Born: January 14, 1918

Hutchinson, Kansas

Married: August 15, 1943

Racine, Wisconsin

Died: July 17, 1998

Kansasville, Wisconsin

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About 1988 --- 1610 West End Place / Greensboro

Birthday, 199?

Remembrance by Nancy Pettinari Danford.

I am here today to celebrate Bill's life as a perfect in-law.
What I would like to share with you are all the thoughts that I should have shared directly with Bill especially during this past year when he spent so much time with us as he fought his awful illness --- but whenever I tried, the words would never get by the lump in my throat --- Maybe, I'll have better luck today.
Becoming an in-law is not easy. The plans of a young couple are filled with thoughts of love and Marriage and Happily-ever-after and then, at some point, the notion of becoming an in-law and having in-laws hits......Becoming a Danford is not easy ---- it's a big family, lots of them, all extremely intelligent, witty, funny, very good looking and so it wasn't long, years ago, before the "will I fit in?" jitters caused me a few sleepless nights. But then I met Bill ---- with the longest most out-stretched welcoming arms that I had ever seen. He didn't care if I was rich or poor, from the East, the West or in between, a descendent of the Mayflower or of Italian immigrants --- he was genuinely happy with the very simple notion that I loved his son and he loved me .... and suddenly, having in-laws wasn't so bad after all.
The years passed and a priceless relationship with this senior Danford that we grew to know as Papa developed.
Bill had the ability to stay involved with his children without being overwhelming. He was always available for conversation, for advice, for long walks. He shared our joys --- birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, new homes, new jobs, new friends. He welcomed each new grandchild as if it was his first and only .... and he shared some sorrows too. I remember when we phoned him over 10, almost 15 years ago with the sad news that Will had developed diabetes, and what he said was, "Well, I wish I could have that disease instead of you". We couldn't arrange that but somehow his support and encouragement made this and other little challenges in our life easier to handle.
Today, we sadly say good-bye to Bill but we are so lucky to be left with our many happy memories. I'm sure that all our homes are filled with special touches of Bill. For us, it's the pot-rack over the stove, complete with a few extra holes in the ceiling, each filled with laughter as he and Will searched for the perfect stud.
Our children have their memories too. For Jeff, it's learning to tie his shoes; for all four kids it's learning to ride their bikes; for our boys it's "ladies before gentlemen" and never, ever to wear their hats in the house!
Bill has given us all endless inspiration. He has left us to emulate his ability to be humble, gentle and kind, to care more about others than about ourselves, to never complain, to teach by example rather than lecture, to rarely criticize, to love family and be loyal in good times and in bad, to cherish the gift of life with every day that God has given us.
I had a conversation not long ago with Jeff and Julia about what it means to be a beautiful person --- not a person with a beautiful face or pretty hair but what it means to have deep inner beauty. For me, the teaching was simple: "your Papa is a beautiful person" I said.
We will all miss Bill terribly but we should find some comfort in knowing that, hopefully, because he touched our lives in so many ways, Bill's beauty will live on and on.

Tim Danford : Remembering Grandpa.

I know that a man’s grandchildren must see him very differently than his immediate family and friends. I know that my earliest memory of my grandfather is his retirement; so early that I can’t even place a specific date on it. I just remember thinking that now “Grandpa can play all the time,” and I asked my own father, “When will you retire and play with me, like Grandpa?” Before we grew too big to be pinned to the floor, grandpa would wrestle with us in front of the fireplace, and if we were lucky our own fathers would join the struggle. The living room would quickly become the place where “noogies” were given, “indian burns” received, and the grunts and laughs of frantic children and bemused adults reigned. Usually the grandchildren emerged victorious.
Papa was also the center of something that gives the house on Eagle Lake a timeless quality. No matter how long it had been since your last visit, while you were there your time in the outside world became only a faint memory. His well-tended grass was always thick, cool, and slightly moist. Grandpa’s afternoon nap seemed as natural as the shaded hammock, sun-baked boathouse wasps, and kids quietly running pell-mell from the sandbox to the lake. His happy groan as he lifted and hugged a small grandchild was as familiar as Wisconsin raspberry kringle and the stacks of Forbes magazine that he piled on the couch in his office.
We knew it couldn’t be the same forever, but even when he left home for surgery he and Grandma would remember my birthday with a timely card. Most of the mail a college student receives contains offers for another credit card. When I received a actual card from my grandparents, his handwriting (that may only be described as simultaneously “spidery” and “beautiful”) wishing me a happy birthday made me feel that very little had changed. When he came to pick me up from the bus station for my first Thanksgiving away from home I immediately recognized the familiar hat with his white hair peeking from under it, and that helped relieve the homesickness.
Released from the demands of a full-time job and family-raising, grandpa became a man whose little details loomed large in the eyes of his grandchildren. His calm voice, his constant place at the head of the table during afternoon lunch, the way I never saw him in a golf cart on the golf course: these are small traits and habits that defined his character for his grandchildren. He was refreshingly relaxed and old-fashioned. These small details comprised a constant presence in our lives. It is these small things that I will miss the most.

John Danford

These words are spoken in public, but they are about a private man. Not even all my brothers and sisters think these words should be spoken. I am saying them mainly for the next generation.
I have wondered for many years why the first three children of my parents became teachers. That is partly because of my mother, bless her, who was a teacher. But I now think my father was a teacher, too. I want to speak about what he taught me.
The day before yesterday, Sunday morning, after traveling here from Montana, I overslept. When I looked at the clock my first thought was "Oh no. Dad hates it when I get up late." My dad was strict about right and wrong, and he expected the same from us. He taught us, above all, the moral weight of our decisions, and the importance of responsibility. I will never gorget my mother saying, when I was little and had misbehaved: "Just wait until your father gets home." That means I remember the literally terrible threat of a spanking --- rarely used, but very effective in illuminating the moral universe.
Three things my father was NOT: My father was not a romantic. He did not long for adventure, or for the exotic. He was a patient man, but he had no patience with romantic unhappiness, or with whiners. He was not a political man--he had no heroic ambitions, though he loved his country. Even his thumos--the spirited part of his soul, the seat of indignation--was private. He was most indignant at rudeness, at obnoxious behavior. Many people remarked on his courtesy; he was unfailingly considerate. He was a natural gentleman. He was, finally, not materialistic. He never liked to talk about money, and I think that was the flip side of his generosity. He taught us that wealth is for the sake of human happiness: money is important, but never to be flaunted, and not as important as other things.
What were his special virtues? First of all, my father was scrupulous. He was careful and thoughtful in all his dealings, and kept accurate and detailed records, sometimes to the amusement of his children. Perhaps we learned this lesson less well than we should have. He was thorough. I did a thousand projects with my dad, and I learned one thing for sure: No job is finished until the tools are put away. And he was a steward: whatever was put into his care, got the care it needed: a car, a boat, the financial records of Pan Yack Park. Surely one of his best qualities was loyalty--it's enough to say that he was a faithful husband for 55 years. Above all he was moderate. In public or in private, his wants were few, and moderation in all things might have been his motto.
My dad was not gregarious, though he loved people--as individuals. He never liked crowds, even crowded restaurants. As I grew older my greatest disappointment was that my father was not really a lover of music. He preferred quiet. The muses in general did not play much of a role in his life. Only in the last few months did he ever mention a poem, one he recalled from his boyhood, one he had been compelled to memorize in school. You will hear it read in a few minutes. I think now I see why he remembered it. It is a poem about what he cared most about.
My father carried his burdens without ever complaining. His life suggests a core belief, that the most important things are private life and family: brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, children and grandchildren. That may be ordinary, and he was an ordinary man, but he cared about others with extraordinary devotion. This gathering testifies to that.
One other thing: he died well. He was considerate of others to the very end, and taught us a lesson about facing death with resignation. For that, too, God bless him.