Read on 11/18/23

The desert, with its silence and emptiness, was home to Marshall Raymond Dier, Jr. It was there that he spoke to me about the world. With a nudge on the arm or a tilt of his hat, he would bring to light an expansive view with that great silence, so full, under vast blue skies. I didn’t realize how deep his relationship with the desert was and I probably still don’t fully. The desert was the place he would go to find peace, and he would return to it again and again.

A farm boy at heart, he grew up with summers on the family farm in Kansas, the place where he was born. He loved hunting, and taught it to us as well. He found ways to bring that wild nature into the city. When he decided to buy the family home, Dier Manor, it was the big ponderosa pine tree in the front yard that sold him before he ever walked in the door.

A tall, larger than life figure with a big heart. When I was a boy, he would arrive from work, and, being so small with him towering over, there was this moment of terror mixed with excitement — not knowing what would happen — and then he would open his arms wide, smile beaming, with a flood of warmth and love.

He had a big presence. The day he died, Dier Manor was a strange place. Because even when he was sleeping he was loud, and with his absence, that silence was absolutely foreign.

In life, he was perceptive and incredibly introspective.  Often, he would close his eyes and retreat inward. His inner world was a refuge and place to find peace, much like the desert. He loved straightforward jazz and would play records with the lights low, reflecting his inner world around him: Somber, melancholic, and deep.

He needed that inner world to make it. His father at the age of one lost his dad. Now, his father, having split with his mom, and drinking too much along with other things, decided it’s all too much and took his life. My dad was 12. An Earth shattering moment. And his grief had difficulty finding a home with his mom and aunts, who were also overwhelmed by it all.

In turn he went to drinking to console his wounds, just like his father did, and right down the very same road he went, twice as fast. Stories of double fisting double vodkas, redirecting traffic on the 101 freeway, waking up in the desert in the middle of nowhere, with no gas, and no idea where he was.

By a miracle, he hit his bottom at the age of 19, 1954, and he never had a drink again. 69+ years. At the time this was quite a radical act. His family didn’t understand nor approve. He was one of the youngest people in the fledgling  program of AA but found himself at home and speaking the same language as those years beyond him. He gave both the program and his faith credit for saving his life.

Quick side-note — he almost lost his life by other means too, notably was when he was struck by lightning.

He found peace, especially through his spirituality. He went inside, did the work, and found a new way. A rare thing indeed. Not just steering a new path for himself but for every one of us that came after. He chose sobriety and stayed the course which means he chose healing and he chose life.

And lived he did.

Geraldine Winters, who went by Gerry, was his first wife. They loved each other, got married, and lived in Reno. Together they had their daughter Joanie. And unfortunately and tragically, Gerry’s life ended too early, a complication with diabetes, leaving the still young Ray and very young daughter Joanie to go on.

Which they did, and did well. Gerry has never been forgotten, and testament is that even late in life he still could not speak of his grief about her. Because of this profound and impactful experience, the bond between Joanie and Ray was forged differently, special and unique.

He worked as a construction worker, bartender, bar manager, pari-mutual clerk (at the horse races), and a poker player. His mom once said that he made all his vices work for him.

As bar manager he met my mom, Billie, and fell in love anew. She warmed his heart and he stole hers. She, who adopted Joanie straightaway, continued with my father building a family and bought the family home. Then came the rest. Ray was first, then Jim, Christine, and later me, Joseph. All 5 of us.

The house was alive. Life was swinging. I’m the youngest and by the time I arrived it was definitely in action. Big Ray would sit in his chair, a roaring fire going in the fireplace, drinking soda, scooping popcorn, or perhaps eating an entire watermelon. He knew what he liked and he went for it.

He had gone through a lot, so he made it his mission to show up for others who also had trouble growing up and finding home. Together with my mom they opened the doors of Dier Manor and welcomed in a great many.

Entire summers family, friends, and many more filled the house 24/7. Dier Manor was, and is, a welcoming place to all, and was a community in itself. Back then I even had a couple close friends live with us when times were tough for them, and there were others too. My parent’s generous hearts offered what was missing for a great many, in many different ways. Throughout it all, you would find my dad sitting in his chair, and if you dared to approach, you could ask him for council, in which he would listen deeply, and then would garner some sagely advice back to you. He was giving back for all the help he received when times were tough.

He continued that by getting his certificate in counseling for drug and alcohol addiction from UCLA while also being a lifelong study of the brain, psychology, human behavior, mathematics, and more. Smart guy.

The playfulness and kindness of the community and the house reflected his heart.

In retirement he inherited a gift from an old friend, a trade stimulator, a type of slot machine. He got curious, took it apart, and went down the rabbit hole like he did with everything else, collecting and becoming a connoisseur. Many different types of slot machines came through those doors.

My parents had 54 strong years of marriage. That same commitment he made to himself in sobriety, he made to his family. He was true to his word. He followed that truth to the best of his ability and he was an honest man.

The Ray I know would say:

“Enjoy your life, live life to the fullest. There are horizons and horizons to be explored. Take chances, play the odds, and work your way forward.”

Thank you dad. Thank you for everything you did. Thank you for your contribution to life. Thank you for making it. Thank you for going your own way.

Thank you.

Love.