Thoughts behind Artistic Expression of a Veteran

Russ’s story begins long before his service. In the North Cascade foothills where he learned early how to survive. His mother struggled with her mental health, and the weight of that instability shaped the household. His father was tough, often unkind and frequently unfair; but he also taught his children how to endure. From him, Russ learned practical skills that would stay with him for life: fishing, cooking, self-reliance, and how to make do with what was available. These lessons were not gentle, but they planted seeds of resilience that would resurface in unexpected ways.

Military service did not heal the fractures already present, it deepened them. Serving aboard the USS Coral Sea during the final chapter of the Vietnam War placed Russ at the center of conflict and chaos while he was already carrying unresolved trauma. The Mayaguez incident marked a violent and abrupt end to the war, but for many who served, including Russ, it was not an ending at all. Service compounded the injuries, both visible and invisible. that followed him home. He returned changed, broken in ways that were difficult to name and even harder to repair.

For many years afterward, Russ struggled. PTSD shaped his inner world, and alcohol became both refuge and wrecking force. Poor choices followed, not from a lack of character, but from deep exhaustion and unaddressed pain. Eventually, there came a moment; not dramatic, not public when he had simply had enough. Enough of surviving instead of living. Enough of numbing the hurt. That decision marked the quiet beginning of a new chapter.

Sobriety became a turning point that reshaped not only Russ’s life, but the lives around him. Now nearly twenty years sober, he rebuilt trust and presence with some of his children and grandchildren, becoming more grounded, more available, and more himself. Later, he grew into a better husband for his wife, Phyllis, who faced her own struggle with alcohol. Because Russ had already walked that path, he was able to stand beside her with understanding, patience, and strength; becoming her rock as she found her way through recovery.

Throughout his life, creativity remained his lifeline. Art in its many forms: jewelry, cooking, gardening, sculpture, carving and invention, was both expression and medicine. Creating allows many to process what words cannot, to find calm where there was once chaos, and to reclaim authorship over their own story.

My childhood holds mixed memories. There was terror at times, growing up with a father who struggled with alcoholism and PTSD. But there was also beauty; unique, imaginative, unforgettable moments shaped by an artistic soul. We didn’t have snowmen in our front yard; that was far too basic for my dad. Instead, we had intricately carved snow lions or horses (there is still debate about what they actually were). We had a teepee in our yard as tall as the house, handmade from a parachute. And while you wouldn’t see my dad at school events, he was the father who made his own Halloween masks out of oatmeal or clay, or transformed our garden into a graveyard.

Russ, my father, has a legacy that is not one of perfection or ease. It is a legacy of endurance, accountability, and transformation. I remember when he was helping Phyllis through her journey to sobriety. He called me crying, telling me how much it hurt to watch her struggle. He told me that in that moment, he finally saw it; she was who he used to be. I told him to imagine how my mom must have felt all those years. He understood. He truly saw it. And still, he continued to support Phyllis through her healing, not just for her sake, but for their family and her children as well.

I am deeply proud of both of them; of what they have overcome, who they are for us and for our tribe of kids, and for the good people they continue to be.

Russ’s life is proof that healing is not linear, that brokenness does not preclude beauty, and that survival skills; learned in childhood, tested in war, and refined through sobriety; can become tools for connection, creativity, and love. His life stands as a testament to the possibility of repair, not just for oneself, but across generations.