Donald Leroy Quist was a man’s man. A Pearl Harbor Survivor, a welder, a teacher, a man who took responsibility seriously, a man of few words but of many talents. He was a man who took family seriously, even more serious was his role at the head of it. During his 60 year marriage to Dreene Mae Quist, he was a father to Steve, Suzanne and Joni. Through circumstance, he also became a father to Joni’s four daughters, Megan, Courtney, Katelyn and Paige. Donald became a man that was outnumbered by the women in his life. This brave, stoic man had to learn to get in touch with his feminine side, and just like every other challenge in his life, he rose to the occasion. When his other half, Dreene Mae, passed the day he fell ill almost three years ago, he graciously accepted to stick around and fight his ailing heart and lungs because he knew his girls needed him. He kept his word and made sure we were all okay before he finally left us to go home to Dreene.
On October 30, 2009, his battle with his failing health ended. After being at home and looked after by his daughter Joni, and granddaughters, Courtney and Katelyn, he was placed at Landmark Care Center for physical rehabilitation. His last couple months with us were some of his most joyous since Dreene’s passing. He was able to make friends in the ‘mess hall’, reminisce with other war veterans, and laugh at himself because he was ‘stuck with all the crazies’. The man that measured up to all of our hopes and dreams, may be gone from us physically, but he will always hold his rightful place as the head of our family, for he taught us all what it meant to be a true man among men, a hero when there are so few, and a father when others failed. Thank you Dad, for being my port in the storm, a place to rest my head. Thank you for being the fighter in my corner even when I didn’t know there was a fight. We love you Grandpa, forever and for always. Thank you for all that you were to all of us, for teaching us lessons that were not always easy to teach, for loving us no matter what, for encouraging us when we thought all was lost, for being there when we needed you. Thank you for always being our friend. You will forever be what we measure all others against, or as you would say; a real corker.
Donald was preceded in death by his wife of 60 years, Dreene Mae Quist, his son, Steven Quist and many of his brothers and sisters. Still though he is survived by his little sister, Arlyne, whom Donald carried all the way home from school when she fell and scraped her knee, and his little brother Stanley Quist who always was a great friend. He is also survived by his daugthers, Suzanne “Squeaky” Marmorat, Joni Crutcher, his youngest and most prized posession, and his four very grateful to have known him granddaugthers; Megan Lemley, who couldn’t have asked for anything more in a Grandpa, Courtney Crutcher, who truly was one of his best friends, Katelyn Crutcher, who “was a shining light” and by Paige Crutcher, who inherited his love for sunflowers, counts people in every room she walks into thanks to him, and was his partner in crime when sneaking doughnuts from the kitchen so Grandma wouldn‘t see. His first great granddaughter Grace Mckenzie Lemley, will forever remember her Greatpapa and singing to him “Twinkle Little Star” and Donald’s name will live on with his first great grandson Jack Quist Lemley, who will be reminded of the greatness he is from everyday.
See you soon, no more leaking. Six to one, and a half dozen to the other.
At Donald’s request, no services will be held. However, Don and Dreene will rest together at the Tahoma National Cemetery in Kent, Washington where a proper military service will be held.
“I try not encourage people to play. It’s good when you win, but it’s horrible when you lose. Hey, want me to teach you?” -Michael Camden
Hey, GreenDizz…I don’t know if you’re username is supposed to intimidate me or make me dizzy with green, but I don’t care. Stop calling everything I’m laying down!
I’d like to say thank you to my good friend and mentor, Michael Camden. Otherwise known as the Asian Sensation or Mary Camden. “M. Camden” took me to my first casino at age 16. I know what you’re thinking. And yes, I am a bad girl. Sometimes, though, if I didn’t have my fake I.D. on my person, I would stay on the non-carpeted trail that only led to the 24 hour buffet or to the farthest away bathrooms. Those go hand in hand you see. Mike and I used to switch off driving responsibility to the Indian Reservation casino in Toppenish, Washinton. Did I mention I was also license-less? I think I still hold the record for fastest arrival in 14 minutes from Yakima. Boo-yah.
Those were the good old days when I was mildly addicted to blackjack. I use the term mild because it was only the oxygen pumped through the air vents that kept me going, and the cocktailers with free Diet Coke’s a plenty. Throughout my BJ career, I pretty much broke even. Maybe losing a paycheck here and there , but for the most part, it was well-spent. Those stolen paychecks would soon be paving my road to a bigger and brighter future in making it to that final table in the World Series.
“Boop-boop-boo-ba-doo-ba-boop” goes my Skype on-line telephone. Also goes my dignity. With that phone call approximately two weeks ago, started what I like to call Skypoker Revolution. It was Mike calling, and he wanted my soul. He forced me to observe the table he was playing on PokerStars.com. Now, I know the game of poker, and have had my share of after-closing furniture store tournaments (that was scary/dangerous). But mostly, I have always won because of luck. I was calling things like six-two offsuits and was coming up with a straight on the flop. I‘d fold as big blind and go all in at the drop of a hat. Observing Mike play for approximately six hours that lonesome night, I began to understand the strategy behind poker.
And so an account was made, a deposit was made. Now, you will find me as KTjack45. I know what you’re thinking. It’s an intimidating name and yes they all think I’m male. I keep my profile picture blank to throw off the female scent. I'm like the Mona Lisa of poker. Can't tell either way if I'm a guy or girl.
I admit it. I am not in denial. I am and always will be addicted to poker. Whoever honestly thinks that they don’t have an addictive personality, should come and take mine away.
“When you’re walking through the airport with your head held high and your sunglasses on, no one knows that you’re not a celebrity.” -Megan Lemley
I completely and utterly and fully enjoy flying. However, I end up wanting to sedate myself every time. Not because I get anxious, but because I feel like I need to have some fun while wasting two hours of my life in a nothing sky while staring at a wing that helplessly holds me above a dark abyss.
“There’s someone on the wing! Some….THING, I’m sorry what were you saying?“ Pardon me, just a little quote there from my favorite Pet Dick.
Anyhow, I’ve got some honeymooners to my RF and some D-bags to the LF. I have World Series of Poker in my LR (which I don’t mind) and CNN in my RR (which I sincerely mind). Sorry, I am using car lingo today. My right front tire and all the others were 2/30 seconds away from some stupid standard, hence 600 dollars added onto my car lease damage for a brand new set of wheels. FML. With all these fine folks around, it makes me miss JP. JP is my airport buddy. Two years ago almost to the day, JP and I met at a bar in terminal 2. My second trip to New York had been delayed I don’t know how many times. I was going to be turning 21 in a few days but I decided to go ahead and try out my still very fake-as-usual ID. It worked. In the first hour of sitting at the bar, snacking on a salad, and sipping on beer, I overheard some fellow stragglers start a conversation about the heavenly substance. BEER? I love BEER! The topic was Stella and how they thought it was so very cool that they were both Stella-lovers. Yes, it’s an entire class of people. Because I was keeping to myself, which includes eavesdropping ever so slightly, these boys had no idea that the number one fan of Stella was sitting right next to them. They were either so consumed by man-banter or assumed that because I was a girl I was drinking some form of American Piss water such as Coors light, that I had to make the first move to join the Belgian Beer Brigade. Wrong, boys, very wrong.
=====Which brings me to my favorite joke===== “What do American beer and having sex in a canoe have in common?-----They’re both fucking close to water. “ HA. That was a popular one with all my American beer drinking regulars back in the bartending days. Anywho, I finally chimed into this conversation which led to books and music but always found a way back to beer. As the conversation circle grew and time went on, the more beers that were drunk. After a couple hours, flights finally came around as I’m sure the more than likely drunk pilots finally showed or the mechanical difficulties miraculously solved themselves. So the circle went from many to just JP and I. I needed a smoke. As far as I knew, my flight was still hours away so going through the security line again was the least of my worries.
Outside of LAX, JP and I shared iPods’s, discussed music, made favorites of each other. JP isn’t a smoker but didn’t mind trekking in and out of security anytime I wanted a cigarette. Onto the next bar, the next, the next and the last. After about five hours and multiple shots of my man Jack accompanied by many a beer, we became best airport buddies. Sadly, JP went off to London, and I off to New York. He was meeting some friends for some soccer game….I don’t know, Chelsea against Manchester something or other. I was headed to my 21st birthday present to myself to visit the “Man from Maui” in New York. Don’t worry, that’s another story in itself that you shall one day hear. Hopefully, he’ll (Man from Maui) never get a hold of this blog site. That would be to my own dismay. Anyhow, JP and I will one day get married or something I’m sure (any objections JP?) and we’ll drink Stella as we toast our very open and rockin’ marriage on a softball field and celebrate with a go-round of Karaoke.
Speaking of men, I recommend checking out this extremely hilarious guy on Current.com which apparently “is not only showing on headrests but also on digital cable” . His name is Brett Erlich and he is my newest odd love since Emile Hirsch and Joel McHale entered my life. And speaking of headrests, I highly recommend flying Virgin America next time you fly, and every time you fly for that matter. As I boarded the plane, but what really seemed like a nightclub, a very gay man flamboyantly flaunting his fake teeth welcomed me. No lie, this man’s teeth were glowing in the black light. Neon pink walls and purple ceilings surrounded my shrinking claustrophobic head, but I instantly felt like dancing. Which, I did almost bust into the Cha Cha Slide and was this close to ‘getting jiggy with it’ but was impeded by the crying child ruining my mind music.
The point is: driving in traffic to an airport could be a task, a dueling one. Checking in at the counter and finding out you owe a multi-billion dollar company 20 more dollars even though you emptied out all you could out of your check on baggage while standing in line to hopefully weigh in at 50 lbs or less, is not the best news to receive. Hauling numerous carry-on items, dealing with tourists/foreigners, walking barefoot and contracting god knows what diseases….These are all not fun things and definitely not glamorous things. However, everyone gets treated the same at the airport whether you’re white, black or purple, famous or not. So grab yourself a beer or a glass of some nice Franzia boxed Chardonnay and put your stunna shades on. Get ready to have a blast while traveling. Meet new friends, contract some diseases, and forget about life. Because “When you’re walking through the airport with your head held high and your sunglasses on, no one knows that you’re not a celebrity.”
(PS I can’t help but feel like a really important person right now. I am sitting at Gladstone’s, an inside restaurant, wearing my shades. It’s a very sad seafood restaurant in Terminal 3 and the only one around at that. Hence me sitting at this very sad and lonely bar that overlooks the entire restaurant. My laptop is open and to myself, I seem super important. )
Editors Note: JP and I are still friends and I consider him to be a very good friend and we talk every day. Just goes to show that you should always look your best when traveling, you never know who you’ll run into.
LAX
“When you’re walking through the airport with your head held high and your sunglasses on, no one knows that you’re not a celebrity.” -Megan Lemley
I completely and utterly and fully enjoy flying. However, I end up wanting to sedate myself every time. Not because I get anxious, but because I feel like I need to have some fun while wasting two hours of my life in a nothing sky while staring at a wing that helplessly holds me above a dark abyss.
“There’s someone on the wing! Some….THING, I’m sorry what were you saying?“ Pardon me, just a little quote there from my favorite Pet Dick.
Anyhow, I’ve got some honeymooners to my RF and some D-bags to the LF. I have World Series of Poker in my LR (which I don’t mind) and CNN in my RR (which I sincerely mind). Sorry, I am using car lingo today. My right front tire and all the others were 2/30 seconds away from some stupid standard, hence 600 dollars added onto my car lease damage for a brand new set of wheels. FML. With all these fine folks around, it makes me miss JP. JP is my airport buddy. Two years ago almost to the day, JP and I met at a bar in terminal 2. My second trip to New York had been delayed I don’t know how many times. I was going to be turning 21 in a few days but I decided to go ahead and try out my still very fake-as-usual ID. It worked. In the first hour of sitting at the bar, snacking on a salad, and sipping on beer, I overheard some fellow stragglers start a conversation about the heavenly substance. BEER? I love BEER! The topic was Stella and how they thought it was so very cool that they were both Stella-lovers. Yes, it’s an entire class of people. Because I was keeping to myself, which includes eavesdropping ever so slightly, these boys had no idea that the number one fan of Stella was sitting right next to them. They were either so consumed by man-banter or assumed that because I was a girl I was drinking some form of American Piss water such as Coors light, that I had to make the first move to join the Belgian Beer Brigade. Wrong, boys, very wrong.
=====Which brings me to my favorite joke===== “What do American beer and having sex in a canoe have in common?-----They’re both fucking close to water. “ HA. That was a popular one with all my American beer drinking regulars back in the bartending days. Anywho, I finally chimed into this conversation which led to books and music but always found a way back to beer. As the conversation circle grew and time went on, the more beers that were drunk. After a couple hours, flights finally came around as I’m sure the more than likely drunk pilots finally showed or the mechanical difficulties miraculously solved themselves. So the circle went from many to just JP and I. I needed a smoke. As far as I knew, my flight was still hours away so going through the security line again was the least of my worries.
Outside of LAX, JP and I shared iPods’s, discussed music, made favorites of each other. JP isn’t a smoker but didn’t mind trekking in and out of security anytime I wanted a cigarette. Onto the next bar, the next, the next and the last. After about five hours and multiple shots of my man Jack accompanied by many a beer, we became best airport buddies. Sadly, JP went off to London, and I off to New York. He was meeting some friends for some soccer game….I don’t know, Chelsea against Manchester something or other. I was headed to my 21st birthday present to myself to visit the “Man from Maui” in New York. Don’t worry, that’s another story in itself that you shall one day hear. Hopefully, he’ll (Man from Maui) never get a hold of this blog site. That would be to my own dismay. Anyhow, JP and I will one day get married or something I’m sure (any objections JP?) and we’ll drink Stella as we toast our very open and rockin’ marriage on a softball field and celebrate with a go-round of Karaoke.
Speaking of men, I recommend checking out this extremely hilarious guy on Current.com which apparently “is not only showing on headrests but also on digital cable” . His name is Brett Erlich and he is my newest odd love since Emile Hirsch and Joel McHale entered my life. And speaking of headrests, I highly recommend flying Virgin America next time you fly, and every time you fly for that matter. As I boarded the plane, but what really seemed like a nightclub, a very gay man flamboyantly flaunting his fake teeth welcomed me. No lie, this man’s teeth were glowing in the black light. Neon pink walls and purple ceilings surrounded my shrinking claustrophobic head, but I instantly felt like dancing. Which, I did almost bust into the Cha Cha Slide and was this close to ‘getting jiggy with it’ but was impeded by the crying child ruining my mind music.
The point is: driving in traffic to an airport could be a task, a dueling one. Checking in at the counter and finding out you owe a multi-billion dollar company 20 more dollars even though you emptied out all you could out of your check on baggage while standing in line to hopefully weigh in at 50 lbs or less, is not the best news to receive. Hauling numerous carry-on items, dealing with tourists/foreigners, walking barefoot and contracting god knows what diseases….These are all not fun things and definitely not glamorous things. However, everyone gets treated the same at the airport whether you’re white, black or purple, famous or not. So grab yourself a beer or a glass of some nice Franzia boxed Chardonnay and put your stunna shades on. Get ready to have a blast while traveling. Meet new friends, contract some diseases, and forget about life. Because “When you’re walking through the airport with your head held high and your sunglasses on, no one knows that you’re not a celebrity.”
(PS I can’t help but feel like a really important person right now. I am sitting at Gladstone’s, an inside restaurant, wearing my shades. It’s a very sad seafood restaurant in Terminal 3 and the only one around at that. Hence me sitting at this very sad and lonely bar that overlooks the entire restaurant. My laptop is open and to myself, I seem super important. )
Editors Note: JP and I are still friends and I consider him to be a very good friend and we talk every day. Just goes to show that you should always look your best when traveling, you never know who you’ll run into.
“What was God thinking? Why did he give boobs to people who clearly weren’t gonna use them? Like that girl in the pigtails…she’s not going do any good with them. Me! I’ll do good!”
My biggest pet peeve: People who wear their everyday, casual or premium attire, even exercise crap, into the salty, grimy, seaweed filled ocean water. Look, even I’m not proud to get down to my skivvies and prance around the beach, but seriously. My head jumps to conclusions: do you wash said clothes before you wear them again? Obviously, if you can’t afford a bathing suit, have you even a washer and dryer? Maybe you’re just lazy…then if you own said washer and dryer, do you rise to use it on occasion?
I decided to cart it to Zuma Beach in Malibu this morning with four other girls; P, Coco, Caro and Bri Cheese. In this blog, you will be meeting a lot of fun and not so fun characters and are lucky to now be introduced to four of the fantastic ones at once. P is Paige, she is my sister. Nuff said. Coco is Courtney, also my sister. ‘Notha nuff said. Caro----no she is not a fan of syrup--- she is Carolyn. And last but not least, there is Bri Cheese, not to be confused with they type of cheese known as Brie. Lovely enough, my four year old niece, Grace, assigned all of these lovely nicknames to all of these lovely girls and they seem to have stuck. Further on, I will be referring to such things as “Graceisms”.
So Zuma….a wonderful beach. Not a soul usually around, but of course, the day it is a complete white out as if it were snowing out of the sky’s ass, and the beach is flooded with clothed people, hungry seagulls, and kittens. Yes, I said kittens. One particular group is so easy to survey as they set up camp right to the left of us. At the beginning there were only about four or five people, however, they seem to keep multiplying. As they do, the outfits grow stranger as do the behaviors. Next, these people are going to pull a 3-ring circus out of their industrial size Igloo cooler. Let’s see: They’ve boogey boarded, surfed, blown monstrous sized bubbles (some of which were landing on a sweet new teenage couple as they tried to lock lips), and now are flying a six foot tall parrot kite. Bri Cheese’s face was priceless when she finally looked up from her sun-full slumber with squinty eyes and noticed a tropical bird of paradise coming far to close to our setup. Let me not forget the fact that we parked it far from Seagull Stand (Lifeguard Stand 3) as to not be bothered by the cawing of random beach going crows, and so we were able to eat our Safeway sandwiches in peace. But alas, the family value pack of Kentucky Fried Chicken, which I believe they actually brought with them from Kentucky, put off such a scent that seagulls are now swarming even to our camp, where we have a measly bag of BBQ potato chips and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. I know, we’re hardcore.
“Is that a kitten?” Courtney guffawed. Yes, yes it was. Cute little black kitten on a leash, mind you, and it was literally this close (I’m putting up my pointer finger and thumb to show you an inch space) to getting snatched up by one of the brown seagulls. I find them to be the meanest of them all…white and gray, not so bad. Damn, I wish I brought my Alka-Seltzer. So all that aside, I am seriously waiting for a mini car to come screeching down the boardwalk with eight horrifying clowns in it. However…mmm..yes, I do wish I had a chicken thigh right about now. Coco is desperately trying to tan her “London white skin” as she calls it. She said it’s “as if I’ve lived in a windy, rainy city all my life!” to which I said, “you did spend a lot of time in Seattle”. Caro is reading one of her many fashion mags she brought along and P…well P gets grumpy in the sun, and she didn’t like it very much when Courtney and I dangled a long seaweed with the little bulb things on it above her leg. Bri is a natural sunbunny and doesn’t mind using sunscreen, unlike us Crutcher girls. We need all the help we can get. She looks like she’s jammin’ to the iPod but occasionally starts to talk to herself, until I finally realize her music maker is actually an iPhone and she can get calls through her headphones. Eeeesh, technology these days. The sun is finally coming out as the Fillmore/Moorpark fire smoke that looked like sky poo is passing and dude at the blanket next to us in the two sizes too small wet suit is on his last Original Recipe Drumstick. Winding down makes me want to reflect on what I have learned today.
1. Courtney likes to drink her water bottle while laying down, hence the splash of Refreshe Purified Drinking Water in her eyes. 2. Caro’s mom subscribes to a LOT of magazines. 3. Bri Cheese does NOT like tomatoes, onions, or jalepenos…all the better my sandwich was, my dear… 4. Paige’s car does not unlock with the sensor button more than a hundred feet away (This I learned because I already made the feat of walking back through the sand to the bathroom but forgot I kept my tampons in the car) 5. And finally, it is extremely hard to type when the sun continuously moves (pshaw!) and my feet keep getting fairies on them. (Graceism for: My feet are tingly and have fallen asleep)
Thank you very much for tuning in, I will now, instead of just listening to the must-be socially challenged people to the left, commence with my “Oh, look at that smoke over there!--Shit, they saw me staring again--” looks. Amen to you and your brothers where for art thou. And to Carolyn: Pigtail girl will one day need those boobs, trust me. However, you don’t. You’re beautiful as you are. Apparently, God did know what he was doing… (Cue the Full House sentimental “let’s learn a life lesson” music).
---Sidenote: I rest my case. Adheem and Marimba just walked onto the beach in full Sari garb and white linen suit. WHYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!?
Some might think that I call myself a tadpole because he is a confused little guy. Poor thing is born with no legs or arms but..they occasionally pop out. And much like myself, they don't have much direction. They just follow with the current. All of a sudden this spermy sucker has appendages flailing, then hops, croaks....even eats insects for criminy sakes. Damn, Taddy really figured out his way in life.
Think of me as a tadpole in this blog. 'Tis my first, and heck, I don't even know if I'm publishing this. (Obviously, if you're reading this, confidence struck me somewhere....so feel free to 'kudos' me at anytime). I am a tadpole in this blog, in this story, and in this life. Hopefully by, mmmm, somewhere around 80 years old, I'll finally croak.
Welcome to------------"Trials, Tribulations and Trivial Tales of a Tadpole" (Then again, maybe I chose 'tadpole' for the witty alliteration)
