The Legacy of Sylvin Schetnan - Dad's Eulogy

Thank you all for being here on Christmas Eve. With last minute shopping, preparation and traveling, please know that the Schetnan Family does not take it lightly that each of you are here. Here on the eve of our Savior’s Birth. There have been many people who have been so kind in their condolences and some had added, “I am sorry it is now. It is so difficult to have him pass this time of year.” Please don’t be sorry

I can’t think of a better time to celebrate dad’s life.  It brought our entire extended family to the farm to laugh and share stories.  I think our dad knew exactly what he was doing.  We can’t feel bad for him, he showed up in Heaven just in time for the biggest party of the year. Dad loved a paaaaarty. He was always the last to leave a gathering - he has children and grandchildren that resemble that statement. 

This last semester, I decided to throw my typical Introduction to Theatre syllabus out the window.  After 25 years of teaching, I decided to change it up. Instead I built the class around the world “legacy.”  We read plays looking for it, we watched plays and dissected the nature of it. In truth, it was totally self-indulgent.  Watching my father fight the good fight these past 4 ½ years, I had become intrigued by the word.  So, for 18 weeks, I along with 45 young collegiate minds chewed on this word, and I observed our reactions to it.

Legacy. That is a great word for those of us who grew up in the “Greater Brandon – Garretson Area.” When I was little, I remember being taken to the land of Blue Dragons to behold Legacy of the Brandon vs. Garretson Football Game.   Then, we moved here and lived the Legacy of the Jesse James legend.  Certainly as I look around the room, I see a “old school” legacy of family names (Davis, Engebretson, Bly, Hillested, Howe, Hoven, Koch, Nelson, Kringen, Pierrets, Koens, Stoterau, Edmundson and Garry…if I didn’t mention you it is just because I have a time limit here people).  My nieces just got a new dog the day dad died and named it Vinnie for Syl”vin” – certainly a legacy that dad would have cracked a smile and an inappropriate smart aleck remark.

Legacy.  As stated in the obituary, I asked dad what he thought his legacy was.  What wasn’t included in the Argus is what he said next.  I asked, “But Dad, what about your family?  What do you think or want your legacy to be within our family?”  He just shrugged and said, “That’s for you to decide.”

So, here we are -  making that decision.  What was Sylvin Schetnan’s legacy?  My children would tell you it would be his ability to fix anything – machines to hearts.  Teake loved it when he and Grandpa would fix an engine or some other machine to which Grandpa’s response would be, “That’s slick.”  Tyler, my oldest, would tell you that grandpa’s legacy is that he never missed a thing. From traveling the countryside in a Winnebago to watch track meets and football games, to witnessing Tyler’s commitment to join the Catholic Church this past year, grandpa lived to watch his family run toward their passions. Even in his last moments of speech, he pointed at Tyler’s wife Katie with love and admiration and said, “She is the rock. She is rock of faith.” 

Our father and mother did not only raise Jen, Thad and I, they had a pretty heavy hand in my children.  Not only did dad teach them to drive, shoot and fish; he modeled personal integrity, work ethic, family accountability and unconditional love.  Oh, and he also taught them a dictionary of inappropriate phrases that we cannot share here today. When I asked my nieces Sydni and Jadyn what they will always remember about Grandpa, they said, “Holding his big hands.”  Those two sweet little girls never missed a chance to hold our dad’s chipped, calloused and bruised hands.  He is now holding us all in the palm of his hands every day.

Legacy.  Thad said, “He always told us we could do or be anything, but he demanded we do it to a greatest level of excellence.”  Now, this is where most of our friends are now nodding going, “Yep, Syl Schetnan demanded excellence.” I remember Darcy or Ona once telling me that they did not like to stay over at my house cuz’ my dad “kinda” scared them. He was scary.  Demanding. Loud.  This is all true.  Dad liked to say, “Some people call it respect; I call it fear.”  The truth is, we did fear him.  Both our parents – like most of you – worked themselves to the bone to make all opportunities available.  We feared not delivering - not being the best we could be because they just loved  and believed in us, and worked so hard for us. Dad ran a tight ship, and the crew was rarely out of line. However, the destination for all three of us (and even mom and dad when they dared to tag along) has been international travel, more education than most people need, great jobs, better friends and a love of family that people in other places just dream about.  My siblings and I have acknowledged that his legacy may be, that he and my mother raised three kids who really like each other and love each other even more.

Yesterday, after listening to my dad’s brothers and their families, I was affirmed that one of the true legacies of my father is his ability to tell a story.  He loved a good story.  Most of our dad’s stories revolved around something stupid that one of us did. And as I listened last night to the Schetnan Clan, it was clear that the ability to weave a tale is injected deep into our DNA. Each of us have a story bigger and better than the next.   

Ok…I need to digress. I teach Greek Theatre and the one thing -  that is, the one common theme – the one done deal, is that in every Greek play there is a tragic hero who dies of a tragic flaw….stay with me.  A tragic flaw is a quality that is “seemingly” good but ends up being the death of the central character. The most common tragic flaw is hubris – or, wait for it Schetnan's…pride.  Yep, pride.  I wish I had a dollar for every time my father said, “Pride will kill ya kid.”  I had no idea what the heck he was talking about.  When I was a senior in high school, I decided to speak up...take a stand…dare I say it – talk back. 

He had just delivered a “Pride will kill ya” to which I replied, “Ya know dad, I am a pretty good kid.  I have good grades, I behave myself, I work hard in sports…I was a Blue Dragon cheerleader for goodness sake.”  He just shook his head, walked away, repeating, “Pride will kill ya.”  I didn’t know what he really meant by this, until after I had Tyler. One weekend, I was whining that I was embarrassed to use my state aid to live and attend college.  He just repeated the same head shake as he said the phrase again, “Pride will kill ya. Suck it up, take the help, get through school, pay your taxes and help the next girl.” I did and since that day, I have taught every student that I have ever had, the evils of self pride…hubris.  Who knew dad was a scholar of Greek philosophy?

Speaking of pride, my siblings and I would like to take this time to apologize to every person in this room for our father’s obnoxious pride in his children.  See how he spun that?  He was not a proud man, but he was immensely proud of his family.  However, the only reason we know this, is that others told us or we heard him from across the room while he was telling you. Most of the time, we had to wait for mom to tell us how embarrassed she was by his continual bragging.  He always complained that he raised children who have wheels on their feet and wings on their derrieres.  He didn’t want to hear about Denver, France, Baltimore, New York or Belize.  However, I am sure some of you have been bored to death by our lives.  I believe that dad never acknowledged these places because if he did, we may move away.  He and mom always wanted us within a phone call or 20 minute car ride.

Legacy – jitterbugging with our mom…having time to have a cup of coffee and conversation with anyone…creating a rural Disneyland for our cousins and their families with donkeys, lawn mowers, 4-wheelers, golf carts  and hayloft swings…phrases such as “Oh yeah” “I have no quarrel with that but..” “What do you think is going on over there?”  “What did she say?” “How much corn do you think the Vatican can hold?”  “Really?”  and “You Gotta Be Tough”

Legacy is humble his appreciation to AA for saving his life and consequently helping create Brandon’s 12 & 12.

Also, since I am the oldest, wisest and favorite child, AND the one who dared to get up here, I am owning a quick moment.  I will miss looking for my dad in a crowded room at an auction, at a basketball game or at someone else’s funeral. I will miss buying him V8, Tobasco sauce and pistachios. I will miss rubbing his eyebrows and his swollen feet with their gross toenails; I will miss him poking his head in my classes while I am teaching; I will miss being called Tootse (there were times that I thought my dad had forgotten my real name).

His greatest legacy is that he loved our mother with every inch of his being.  He knew he snagged the prettiest girl in Minnehaha County.  Mom, we talk about how he fought the big fight and even at the end wanted each and every breath.  We would like to think it was because he wanted to see what became Syndi, Jadyn, Tyler and Teake's lives, but it truth it was because he loved living his life with you.  We loved the way he looked at you.  He was your partner, your husband, your best friend, and your boyfriend.

So, what is Sylvin Schetnan’s legacy?  It is simple. It is the love of family wrapped in the gift of gab, tied up with the secure ribbon of AA and placed under a tree of faith.  On this package, the label reads, “To: Janet, Tootse, Butch, Punk and Families   Love you: Syl, Dad and Grandpa.

Green Acres is the Place for Me

“To sell the farm” is a euphemism for death.  There was a time in my life when I thought my life had come to an end because I had to  live on one.  In 1973, my parents decided to move from our huge house, located directly across the street from my school and between all my friends’ homes, to a small  farm house surrounded by acres of corn and beans. The city mice were moving to the country.


It would be admirable, if not romantic, to paint this decision like a scene from my favorite teen movie, Endless Love.  The parents of Brooke Shields were ethereal, democratic friends to their children.  If this was a scene in that movie, there would have been a family meeting in the living room where discussions of raising our own organic food and creating an inspiring artist commune for our friends were defenses for this radical act.  Instead, we picked up mid-school year with the hope that putting 20 miles between my dad and his favorite watering hole would bring the same serenity to our days and nights that this rural backdrop provided each morning.

Besides our family home (my grandparents owned it before selling it to their oldest son in 1963), we left behind a colorful history.  Nights so threatening with emotional fireworks, that I once called our family doctor for assistance. All important numbers were written on the phone for easy access – doctor, grandmas, grocery store, mom’s beauty shop, and the VFW. I told the doctor that my dad was sick again and needed a shot. I don’t remember how he reassured me that my dad would sleep it off, but tomorrow came and so did the routine.  My mom, with her high frosted hair and cigarette in hand, became a midnight travel agent, taking us to  my aunt’s apartment in Sioux Falls or my uncle's home in Minnesota until things settled down.  One escapade had us in a garage with only a light bulb for heat as the real fire burned in my father.

Our move to the farm had nothing to do with the raising of crops, animals or children.  It was about the survival of a man and his family. 

Dad's continual need to “celebrate” did not stop once immediate neighbors and establishments were removed.  The trip home just became more dangerous.  Car wrecks and absences became passé. Also, there were bars in another town only 5 miles away.  Here my father would find the drama he sought.

There is a snobbiness about South Dakotans.  I see it in the workplace and with acquaintances.  Hell, I am the queen of this code of conduct.  We want people to “pay their dues.”  One cannot enter a job or relationship assuming equality of those that have been their longer, even if you in a superior position. “Keep your head low, do not tell anyone you know anything and over deliver.”  This was my father’s advice to his children, and it is still applies in almost every working and personal relationship.  Forced personal intimacy is an ugly thing.

One bloody episode happened because of my father’s excess of drink and  lack of adherence to his own rhetoric.  Drunk, loud, and “new to these parts,” my dad got into a brawl. I remember my mother on the other guy’s back followed by a desperate need for a doctor.  My brother and I drove the car home.  I did the foot feet and he sat on my lap and steered.  If you add 9 and 7 together, you get 16 - an age that most children learn to drive.

The first time I ever saw my father cry was the day he sobered up. It seemed like the FBI had arrived.  Instead they were men my father had known for years. Men  he may have even once shared a drink. Now they represented a shot of AA. My mother in a fog of her chain smoke, exhaustion and love, looked grey.  It was as if someone had “sold the farm.”

My father has been sober for 38 years, and the color came back to our family.  I have never understood those that continually use the excuse, “I am from an alcoholic family” to explain away their own frailties.  I am a textbook chapter for the oldest daughter of an alcoholic. I have and continue to make decisions that are injected so deep into my DNA because of certain losses and experiences, but they are mine.  They are not the sins of my parents.  My father really believed that if he quit drinking, he would die and, yet, he still chose the prospect of death in order to save his family.  Instead, I take away his ability to risk it all for the good of the others. From both of my parents I learned to unconditionally love, forgive and reinvent.

We have never resembled that family in Endless Love. Instead we were a bit more like Green Acres. Not only is our farm distinguishable because of it beautiful green barn and out building, but we are a family who celebrate a worldly education along with our rural roots.  My parents raised children who all graduated from college, crave domestic and international travel and have sophisticated taste in shoes and coffee (ok, that is just me).

However, like the roots of the corn and beans that surround B Bar B (the actual name of the farm), our roots are here too. My brother is convinced that it is all too much for my parent now. Dad with his cancer and bad heart, mom with her anxiety, and both are approaching 70.  My brother’s children are young, and he works like a dog, I can understand his desire to lighten the heaviness he feels in his obligation to keep the farm’s upkeep. He has encouraged my parents to sell the farm.

I can’t do that.  The oldest daughter, the city kid, the one who resented the initial move the most, I can’t imagine our lives without this farm. It has become the hub of extended family gathering. Just last week, B Bar B hosted almost the entire Schetnan clan – close to 40. A true family rebellion. My cousins, now parents themselves, watched their children ride lawn mowers, ATVs, mules and golf carts. The hayloft is still the favorite place to swing – and fall. This is where my children learned how to drive, shoot and fish, and this is where they continue to learn personal integrity, work ethic, family accountability and unconditional love.

“To sell the farm” would be the literal end to my father. It is the breath of these moments and memories that keep him alive.