Memoir of Beryl Donald Paullin
Introduction
April always brings to the forefront the memory of my late father, Beryl Donald Paullin, who was born on April17, 1927. Yet, if you knew him, you’d understand why even reminiscing about his vibrant wit, famed expressions, and boundless energy is enough to bring both laughter and heartfelt nostalgia. This memoir is my way of capturing the essence of a man whose life was complex, colorful, and profoundly impactful.
My father’s life was not without its contradictions, and he knew how to stir a reaction. Some viewed him as a provocateur; others saw a man whose sharp humor and keen intellect commanded attention. Love him or hate him, Beryl Paullin was a man you couldn’t ignore. Through this memoir, I invite you to meet him all over again, this time through the eyes of those who knew him best.
Early Life and Influences
Beryl’s story began in 1927, during the throes of the Great Depression. Born into a turbulent household, his father, Beryl Sr. (or “Bruce”), was a community-respected fire chief and also a relentlessly abusive alcoholic. Beryl’s mother, Elsie, endured unimaginable suffering, becoming what Dad often called “the classic abused wife.” The scars of their chaotic household shaped Dad’s earliest memories and left deep imprints on his evolving sense of responsibility and strength.
While Beryl’s older brother, Ed, was nearly beaten to death at a young age and placed at his grandparents’ farm, Dad remained in the tense environment of his family home, shouldering an emotional and psychological weight. Despite those harrowing years, Dad cultivated an indomitable will to succeed and protect those he cared about. He even delivered a life-altering ultimatum to his father upon returning from military service—demanding that the abuse toward his mother end. And it did. Dad had learned early that change often required confrontation and courage.
Dad’s younger sister Gloria (“Susie”) also bore the scars of their past but exhibited a more tumultuous relationship with resilience. While their shared upbringing provided common ground, Dad’s adulthood reflected a commitment to breaking cycles of dysfunction, pushing him to transform both himself and the legacy he’d leave behind.
Military Service and Grit
By the age of 16, eager to escape the weight of his upbringing and determined to prove himself, Dad enlisted in the Marines—a decision cut short when his mother intervened. Not to be deterred, he re-enlisted in the Navy at 18, serving aboard the warships West Virginia and Wisconsin. These experiences fueled his sense of discipline, responsibility, and wanderlust, traits he carried with him throughout life.
Returning from the Navy in 1947, Dad declared independence in no uncertain terms, severing ties with his abusive father while carving out a new path that prioritized personal integrity and family loyalty.
Education, Philosophy, and Career Ambitions
Though military life built his discipline, Dad’s intellectual hunger led him to the University of Portland, where he immersed himself in Psychology, Logic, and Philosophy of Mind. His fascination with the human psyche wasn’t just academic—it was deeply personal, a quest to understand the forces that shaped him and those around him. While a degree eluded him, his unofficial motto, “Never stop learning,” drove him throughout his life.
Professionally, Dad found his footing at the US Postal Service, where his perfectionism and relentless work ethic earned him respect but also occasional friction. Promotions placed him in management and later as an Operations Manager in Portland. His career spanned 35 years, marked by efficiency, high standards, and the occasional tongue-in-cheek remark, like his acknowledgment of “taking the system” when his pension contributions of $22,742 yielded over a million dollars in return. His wit spared no one, least of all himself.
Marriage, Parenthood, and Building Home
Dad’s marriage to my mother, Corinne Henry, in June 1950, was a union of resilience and love. They built a life together in Portland, eventually welcoming my sister Pam and me into their lives. My arrival, coupled with some childhood health challenges, tested Dad’s concept of fatherhood. Yet, over time, his love grew evident in the homes he built, the outdoor sanctuaries carefully crafted as “temples,” and his support for my paths—however different they were from his.
Beryl’s relationship with Pam, his cherished “prized daughter,” demonstrated his gentler side. And though managing our family dynamics wasn’t without its challenges, his enduring pride in us shone through in moments of celebration, particularly Pam’s educational achievements and later in her career.
Whether transforming lush landscapes into works of art or ensuring his family thrived, Dad’s urge to create, nurture, and influence defined him.
Colorful Quotes and Lasting Impressions
No memoir of Beryl would be complete without sharing the wit that made him larger than life. Over the years, Dad gifted us phrases now lovingly dubbed “Beryl-isms.” His wisdom was often wrapped in humor, sarcasm, and a touch of irreverence. They ranged from the hilarious (“The doctor needed a urine, stool, and semen sample, so I just left him my underwear”) to the profound (“Don’t wait too long to retire… death takes over, and they never make it”). Every phrase captured Dad’s ability to observe life unflinchingly, finding lessons amid laughter and truth.
His role as a storyteller underscored the emotional weight of being his child. Many times, I strove to balance Dad’s robust personality with a more subdued temperament, a dichotomy he himself may have wrestled with in respecting my quieter nature. If there’s one regret, it’s that I limited my overexuberance to shy away from becoming too “Berylesque.” Perhaps there’s wisdom in knowing that his life (vigorous, flawed, and impactful) deserves reflection without imitation.
Travel, Nature, and Retirement
Retirement brought Beryl his greatest joys—traveling the world with Mom. Whether hiking Arizona’s deserts, scaling Mayan ruins, or soaking in the magic of Maui for their 50th wedding anniversary, their shared adventures became the stuff of legend. His love for nature rivaled that for family, as he found serenity in Arizona’s heat or Columbia Gorge’s chilly beauty. The animals he bonded with also became companions and constants, endowing his later life with intimacy and solace.
Nature, for Dad, substituted for traditional church. He once joked that if he stepped inside a church, it might collapse from the sheer weight of his irreverence. His spiritual practice simply revolved around reverence for beauty, be it in a blossoming flower or a perfectly crafted punchline. Heaven, he claimed, wasn’t ready for him. Hell feared his ambition to run it better.
Dad lived unapologetically.
Reflections and Legacy
Beryl Donald Paullin defied easy categorization. Was he a protagonist or an antihero? A symbol of stability or a provocateur stirring discomfort? The answer lies somewhere beyond absolutes. He was human—brilliantly so. Like any great story, his life encompassed love, grief, humor, lessons, and a raging fight against conformity.
Ultimately, our dad taught us the power of resilience, complex love, and neurotic humor that lived long after any particular joke. I miss him more than words alone can convey. Honoring him means retelling these stories and the life-affirming lessons they leave behind.
“We always fit in where Love’s ordering principles rule.”
Thank you, Dad—for teaching me how to fit into this unpredictable, messy, and beautiful thing we call life.
Life With Beryl
Life is a confluence of questions, many of which shape the path we take and the answers we seek along the way. Among these, perhaps the most profound revolve around the evolution of our needs—physical, emotional, spiritual—across the different stages of life, from our embryonic beginnings to the inevitable end.
What does a developing life within the womb require beyond nutrition and oxygen delivered through the placenta? How about a newborn, fresh to the world, gazing at its mysteries with wonder and perhaps, at times, distress? What needs arise as we grow into consciousness, connecting words to the seen and the unseen, or as a child full of vitality and curiosity, feeling an invincible sense of immortality between the ages of six and nine?
And what about the moments of vulnerability? What do we require when subjected to trauma, manipulation, and neglect, intentional or otherwise? What solace is there for someone at any age carrying the weight of a fractured childhood, grappling with its deep, unspoken impact on the quality and span of their life?
The harm inflicted through contradictory messages—whether by misguided parents, oppressive religious systems, or conniving politicians—cannot be overstated. These messages, veiled in apparent care and concern, become seeds of dissonance and confusion. A parent’s claim of “I love you” while simultaneously causing harm, a religious doctrine professing to alleviate suffering while perpetuating guilt or shame, or a politician’s promise to represent while sowing division—these discordant actions fracture trust and perpetuate cultural and emotional dysfunction, leaving love and healing to wither within a toxic foundation.
How often have we heard, “I’m doing this because I love you” or “This is for your own good,” only to witness actions that betray those words? The most damaging refrain might echo from the lips of an abuser saying, “Don’t tell anyone what I did to you, and I’ll give you a present.” These manipulations cultivate a cycle of confusion, shame, and compliance. The result? Children shaped into what they are not, their identities chipped away by verbal abuse, neglect, or exploitation in its worst forms. Such damage doesn’t just end with the child—it ripples outward, destabilizing social structures and unraveling collective well-being.
The most profound trauma to the human soul is the dismantling of one’s inherent self-esteem and innocence, replaced by a fractured self-image wounded at its core. This fracture births a lifelong hesitance to engage in authentic relationships or to nurture genuine, unconditioned love. The victim, now carrying the burden of a normalized wound, unconsciously perpetuates that trauma, victimizing both self and others in unintentional yet often painful ways.
This is not merely conjecture—this is my lived experience and a recurring theme throughout humanity’s history. I’ve long observed that trauma and its insidious propagation are humanity’s primary dysfunction. Even as a child, I felt a deep unease, sensing an unshakable wrongness in the world around me. At the age of eight, I had what I can only describe as a prophetic dream—its message clear, yet the path to practice and integrate its truth into my life became a lifelong mission. My childhood yearning to become an astronaut arose from a visceral desire to “get off this rock” and escape a reality that felt unbearable.
But growth begins with grounding. Before I could elevate my life, I first had to construct and strengthen my spiritual launching pad, a process of reflection honed amidst the suffering and pain I endured. Every personal transformation starts from an initial point of pain. My story—like those of countless others—is a narrative of trauma rooted in family and society. It is our shared responsibility to confront such histories, to unearth painful truths, heal, and ultimately share messages of hope and redemption.
Navigating the origins of childhood wounds, family dynamics, and societal conditioning can be deeply unsettling. Yet, creating a narrative and reflecting on it with honesty takes us closer to understanding the impact of these experiences on our bodies and psyches. When we courageously revisit these foundational wounds, we can begin to measure their effects, acknowledge the pain we have both endured and caused, and make space for healing.
The process is as necessary as it is uncomfortable. Writing about these realities, facing their root causes, and understanding the interplay between personal trauma and relational harm can unmask the internal damage that remains largely unseen—hidden within the silent acceptance of those wounds. Whether through denial, paralysis, or flight, each of us carries a unique response to the trauma of our stories. However, it is through introspection and the mirror of our lifelong relationships that we gain clarity on how we’ve been shaped and how we, in turn, shape others. From this understanding comes the opportunity to adjust, to heal, and to chart a healthier course.
To understand the generational nature of trauma, I will begin with an extended examination of my father’s life, alongside a brief overview of his lineage and siblings. He served as the vessel for transmitting to me not only half of our ancestral heritage but also much of the societal values and toxicities that have shaped and scarred our family history.
This exploration invites us to witness how personal stories intertwine with collective narratives. By bravely unpacking our histories, we step closer to breaking cycles of harm, making room for love, healing, and a future where humanity’s potential is no longer constrained by its pain.
Brief Memoir of Beryl Donald Paullin ~ A Life Forged in Resilience
My father, Beryl Donald Paullin, carried a legacy as hard and enduring as the era into which he was born—1927, during the throes of the Great Depression. His life was shaped by his tumultuous family history, his own fierce determination, and a spirit of contradiction that seemed to define all who encountered him. He was equal parts critic, humorist, philosopher, and provocateur. From the sharp pain of his upbringing to the wisdom he sowed later in life, my father was nothing short of a complex force.
Born to an abusive, alcoholic fire chief and an emotionally fragile mother, my father’s childhood was nothing short of harrowing. His father, Beryl Sr.—whom Dad nicknamed Bruce to distinguish himself—was a towering, oppressive figure. Dad made it his mission to shield my sister, Pam, and I from his father’s toxicity, allowing us to meet Grandpa Bruce only once, after the patriarch entered his later “sober years.” Even then, the scars of my father’s youth lingered heavily in his veins.
His mother, Elsie, faced her own turmoil. She was haunted by ill health, trauma, and a tragic lie that would embroil future generations. Hers was the kind of emotional imbalance that simmered into periodic violence—a fact my father carried as both pain and a point of reflection throughout his life.
Dad’s older brother, Ed, bore the brunt of familial abuse before being sent away to their grandparents’ farm at the age of six, after an incident that nearly cost him his life. Elsie unfairly blamed my father, then just a four-year old child himself, projecting a weight of shame and guilt onto him that no young soul should have to bear.
And yet, my father emerged. Scarred? Yes. Flawed? Certainly. But resilient and driven to find meaning in the chaos he had been born into.
At just 16, with a deep yearning to escape his unbearable home life, my father enlisted in the Marines. Driven by a mix of patriotism, self-doubt, and a desperate need for freedom, he saw the military as a chance to rewrite his story. He was briefly pulled back home by his mother but re-enlisted in the Navy by the time he turned 18. Serving aboard the USS West Virginia and USS Wisconsin, he confronted a world far larger—and arguably no kinder—than the abusive home he had fled.
After his discharge, he returned to Portland and poured his energy into academics at the University of Portland, studying psychology and philosophy. He longed to understand the human mind, perhaps in a quest to untangle his own childhood wounds. Though he never completed his degree, those formative five years of higher education gave him a lens through which he would view the world—with sharp skepticism, curiosity, and a perennial challenge to authority.
My father’s career at the U.S. Postal Service spanned 35 years, rising to the rank of Operations Manager. His work ethic was unrelenting, and his perfectionism colored both his professional and personal life. His colleagues found him to be an effective, if occasionally exacting, or even an obnoxious leader. His expectations were as high for others as they were for himself—a trait that won him respect but also alienated those who bristled against his unfiltered critiques.
For Dad, work wasn’t just a job; it was a proving ground. Every task fulfilled, every challenge overcome, was a small rebellion against the narrative that his childhood had cast for him. To succeed, in his eyes, was his validation.
To us, his family, Dad was at once inscrutable and entirely transparent. His humor—spiked with biting sarcasm and candid appraisals—became a defining feature of his personality. He was quick with a quip, often laced with wisdom, self-deprecation, or both.
His most recurrent sayings, immortalized now as “Beryl-isms,” capture both his wit and his peculiar philosophy of life. For example:
- “Don’t wait too long to retire. Death has a way of stealing those extra years.” These words would ring bittersweet as he watched others work themselves into exhaustion, yet they served as his personal reminder to seize the moment.
- “Oh, those rich people—so much money, and they still have to die anyway.” This, delivered with a wry grin, spoke volumes about his ability to level life’s playing field with humor.
- “Heaven isn’t ready for me, and Hell doesn’t want me. I’d take over whichever one I landed in.” A quip that perfectly captured his defiant, yet oddly self-aware, essence.
These aphorisms, sometimes followed by an equally cheeky rebuttal from me, became a chain of call-and-response over the years—a kind of verbal sparring that often left us laughing at life’s absurdities.
Perhaps my father’s greatest contradictions lay in how he expressed love. He adored my mother, Corinne, but often struggled to communicate that affection in ways she deserved. Their relationship dynamic was a peculiar blend of barbs and loyalty. For all their clashes, they remained steadfast partners, traveling the world, supporting one another through thick and thin, and finding companionship that no argument could erode.
He struggled, too, in his role as a father. As a man who had never seen healthy expressions of parenting modeled, he approached it the only way he knew—with discipline and, sadly, the echoes of his own father’s abusiveness. But he ultimately recognized the flaws in his approach, striving to make amends in his later years through softer gestures of care, humor, and connection.
Retirement offered Dad a canvas on which to paint a life of new possibilities. He and my mother traveled extensively, creating memories that would outshine the harsher moments of their earlier years. From snowy Alaskan cruises to sunny Arizona winters, they found a rhythm that balanced adventure with the simplicity of shared time together.
For Dad, retirement also became a time of reconnection—with the natural world, his beloved dogs, and, in many ways, himself. His garden became his sanctuary, a living metaphor for cultivation and redemption.
Still, his wit never dulled. Even as dementia began to rob him of the sharpness that had defined his mind, he held on to his humor and defiant spirit.
Beryl Donald Paullin was not an easy man to know, but for those who dared, he was unforgettable. He could be harsh, tender, brash, reflective—often within the span of a single conversation. His life was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, and his impact stretched beyond what any memoir could fully capture.
To Dad, the man of paradoxes and profound truths, I say thank you. Thank you for your lessons. Thank you for your love, imperfect as it may have been. Most of all, thank you for being unapologetically you—flaws, wisdom, and all.
Forever your son ( well, this incarnation, anyway)
Bruce
