James Riley Remarks at Dad's Funeral
September 8, 2007
Ray Ellis Riley was born on Tuesday February 26, 1918 in the parlor of his parent’s red brick house in Bountiful Utah, the sixth of seven children born to William and Amelia Riley. His great grandfather, William Lockton Riley had immigrated from Nottingham England, along with his son and Dad’s grandfather, Arthur. Dad told us he could remember Arthur still speaking with an English accent as a boy, and this accounts for Dad’s flawless ability to mimick old country accents. If there were an Irish or an English joke, Dad had little ability to resist them, and we encouraged him in this addiction, because he was one of the most gleeful story-tellers we ever knew.
Although, Dad’s father was enjoying the prosperity of the 1920s, owning a small farm, a laundry in town, and a Studebaker dealership, the Depression hit the younger half of the family particularly hard and the family lost everything but their home. Dad told me in the dead of a Utah winter, he would have to go down into the family cellar and crack wheat for his morning cereal, using a hand-grinder. Although he came to love my mother’s “Staff of Life” wheat casserole, he never had much use for cracked wheat the rest of his life. As a teenager, he delivered newspapers on horseback, burying his face in the mare’s neck to keep warm on the route to Salt Lake City and back, and when it was time to go to school, he had to weed onion fields to buy a new set of clothing. The experience of never having much made him thrifty the rest of his life, and he once told me, “Jim, I could close a two-million dollar deal, and do you think I could every buy myself more than a J.C. Penny suit? Nothin' doin'.” Even in these last years, as he was slowly making his way around his home using a walker, he would see a light on at the far end of the house and make a ponderously slow bee-line towards it, to switch it off--sometimes even if we were still sitting in the room. When we were growing up in Arcadia 1st Ward, where everyone seemed to drive BMWs and Mercedes, Brother Oronoz called me over and pointed a finger at Dad’s first-generation Honda Accord. “You see that,” Brother Oronoz told me, “that’s reverse snobbery. Your Dad can buy and sell most of these guys ten times over, but he drives a Honda. He thinks he’s fooling us, but I know better!” I know now that what Brother Oronoz was really telling me, “be proud of your dad; he’s the real thing.”
In High School, Dad was elected Senior Class President . He had a flare for writing, drama, and even poetry. For a short time, he attended the University of Utah, but his own father had died when Dad was seventeen years old, so in order to make ends meet, he took to the road selling for J.P. Coates thread company, driving the Colorado, Idaho and Wyoming Territory. When the news of Pearl Harbor came over the radio, he was out on the road. He stopped the car, turned it around and headed for the nearest recruiting station to join the war effort. Not too long after that, he was invited to dinner at his cousin’s house in Oakland, California, where he met our mother, Beatrice Winsor.
In the navy, Dad was an ardent enemy of government waste. He grew tired of a commanding officer who spent a lot of time golfing and very little time reading his paperwork, so he and his friends submitted a dummy requisition for a $2.5 million five man blimp. The commander breezed in, signed the requisition, and later earned a good, Anglo-Saxon scolding from the admiral. Dad never mentioned whether he got in trouble for that. I believe he may have been promoted for it.
In business, Dad was known as the man who could pioneer the sale of new products to the drug and grocery chains of Southern California. Small manufacturers, the little guys, would flock to him with their ideas, and he would make up for the lack of multi-million dollar advertising budgets, with his contacts, and his integrity. He was tireless, earnest, and honest. The buyers trusted him. The manufacturers trusted him. He was tough, but he was amiable, and he was fair. One day I was in the office early, and a frantic East Coast manufacturer called me. “Help,” he said. “I’m about to lose an account and your dad is the only guy who can save it. Do you even know how smart your dad is?”
I do now.
Dad had a very eccentric mentor in business who helped him get his start, Carl R--. Carl was headquarted in Omaha and he took pride in his collection of champion carrier pidgeons. One day, he took dad on a buying trip and succeeded in negotiating a poor bird farmer into giving away cages, and practically giving away his birds as well. Back in Carl’s truck, Dad was peeved. “What’s wrong,” Carl asked.
Keep in mind: Dad owed his living very much to Carl at the time, but it didn’t stop him from correcting his boss: “Carl, that poor guy makes his living selling those birds. Is it really worth the $100?”Carl hung his head and gave Dad $500, three or four times the price of the transaction. “Here you go, Pilgrim, go pay him.”
My dad was not what you would call a conventionally religious person. He never mastered the sing-song rhythms of church-speak and he never took pride in any church calling, though he certainly enjoyed many of them, especially his time as Bishop of the Young Adult Ward. Life in our home was not a constant Sunday School lesson, and I remember more political debates than religious debates. He allowed me to follow my own conscience, in departing from Mormonism, and he never judged me for it. He never passed up an opportunity to praise, and encourage his children. He told me once, in a halting post-stroke voice, that his only hope was in his Saviour Jesus Christ, but with that exception he didn’t need to preach a sermon.
He was a sermon.
Memories of Ray Riley
Send Your Memories Here for Inclusion in this Record
From the Riley's Farm Journal:
Sad news. Grandpa Ray Riley, who has survived multiple strokes and a hip replacement in the last few years, passed away here on the farm Sunday evening. He made several doctor visits in the last ten days and the prognosis was not good. His heart was beginning to fail, and he was beginning to have trouble breathing. We thought he was taking a turn for the better this afternoon, because he made it all the way across the house in his walker, and then back, after sitting to visit with us at the dinner table. Scott returned home from church, and was helping him change his clothes, when he appeared to have a seizure, and within the space of a few moments he was gone.
Earier this afternoon, his last words to our mother were "I don't know what I'm going to do without you."When you mourn the loss of a loved one, as we have been doing tonight, surely there is the knowledge that you'll miss them, but there is also an overpowering sense that you never deserved them in the first place, that you were lucky--blessed--just to have known them. I could not have asked for a better father--a wiser, kinder, more engaging man I have yet to meet. I'm remembering lots of things, but right now I'm remembering him sharing a t-bar with me up at June Mountain when I was learning how to ski. He let the steel bar hit him in the back of his calves, so that his little boy could make it up the mountain with him. I remember how much fun it was to be in business with dad--to walk the Chicago Housewares show with him, and "work the trade," when we were all in the brokerage business together. Everybody loved him, and everybody loved me--because I was his son. I remember a manufacturer calling me early in the morning and hoping to talk to Dad. "I hope you know how smart your dad is," he told me, "I need him to save an account, and he's litterally the only guy in the country who can do it."
I remember my dad--I will never forget this--standing up in the middle of the Sierras one day, at a Boy Scout Sunday School in the woods. Everyone was talking about what God meant to them, and my Dad was never one to go overlong on the theological front. He was a man of commerce, a man of hard realities, and I always knew he had no patience with religious stuffed shirts, so it hit me, very hard, when I looked up and I saw the tears streaming his cheeks as he said, "boys, the One who made all of these woods, all this beauty around you, loves you very much. I don't want you to ever forget that. No matter how discouraged you get in life, look up to your Father in Heaven. He won't abandon you."
...Until we meet again, Dad.
-----
We were sorry to hear of the passing of your Dad. Tami and I have many memories of your dad. He was the bishop of the young adult ward when we met at a young adult activity. I remember the next time I saw Tami after our first date ( a blind date, Sadie Hawkins dance) was at your dad's house for a young adult family home evening. This is where I asked Tami for her phone number. Two and a half years later when we got married, we spent part of our honeymoon at the cabin at Lake Arrowhead. Your dad was the one who gave me my first job. I have fond memories working at the warehouse in Pico Rivera with you and Scott. Your dad is also responsible for one of my vices. He gave me my first set of golf clubs! Playing golf is something I really enjoy doing. I remember playing a couple of rounds with your dad. Tami and I have seen your brother Mike several times over the past several years. Six years ago we bought a cabin at Lake Arrowhead which is just a couple of blocks from Mike's place. When ever we drive by Mike's place, it reminds me of the many weekends I spent with Tom Bollinger up in the mountains and the fun we had out on the golf course. Your dad put up with alot of mischievness from us. I can remember one weekend when we were up there and we played a few holes late in the afternoon (on a Sunday I think) and your dad told a joke about a bishop who snuck out to play golf on a Sunday afternoon. God, seeing this bishop out playing golf on a Sunday, said to St. Peter I am going to teach him a lesson about not playing golf on Sunday and punish him. I am going to allow him to get a hole in one. St. Peter said that seems more like a reward rather than a punisment. God answered back, "can you imagine getting a hole in one and not being able to tell anyone about it?" I enjoyed many of your dad's jokes and stories. Please pass on our condolences to your mom, Scott and Mike. We will not be able to attend the services on Friday, but will be thinking of your family. Love, Rich and Tami Petty
-------
Your Grandfather has made it possible for my nieces and nephews to enjoy understanding how things are grown and picked in the world of yesterday when things were hard, yet fun also. Our sadness is shared with your family yet knowing his dream helped others understand our country. Thank You. Martin Chavez
----
Our condolences....I recently lost my father and I know what a hole it can leave in your lives. What a wonderful legacy your father has left. Take joy in it and in his memory.
Jeffery & Kathryn Rahn
---
It is people like your Grandfather who put his and her efforts in order for others to have fun that makes this country such a great one
With the deepest sympathy, Soli Chung