In Memoria

Urban Rolf Secher-Jensen

Jan. 4, 1934 –Jan. 28, 2016

He loved rotgut beer, deep powder, pickled salmon and friends. Friends like his ski buddies: Louie, Don, Papilla and Freddie; and fishing buddies: Quale, Pearson, Peck and Swede; and best friend, George Libbey. Most of all, he loved my mother, Mary Isabel, who made sure everything was ready for whatever adventure or work he endeavored.

He always said, “variety is the spice of life,” and “recreation is very important.” He used to tell us that when he died, he wanted us to commission a big bronze statue of him — with skis on his feet, his dogs at his side, a fishing pole, a hunting gun, a golf club and a skin diving snorkel to show his many interests. His humor came out when he said that our job would be to shine his bald head every day because he didn’t want any seagulls doing their business on his forehead.

He worked all the time. At one point, he drove a school bus, taught school, taught a night class called English for the Foreign Born, worked up in the mountains on the weekends, took a night class himself, and worked on his boat or got the nets ready for summer. He worked hard and felt the responsibility of a young family. I remember being stopped by an older skier up at the mountains who told me that he remembered when dad was a young guy and had just started working up at the Pass. The man said he went into the bunk room to retrieve something late at night, expecting the place to be empty because everyone was down at Skykomish partying, and he found dad in his bunk reading a book and eating a gigantic sandwich that mom had sent up with him to eat for dinner. Dad didn’t have much money in those days, so he couldn’t go out with the boys if he wanted to take care of his family. He appreciated his job skiing, which gave him the opportunity to do what he loved. The skiing job paid him a little and offered him the ability to give the gift of skiing to his family.

So, we grew up in the mountains, skiing every weekend, staying at the Penguin’s Cabin, enjoying and probably taking for granted the really wonderful gift we had been given.

He was a blur but he was everywhere. He’d ski by with his posse of track stemmers and we’d get to ski half a run with him and think we had won the lottery. He would show up at our assemblies at school and always seemed to be around when a date came to pick us up.

Dad always said that if he had to die, he hoped it would be in neck-deep powder. We never dreamed that the stifling, smothering disease of Parkinson’s would take his mobility, his ability to communicate and engage, and that a horrid disease would snuff out, almost without warning, the robust, bigger than life, unique personality we all loved.

We put him on a pedestal — he was our father and we adored him. He was always supposed to be there. He said that if there is anything you really want to do, that if you think hard enough, you can figure out a way to make it happen. That was his mantra, how he lived his life.

He was a grand adventurer. He would go skin diving — bringing home his catch of enormous ling cod and octopus which he would spread over the front lawn for the neighborhood kids to ogle. For a glorious two weeks in June, we went camping and lake fishing. We would all pile in the station wagon and drive up to Canada with the Libbeys to camp and fish before the gill-netting season began.

Dad was hilarious, too. On Fridays, during the school year, he would be in such a great mood. He would come out in his underwear dancing the watusi through the dining room to the delight of three girls. Even mom laughed as she said, “Urban, go get some clothes on!”

If we complained, he would say, “Does your face hurt?” We’d say, “No!” and he’d say, “Well, it sure hurts me.” Humor was always used and we learned the power of a one-liner and quick response from the master.

He was his best in a group, with a beer and his beer-drinking buddies, telling stories and calling each other out, debating the world events, listening to stories about politics in big corporations, trying to figure out the base cost of running a ski resort, having contests to see who could eat the hottest peppers and cauliflower, telling tall tales of the ghost of Steven’s Pass, discussing politics and telling stories. I also remember that he often said a nice word when a person not present was being discussed. He would say, “Well, he’s always been fair to me.” Everyone would become silent and the discussion would move on to something else. I love that memory.

He was a one-line philosopher: He liked to say, “a penny is a lot of money,” because, of course, if something costs a dollar and you only have 99 cents, you can’t buy what you want. He said if you really get to know someone, you will find something about them to like. He said perseverance will get you everywhere you want to go. And, “Never wait for someone for more than 15 minutes.” He said, “Labor Day is for laboring” and “Always save something every month — even if it is just a dollar.”

Our big brown recliner was his chair. There was no need for a remote or a dishwasher as long as there were kids at home. When he figured something out, he would point to his head and tap on it letting us know that he had stated something he thought was quite profound, while telling us he was “Skookum.” When he would say these things, I thought he had made them up, that he was some kind of a genius or a poet. As I grew older, I came to learn that he had been inspired by a book, by a song, by an experience. It was all a big part of the giant personality.

He accomplished a lot in his life: the son of Danish immigrants Ida and Kai; brother to Jarl; nephew to Sven; cousin to Warner and Norman, Birte, Steen and Inga; a Navy veteran of the Korean War, teacher, fisherman, entrepreneur, friend, father, grandfather and husband. He told me once that he would have never been able to do what he did without the support of my mother. He said, “She did everything at home so I could go out and work. I could have never done it without her supporting me, pushing me, loving me.” When he said this, I remember feeling grateful, that for all of his bravado, he really did understand what was important.

We will miss the spirit of this passionate, wise, funny man who, when alone, found solace standing for hours on the back of his boat looking at the stars while watching over the net. We will remember him laughing gleefully as he caught a trout in Canada, how he was so thoughtful as he made the long list of things he had to do. He had the most amazing red face with eyes crinkled and head shining as he laughed deeply at his own jokes.

He was unafraid to show his joy. I hope I never forget that. We will miss his wisdom, his loyalty, his friendship and his laughter. I think he’s here today, listening. And I hope tomorrow he will be light and free, skiing in neck-deep powder to the sound of his favorite song “Snow Bird,” with the silent white embracing his essence and his memory. Spread your wings, dad. And fly away.

Funeral arrangements were entrusted to Wallin Funeral Home. To leave messages for the family please visit Urban’s Book of Memories page on the funeral home website at www.wallinfuneralhome.com