David Hanson

David Austin Hanson, 74, passed away on May 20, 2016 at Saint Luke's Presbyterian Hospital in Denver, Colorado. He was born in 1942, in Avon, South Dakota to Ben and SeDell Hanson.

David grew up in Mitchell, South Dakota and graduated from Mitchell High School in 1960. After high school he attended South Dakota State University in Brookings, South Dakota, where he received a BA in History. He served in the U.S. Air Force following graduation, attaining the rank of Captain. After his service, he earned an MA in Economics at the University of Colorado, Boulder. He worked for the Denver Water Department as a water rights engineer for 33 years, and, after retirement, with Five Rings Financial LLC.

David enjoyed the Colorado outdoors, hiking, fishing, and both waterfowl and big game hunting.

David is survived by his wife, Georgia, of Denver, Colorado; his sons Leif of Denver, and Erik of Colorado Springs; his brother, Milton Hanson, and sister, Karen DeJong, both of Sioux Falls, South Dakota; and grand-children, nieces and nephews, and other relatives.

A Memorial Service will be held at Grace United Methodist Church in Denver, Colorado on Saturday, May 28, 2016, at 10:30 AM.

What would David Hanson do? By Leif Hanson

Greetings:

Thank you all for coming to Dad's Party today. Too bad he couldn't be here in person, but I'm sure he's here in spirit.

Dad was a wonderful man, an excellent teacher, father, friend, and associate. Here are some things I learned from Dad over the years.

One: Be patient: Dad was one of the most patient men in the world. I don't know how many times I lost my expensive dental retainer. But he always made sure I got another one.

Two: Live: He would ask his hunting buddies, "How many hunting seasons do you have left?" He wanted to live life to its fullest, taking in as many adventures as possible.

Three: Keep a level head: Dad was always one to think things through, think before he acted. One time he and one of his buddies got lost while hunting. His friend said, "Let's run to the top of that hill and shine our lights as far as we can!" Dad said, "Well, we could do that, but our flashlights won't shine that far, and besides, the top of the hill is covered with trees. Let's just follow the creek down and I'm sure it's a tributary to the larger creek by the campsite."

Four: Be a light in the darkness. Dad loved his lanterns. This is a continuation of keeping a level head, and a metaphor for his life. When he and his buddy were trying to make it out, Dad spied a light through the trees. One of the guys at his camp had noticed it was getting late, and didn't know what to do, so he put a lantern on top of his camper. Dad saw it and made his way back to camp. From then on, he loved lanterns. But that is how he lived his life. He was a light in the darkness, shining brightly. One of his friends commented, "I will never forget the genuine kindness that your Dad embodied. He was quiet and unassuming in his natural ability to extend himself to others."

Five: Don't be a wuss. Dad was macho, in his own way. You hardly heard him complain. Even towards the end, getting his lungs drained, sometimes the nurses numbed the wrong areas before they shoved a needle in his back. He didn't say word one. When the nurses asked how he was doing, he would always say he was fine, even if he wasn't. He named Erik and I the names he did partially because you couldn't put a "Y" on the end. "Eriky" just doesn't flow. A Y at the end of a male name was "wussy."

Six: You can put a box around almost anything. In church, Dad didn't pay attention to the sermons. He would bring graph paper and design boxes. He would stand when you were supposed to, sit, greet, be kind. But he wasn't into it. I think that's how he lived his life. He would categorize everything and find a box to put it in. He would build boxes for anything and everything, including lanterns.

Seven: Stay Organized. Like I said, Dad had a box for everything. It was all neatly labeled. When we would go camping, he made sure the campsite was as organized as possible. All food had a box or cooler. All equipment had a box or bag. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Of course, that also means that in the attic above the garage, there are file boxes of finance records going back to 1975. That'll be fun to sort!

Eight: Community and Friends are important. Dad loved get-togethers and deck parties. It was important to him to keep friends and family close. He even looked at my friends as a second father, and treated them as such.

Nine: Practice. Dad practiced what he thought was important. He hired shooting coaches to get better at skeet. He practiced his speeches for his insurance sales. He wanted to make sure he was practiced and polished and performed at his best.

Ten: Do. Dad was a man of action. But that action took many forms. Planning first, of course, and then execute. He would also do for others, even at great cost to himself. My wife first met Dad when he offered to help her move. He'd never met her before - but he showed up, with a trailer, just because I asked if he had time to help move some furniture. He was just that kind of guy.

So, if you are ever going through life, and find yourself in a rough or unpredictable situation, you can always ask yourself, "What would David Hanson do? How can I be a light in the darkness?" Ask yourself, "How many seasons do I have left?" And don't be a wuss.

Thank you.

David A. Hanson Memorial Service Eulogy

By Erik M. Hanson

David Austin Hanson, a son, a grandson, a cousin, a brother, a husband, a friend, was many things to many people. To me, he was "Dad." And his life, if it was anything, was a life of love. He never talked about it. He didn't need to, because it was how he lived, and offered my brother and myself not just a multitude of examples, but his life as an example of love.

He loved his family most of all. As a husband, he showed my brother and I how to be a husband, going far beyond the stereotypical gender duties of mowing the lawn and taking out the trash. To our mother, he was her best friend. We didn't often see them argue, and they did, he didn't always try to have the "last word." Sometimes he would buy her chocolate on Easter, and sometimes a "box of wine," without asking. When we went camping, we would camp in campsites that had comfortable latrines. He would do all of these things and more, patiently, because he knew it would make her happy.

But his love for my mother was an extension of love that he had for his family. He showed us how much he cherished his parents, his brother and sister and their families. Annually, he would drive as boys to see not only Grandma and Grandpa Hanson, and our extended Hanson family but also Grandma Wilson, and our aunts, uncles, and cousins, regardless of the weather. Growing up, he introduced us to our extended family and especially our cousins because, I believe, he wanted us to be friends. I think he knew how challenging it was for us boys to like ourselves in our adolescence, when we didn't always like ourselves, and felt like nobody else liked us. He did it because he was confident that family would like us regardless of what we thought, and help us to love ourselves.

And as a father, what impressed me about his love for me and my brother was again, not merely the kinds of things that good fathers do, like teaching us to say "I'm sorry," when we were wrong, to be modest, that it was wrong to steal and get in unnecessary fights, and how to shake hands, to show up on time (when possible; as he did for our many school activities), taking us out to eat when we got good grades or after a concert, sending us to camp, and generally spending time with us.

Rather, it was what he said and did when he spent time with us. He always tried to laugh at my jokes, or at the minimum, crack a smile (when he thought they were especially clever, he let me know-he liked my puns). He wanted us to learn to appreciate classical music, taking us to concerts; for a while, he would sit down with us as we practiced our lessons-which we didn't always appreciate at the time. He taught us how to tie a tie, tie lures onto fishing lines and catch fish, how to clean them, and cook them. He taught us how to shoot rifles and shotguns, how to hunt, and that sometimes we went home empty handed-but when we did, to try again next time. (This would prove useful when we were hunting for other things when we were older. Like jobs).

It was important to us both that he liked our choice of friends (the overwhelming majority of the time). And notably, he would attempt to connect with them on their level. Our friends noticed this, and we were proud when our friends told us what a great Dad we had. He was like this to the end-when I was in hospital earlier this month, in Colorado Springs, he wanted to come pick me up from the hospital to drive me back to my home! In the end it wasn't necessary, but I genuinely believe he enjoyed being my Dad.

As a friend to other men that came into his life, either from work or as "hunting buddies," he was often sacrificial in his time with them, if it didn't take time away from his work or his family. And as he was with us, he would listen patiently, chuckle at their jokes, and whenever he could, "show up." When I spoke with one friend from high school of his this past week, one said, "he was like a rock. He always showed up to reunions, without fail." When a friend of his phoned him from Jackson, Wyoming to ask for a ride back to Denver because of car trouble, he drove eight hours to pick him up. When I said to him, "Wow Dad, Kerry McPherson really owes you one big time!" His only response was, "well, it was a great day to go driving in the mountains."

Dad was not the loudest voice in the room (very often), and he didn't always connect with others on an emotional level the way they might have expected-but he wasn't afraid to ask questions. But for most of us, that was ok. Why? Because we knew he was at least trying to make a connection with us.

His life was a life of love, as Paul says-and here, I think you can substitute ‘David' for ‘love':

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

I cannot remember any time my Dad ever said, "I love you" to us as boys. But frankly, he didn't need to. We knew that he loved us because he showed us how to love.