morning. We finally had to admit that this was going to be it.  The day you dreaded, but knew it would happen someday.  We booked a flight Thursday morning, arriving at Harbor UCLA in the afternoon.

I walked into the ICU and reality hit. I don’t need to detail everything that happened, but the next step was for us to agree to “Comfort Care.”  It’s when the patient is moved to a private room where family can gather around until he or she passes.

The next thing you know, mom, my sister Debbie, my wife Victoria and I were up in a hospital room on the 6th floor.  My sister Terri and her husband Darrell were on the way from Arkansas, while my daughter Christina was flying in from Olympia.  Since they all arrived at the airport around the same time, they were able to car pool together, arriving at the hospital around 9 o’clock.

We talked about dad.  We prayed together. Our reunion was something special, but unfortunately for the wrong reason. My mom and sister were exhausted.  The rest of us weren’t doing well, either, but I volunteered to spend the night with dad in the room, watching for any signs of ‘the end.’  If something happened, I’d call everybody so they could rush over and say their goodbyes.

Everyone left and I pulled up a chair next to dad.  As the bleeding continued, it squeezed his brain causing portions of his body to shut down.  They say that hearing is one of the last things to go, so I was going to make the most of it.  For the next two hours, I relived every story imaginable that involved dad. I half expected him at some point to sit up and tell me to shut up so he could get some sleep. Around 1am, I figured I better get some sleep so I could be more useful the next day.  However, since I had sentry duty and might need to alert the troops, I set my alarm to go off every hour to check on dad and see if he was showing any of the final stage symptoms.

By 7am, I told dad I needed to do my daily writing job for Radio Online, so I fired up the laptop and took care of business, taking occasional breaks to tell him about what was going on in the world. Then I realized I had the technology to have some of his favorite music playing while he laid there.  He often told me how much he like the Mills Brothers, so I placed my phone over by him and used the iHeartMedia app to stream some Mills Brothers tunes.

A doctor stopped by and we chatted about dad’s situation. He had said these things could take hours….days…..or longer.  We even talked about hospice care if this continued and he said he’d ask the social work to drop by some possibilities.

I wrapped up my writing as family members began to arrive.  Life-long friends of my parents, Steve and Valera Braun, and their daughter Julie, had also stopped by.  We were chatting about dad, his days at United Airlines with Steve, and generally just hanging out when Mom strolled over to dad and noticed something.  “He’s not breathing.”

In my mind, I’m thinking about how the nurse said towards the end he might stop and then start again.  We waited, but nothing happened.  We called in a nurse, who found a doctor and he was pronounced dead.

Really!  That’s it?  You find yourself torn between not knowing that he was going right then and there…but then, to know comes with gasping or convulsing or ugly body sounds.  Dad just slipped away.  He was listening to favorite songs.  I was done talking his ear off about all of the things I remembered about him.  He heard family and friends laughing and chatting in the background.

My sister Debbie missed dad’s departure by minutes and felt bad. But I let her know, WE missed it, too!  We were right there in the room with him and that soft-spoken boy from Scotland who was so proud of his family just slipped away.  My beliefs say he’s finally at peace, with his savior.  It helps.

We stayed in the room for a couple of hours, hanging with our father one last time.  Kissing his forehead, telling him we loved him and then finally, leaving him to begin the process of mourning.

What happened after that you will not believe.  I’ll share that next week.

In the meantime, enjoy this video I put together with just a few of the moments in that incredible life.  With music, of course, from the Mills Brothers.

God’s peace, dad.

Tim Hunter

Hey, We Elected Them!

I love this city.  Since moving to Seattle in 1973, there are few days that don’t amaze me with its beauty.  Yeah, the traffic continues to worsen, but we’re working on that and everything should be fine in around 245 years.  Patience.

However, I lost some respect for our city leaders this week when I attended a public hearing about a proposed homeless camp at 28th & Market Street in Ballard.  While we don’t live in Ballard, our social life is centered on the many events that take place in that part of town and when and we have lots of friends there.  So, when Victoria suggested we attend this hearing, I was all for it.

As we walked up, there was a huge crowd outside the VFW hall, which, if this camp becomes reality, would border the homeless camp.

The parking lot next to the site was packed

The parking lot next to the site was packed

Now, before we go any further, let me just say that the homeless issue has become very much like politics.  You’re either on one side or the other.  Both sides feel that if you start talking and aren’t reflecting what I feel, then you’re a cold, heartless person or a bleeding-heart idiot.

My feeling is this–the homeless need help.  Not enabling, help to make their lives better.  Some ended up there through bad life choices or bad luck.  They are human beings.  They should get our help.

The rest (and what often seems to be the majority) of them have substance abuse or mental issues and will not get better with a couple of bucks or a tent.  But there’s a sincere if not misguided group of people who feel if we cater to those sleeping on the streets, if we wait on them hand and foot, if we don’t expect them to change but accommodate their lifestyle, then we are doing God’s work. And, of course, it comes back to the point where if you disagree with that, you’re ignorant, afraid, or just aren’t of a higher intelligence.

That’s exactly what happened at the hearing last Monday night.  But let me give you the background of how we got there.

The city of Seattle has decided that a temporary solution to homelessness is to give them a chunk of city land and tents.   Then it proves to the world that Seattle cares.  Just a few of the cracks in the logic of that theory?

There are up to 3,000 homeless in Seattle.  This camp would house 50, as soon as September and for up to two years in a row. Then relocate for a year, followed by up to another two-year engagement.

So, of Seattle’s 3,000 homeless residents, which 50 are going to be lucky enough to get a spot in this little village? Is it some of the existing homeless in Ballard, or a fresh crop to add to the numbers?

Oh, did I mention that the land parcel being considered–owned by Seattle City Light–needs toxic waste cleanup, to the tune of $145,000?  Oh and because City Light owns it, the city would pay to rent the land.

And there was a tree there that mysteriously was cut down, despite an existing city ordinance that supposedly protects healthy trees. The councilman was under the impression that it was an unhealthy tree. But he probably wasn’t counting on that city arborist stepping up to the microphone and saying he felt the tree was healthy and there was no reason to have cut it down.

Unless, maybe, you’re planning to railroad through this plan to turn the lot into a tent city?

Mayor Murray apparently assembled a 19-person panel to select the possible sites for more tent cities, starting with 140 or so and whittling them down to 3 finalists and 4 alternate sites.

You have to wonder how 28th and Market Street was chosen as a ‘preferred’ site? Must be because of the families in the units on the hill above, who would be lucky enough to look down on it every day. Or perhaps the V.F.W. Hall whose parking lot bumps up against the lot. They have major concerns that hall rental income would be greatly reduce when potential renters realize their wedding or reunion guests will have to park right next to a homeless camp.

And did we mention how this site has a liquor store, a convenience store full of high-octane beer and wine and a marijuana store all a block or two away?

While the mayor and the council were invited to this gathering to explain their thinking, only Council member Mike O’Brien was brave enough to show up. Kudos to him. However, it’s probably because he lost a series of coin tosses and was chosen as the council representative to spout the city thinking: People act like this when they’re full of fear (we weren’t) or don’t understand what’s best for the homeless. (Oh, tell us, oh wise and all-knowing ones. We are but ignorant common citizens who cannot think of such clever use of vacant lots).

Dori Monson took on this topic the other day and asked a good question. Since churches have hosted homeless tent villages for years because they’re on private property, why don’t the council members including O’Brien, open up their front and back yards and allow homeless to camp there? In fact, here’s a question—Mr. O’Brien, how close is the nearest homeless tent village to your home? In Ballard?

The point was also made that the homeless have almost become a protected species. Very few are ever arrested for trespassing or public intoxication. The homeless advocates live in a world where people on the street are our fault. Again, I’m very in favor of doing things that will help them get better, recover from their addictions, find their way back. However, the majority of current steps are simply to perpetuate their lifestyle, not remedy it. Add to that, it seems as though word is spreading—come to Seattle and we’ll take care of you!

Instead of thinking that being homeless is unacceptable, it has become a lifestyle.

Let’s take them off the streets for a moment and make them a member of your family. So, Cousin Jake has developed a heroin problem and hasn’t had a job in years. So, the solution is to give him that extra bedroom, bring him food and let him live in your house with your wife and kids? You wouldn’t do that for a family member. So, why would you expect a community to welcome homeless camps with drug deals and God knows what else is going on in there?

Advocates who portray these tent cities as a structured second chance are kidding themselves.

It’s as if these people grew up thinking these people are the lovable hobos like Red Skelton portrayed. Again, there are serious, real hard-luck cases out there that deserve our help. But if Seattle is already spending $20-million a year on homeless issues and things are getting worse, not better, you might think our elected officials might consider a different approach to the problem.

I’ve spoken with several police officers who worked in a community that housed such a tent city. The drug deals, some fights, sex under the local school bleachers….the problems are real, not exceptions.

They need counseling, intervention, therapy AND housing. We, as a society, need to help, not enable. We need to be driven by concern, not political grand-standing and guilt.

For those who are interested, the vice-Mayor of Seattle is going to be at the Leif Erikson Lodge in Ballard next Wednesday night for one more hearing on the topic. It starts at 6:30pm. The hall holds 500 people and I’m expecting it to be packed, so if you’re going, get there early.!

I’m also expecting everything said to fall on deaf ears. Through the back doors, I’ve heard this is a done deal. The camp will go in, regardless of who says what, because they know better.

And remember, we elected them.

Tim Hunter







I look around at the world today and wonder, “When did people stop growing up?”

Maybe when times were tougher, when you had to struggle to just stay alive, people were forced into adulthood and adult behavior.  It wasn’t optional.

I know I can look back on my childhood and recall things that today, I can’t believe I did.  But eventually, you realize there are consequences for your actions.  That if you do this, THAT will probably happen.

As a 6-year-old, I went up to my cousin’s cabin at Big Bear Lake and, in one weekend, ate salmon eggs because I was hungry and started a forest fire.  Oh, the fire fighters showed up almost immediately and it was accidental.  It wasn’t like we were doing it for kicks.  Me and my 7-year-old cousin even built it in a wood box so it wouldn’t spread.

There was the time where we were playing hide ‘n seek at Immanuel Lutheran School in Redondo Beach.  Laurel Schearer was “It”, she saw me and we raced back to the flag pole that was home base.  As she came close to saying, “1-2-3 on Tim” I pushed her in the back.  She fell face-first into the pole and chipped her front tooth.  Why did I do that?  I seriously don’t know, but in the mind of third grader playing hide ‘n seek, it seemed like a reasonable action.

Oh, and while a freshman in high school, I threw a girls’ lunch out the bus window and lost my bus riding privileges for a week.

I’m sure there are lots of other indiscretions  but, over time, they minimize so that they’re reduced to buying a stock that plummets the next day or eating that leftover you knew was probably bad, but you hated to just throw it away.

Now, when I see a Minnesota dentist that, from the outside, seemed like a responsible citizen…but that goes out and kills exotic animals for “sport”…or a professional football quarterback who destroys a cell phone so that we won’t really know what really happened…I’m at a loss.  It’s common for people to think they’re above the law, that it applies to everyone else but them. We see that every day with bicyclists that ignore traffic signals, jaywalkers, people talking on the phones while driving and holding them in their hands, etc.  But when it comes to common decency, how do you evolve to the point where that gets thrown out the window? (like a sack lunch)

I’m not claiming I’m perfect, by any means.  I gave you just a few examples above of some of my failings, but I’m saving the bulk of them for my eventual Encyclopedia of Screw-Ups, Volumes 1-26.   It used to be that “they” were the exception.  Nowadays, they seem to be becoming the rule.  Where the guy who walks into a theater and starts shooting isn’t a punk kid from an out-of-control family, but instead, is a 59-year-0ld drifter that can appear normal enough to go to a local gun store and stock up.

I wonder if this is just a generational thing.  That people in the early 1900s felt the world was falling apart when World War I broke out, or how my parents felt when World War II was underway.  Now, we don’t do official World Wars,  we fight mini-wars here and there and at home.

This wasn’t meant to turn into a rant on any one subject. But I have to say, for all the good there is in the world, it just seems like the bad is on the increase.  Or, maybe that’s just the way it’s always been and always will be.

Or, perhaps, even at my advanced years, I need to grow up just a little bit more.

Tim Hunter


The Butler did it!

The Butler did it!

If you’re a Seahawks fan, you know what I mean when I refer to, “that play.”

It wasn’t the last play of the most recent Super Bowl, but it was the play that prevented my beloved Seattle Seahawks from re-Pete-ing as NFL Champions.  It also cemented Tom Brady’s reputation as being one of the greatest quarterbacks ever, even though he had nothing to do with that play.

The Seahawks were less than 3-feet from greatness and being the first back-to-back NFL champions in decades. Just this past week, as the itch for football started reaching a feverish pitch, the results of a new survey came out. “That play” was voted the worst call in professional football ever. EVER! If you want to watch it over and over, torture yourself here.

Here’s what I saw & believe:

  1. It would have been a great call had the element of surprise been there. It wasn’t.
  2. Seattle QB Russell Wilson threw to a spot, leading the receiver towards the goal line. The receiver, Ricardo Lockette, just wasn’t hungry enough to want it.
  3. Not everyone expected Marshawn “Beast Mode” Lynch to run the ball in for a touchdown. Obviously, New England didn’t.
  4. Malcolm Butler ran from 8 yards behind the line to the exact spot where the ball was thrown. Really? How?
  5. Russell Wilson should have thrown low. If Lockette digs it out and it’s caught, it’s a touchdown. If it’s dropped, the clock stops.
  6. Ricardo Lockette should have gone for the ball, if not to catch it, to make sure it wasn’t intercepted. Watch the tape. He made no such effort.
  7. Former Seahawks coach Mike Holmgren said, had it been up to him, he would have either had Marshawn run it in or fake him running and have Russell walk the ball in.  Which was pretty much what everyone watching thought would happen.  And, if New England stopped that, they’d cleanly deserve to win.

Where I’m going with this: The “Worst Play of All Time” was either a blunder, a amazing display of psychic anticipation or the result of insider information.

It’s in my belief system that the whole “Deflate-gate” controversy was just the surface. From this side of the country, it appears the New England philosophy is, if you get away with it, it’s legal. I will go out on the skinny branches here and say that New England knew Seattle was going to run that play. They were tipped off, perhaps intercepting a radio communication so they knew exactly what was going to happen.  Or, maybe they aimed a ‘shotgun’ microphone at our sidelines and heard the call.

It’s likely the truth will never be revealed.  But there’s still a part of me that hopes, one day, a UFO will land and a Bigfoot will walk out holding video evidence that New England knew exactly which play we were going to run.

No matter.  The one truth that both sides will agree on–football season is almost here.  It’s been a long off-season and I’m ready.  No more whining.  No more excuses.  Just get back out on the field and give the damn ball to Marshawn!

Go Hawks!

Tim Hunter

12 logo


There Is No Cod


Cod is dead.

The time-honored tradition of the Lutefisk Eating Competition at Seafoodfest in Ballard is over.

When I hadn’t received the call to emcee the championship eating event for this upcoming weekend, I went to the website.  Nothing. So I emailed the Ballard Chamber and they confirmed it: the annual Lutefisk Eating Contest had been scrapped.

It may come back next year, it may not.

Yeah, it gave me something to do and kept me off the streets, but I know there exists a die-hard collection of lutefisk eaters who are going to show up on Saturday and be greatly disappointed.

If you’d like to make a comment to the Ballard Chamber about dropping the competition, I’d suggest you go to their Facebook page by clicking here

Since you will be deprived of witnessing a 2015 edition of this northwest tradition, I offer a collection of “Great Moments” that will live on YouTube forever.

 Here are the finals of the 2009 contest

Who could forget the father and son finale` of 2010?

2011 was a fun year

There was the 2012 return of a past champion

 I’m just not sure I want to be part of a codless society.


“Oh, somewhere down in Ballard, yes, the sun is shining bright;

A band is playing somewhere, while some folks drink Bud Light

And one less cod will soak in lye, no need for fans to shout,

There is no joy in Ballard. The mighty lutefisk is out.”

Lutefisk eater

Tim Hunter


The Gift

Over a year of planning later, the big weekend had arrived and it was time for my step-son Nick and his fiancé Samantha (“Sam”) to get married.  The rehearsal dinner was awesome. On wedding day, the weather was a tad hot, but nothing could ruin this beautiful celebration held at the DeLille Winery in Woodinville.

The following day, Nick & Sam tore into their wedding presents in front of a small gathering of close family. All went as expected until this one gift.  We’ll continue telling the story after this video.

Recently, while clearing out our downstairs to make way for some plumbing work, I came across a “Photo Carousel.” A wedding gift we had received when we were married almost 8 years ago.  It was a cool piece, but there wasn’t really a place for it in the house.  So, we thought we’d just hang on to it.

When I saw it, I immediately thought how funny it would be to give it to Nick & Sam, but to mess with them a little and say it was from someone named “Carl & Bonnie.”  So, I wrapped it up, bought a card and signed it using a couple of names I was sure wasn’t on their wedding list.

Being a very organized bride, the night before the honeymoon, we got a phone call from the couple trying to figure out who Carl & Bonnie were.  So they wouldn’t waste any of their honeymoon time dwelling on it, I called and did the reveal.

Yeah, I’m a prankster. This is news?

So, once again, congratulations Nick & Sam, on taking the big step.

From all of us.  Including Carl & Bonnie.

Carl & Bonnie, excited they didn't  have to buy a wedding present

Carl & Bonnie, excited they didn’t
have to buy a wedding present

Tim Hunter