Surrogate Blogger

Greetings everyone.
This is Rachel.  Dad has been traveling, then he picked up a cold, so hasn't felt up to blogging.  However, he does feel a certain amount of responsibility to his audience and has asked me to write in his stead.  I apologize for this.  You are all accustomed to his eloquence and brilliance, and are now to be subjected to my blather.  But, what can I say, life is unfair sometimes!

I want to tell you about dad, my perspective.  I could write about what ALS has done, what it has taken, but I won't.  I would rather tell you about who Tracy Dale Boettcher is, and what the disease could never take.  So here goes...

Growing up with Amy and Tracy Boettcher as parents was much like being raised, not by wolves, but by fellow children.  Laughter and fun were constant.  They wanted to play just as much, and sometimes more, than we did.  Some of my fondest and earliest memories are of dad sitting on the living room floor while all three kids jumped on him.  Wrestling and rough-housing, getting flipped around, thrown about (always gently enough that we don't get hurt, but rough enough to make mom gasp- adding an element of danger and fun).
Dad would leave the house before the sun every day,  strap his tool belt over his daisy dukes (later renamed "Molly Ringwalds" by my father) and physically construct a house in the blazing heat or bone-chilling cold, only to come home and find the energy to play with us.  I think about those parents who spend all day in a temperature regulated offices that come home and are "too tired" to spend any time with their children.  Makes me realize how lucky I was and am.

Dad not only made it to every event we had- whether it was a choir concert, a play, or a sporting event, he was often intricately involved in what we were doing.  I was lucky enough that he took over coaching my grade school basketball team.  When he started, we were miserable.  The nickname earned by our "gifted" grade schools' sports teams was the "Father Sweeney Weenies", and let me tell ya, we were earning that name.  Then dad stepped in.  He replaced the strict, super-organized coaches who were very intelligent but somehow were lacking in an essential element in creating a winning team.  "Mr Boettcher" came in and taught a bunch of fifth grade girls how to enjoy the game.  For the three years that dad coached our team, we went from a bunch of confused and uninspired group of girls, to a competitive basketball team that took to winning more often than not.  I still don't know how he did it.  I remember doing the same drills- layups, passing, suicides, and shooting.  Somehow he infused us with his love of the game.  No one dared call us the Father Sweeney Weenies anymore- because how much would it suck to get crushed by a Weeny?

There is also the intellectual side to my dad.  Surprising, right?!  He used to follow every profound or intelligent statement with "not too bad for a nail pounder."  Regardless of the fact that he never went to college, he is still one of the most intelligent people I have ever met.  Actually, most people I know who DID go to college couldn't hold a candle to his knowledge.  He instilled in me a love for knowledge and for debate.  I consider myself extremely lucky.  He taught me how to think about what I believe in.  (And yes, dad, I ended that sentence with a preposition- but I believe that I just don't care!)  I must say that it was interesting going to Catholic school for 13 years with a borderline atheist/agnostic at home.  But I feel like it gave me a better perspective than most.  When most kids came home and told dad about what the learned at school, let's say Noah and the Ark, most dad's would nod and smile and pat them on the head.  Not my dad.  He would proceed to ask us questions- not fact based, but thought provoking questions.  'Wouldn't that boat stink with so many animals on board?' 'How would you stop the lions from eating the sheep?' 'Did Noah and his family still eat meat, and if so, what animals were sacrificed to their hunger?' 'What did they do with all the poop?' I appreciate the fact that he didn't just come out and say that what we were being taught was wrong.  He made us think.  He made us come up with our own conclusions.  He allowed us to not be one of those people who are spoon-fed their information and when someone asks them about it, they just regurgitate it.  If we said something that didn't make sense, we were called on it and were called to defend our thoughts rationally and logically.  Thanks for that dad!

Ok, I think I've babbled enough. I'm going to go spend some time with the family now.  Thank you for taking the time to take a look inside my head.  And thank you for all the love and support- it means more than you can know.

Have a lovely day!
Rachel