My Dad, the Painter, by Robert Bieber My Dad was a painter. His career began the moment he left middle school and continued through his last year. It was a fifty year career with most of it in the Denver Metro area. It was not just a job for him, but a vocation—an art form. I grew up watching him at work, and I was fascinated by his effortless skill. In his lifetime he worked on many Denver landmarks such as Craig Hospital, Children’s Hospital, and the downtown Broker. He painted for the movers and shakers of this community: Philip Anshutz, Bill and Lee Ambrose, Governor Roy Romer and many others. When my sister Amie was born he painted a giant sign on the side of the Lanai Apartments that read “Welcome Amie”. It was visible for miles. His outgoing personality opened the door to hundreds of homes in Denver. For those homeowners they received not just a fresh coat of paint, but a friend they could lean on. Otto could be found baby-sitting their children, fixing a broken faucet, mending a fence, or playing with the family dog. But always, he was someone you could chat with while he rolled a ceiling or cut in a corner. This is how I remember him; paintbrush in hand, white paint-specked T-shirt and pants, standing on a white canvas drop cloth and singing German folks songs of his childhood. He was a wonderful singer, and he sang loud and proud. At a younger age he sang with a choir that at one time performed at the Governor’s Mansion. I can still hear his songs echoing in the empty halls of a freshly painted home. Sometimes he had an audience—one or two children, or maybe just the family dog. I used to sit in the corner and watch his fluid motion and listen to his beautiful melody. I couldn’t understand the words—I didn’t have to. To the many children bored with Sesame Street reruns or the twentieth reading of Green Eggs and Ham, Otto was a novelty, a sideshow performer of their own amusement. He gave them a paintbrush and simple instructions and put them to work. They’d apply a stroke here and there and then watch in amazement at the speed and fluidity of Dad’s effortless motion. Then began their discussions, usually talks of colors and paint, and how to hide the painted fingerprints on Mom’s new lamp. But the discussions gravitated to talks of adventures, the future, and the reality of dreams. After a time the children moved on to their own creative ventures but they never walked away without a smile on their face and a dot of paint on their nose. I was the one child who never walked away. I never tired of sharing ideas with my father—and dreaming. It was on the white canvas drop cloth that my father and I planned our future. Adventures down the Colorado and Mississippi rivers were carefully thought out. Trips were planned to the Grand Canyon, Moab, and Lake Powell, and all began with a paintbrush in hand. My father was a true lover of nature, always saying “I’d rather hunt with a camera, than a gun.” He had a genuine adoration for the American West, and he wasn’t afraid to share it. Every time we traveled together he would see tourists from other countries talking in restaurants, on hiking trails, or taking family portraits in front of a stone monument. Dad would suggest to them an item on the menu, a prevention for foot blisters, or, with their camera in hand he’d snap the family portrait. Then he’d start up a conversation that led to the beautiful places in America—a must see guided tour. He was the self-appointed ambassador for the U.S., sometimes taking complete strangers on tours of National landmarks. A few years back he took a carload of German tourists on a trip to Yellowstone Park—in an old Volkswagen Van. My love for the world of the American West is directly connected to my father’s own passion for this land. As I grew older our discussions grew political, social and religious. I found a voice in myself that rang with conviction, not musical like my father’s, but purposeful. On the painter’s drop cloth we debated the worlds problems and solved them—simply. Then one day I married and began a family of my own. My career took root and the drop cloth discussions became fewer and fewer. There wasn’t time anymore for watching the master at work, but to my surprise, every once in a while I found myself sitting in the corner and watching. I was a child again, my memories aroused by the odor of fresh paint and my Dad’s masculine singing voice. And once again we talked, and we dreamed. In fact, I was with my Dad on his last job. There was something he always told me—in my long forgotten yesterdays and not so long ago’s—he said: “When I die, it will be with a paintbrush in one hand and a beer in the other.” I love you Dad, Robert “In Heaven there is no beer. That’s why we drink it here.” An old German Folk song