“You Gotta Stay Tough in this Business”
A Eulogy for Frank “Bud” Rogers
May 14, 1937 – August 26, 2022
(As shared at his memorial service by his son, Frank Jr.)
I knew early on that I would be asked to sum up what our dad meant to us in the immediate family and to distill the legacy that he left with each one of us. So I began asking each person what memories they most cherished, what stories they would most remember that captures who he was to us. And in nearly every conversation, one story would rise to the surface that was so quintessentially Dad.
As he told it to us, it happened on his first date with the woman that he was courting to become his life-long partner—or at least the first time that he picked her up from her work for them to go out together. He was coming home from work himself—some construction job—when he drops by the hospital where Dona was working. He walks her to his car with great charm and chivalry, and holds and closes the door as she settles in. He saunters around to the driver’s side and gets in himself, the car door window rolled down so he can lay his arm on it and drive one-handed. With vintage Paul Newman cool, he places his hand on top of the door jamb and pulls his door closed—slamming the door right onto his thumb. His thumb is stuck so bad, he can’t pull it out. But he keeps his Cool Hand Luke composure and, with his grin still in place, he casually reaches across with his other hand, opens the door, frees his thumb, closes the door, and calmly drives the few blocks to his mom’s house where he was living at the time. He leaves Dona to visit with Grandma while he goes to clean up from work. He retreats to the back of the house, closes every door, turns the radio on as loud as he can without being conspicuous, turns on all the faucets, climbs into the shower, hides himself in the waterflow, then lets out a scream, “Oh my God!!! It hurts so bad!”
And we would exclaim, “Dad. Didn’t it hurt the whole way home?”
“Of course,” he would say. “I slammed a car door on my thumb.” And then he would add, banging his fist on the table with a sly smile, “But you know what. You gotta be tough in this business.”
To us who knew him well, this was Dad’s signature saying. In fact, it’s become something of the Rogers Family motto. If you hammer your thumb while nailing some joists, or you need to pour concrete all night before the school opens in the morning, or you have to ride four hours to the annual family reunion—ten of you in a beat-up laundry truck with neither windows nor air conditioning—the refrain would echo, “Well, you gotta be tough in this business.”
So I have been pondering: what is it about this family motto that so captures Dad’s impact on us and encapsulates the legacy that each of us will hold onto from him?
At first glance, the saying seems off the mark—a bit out of character for the man that we knew. I mean, it’s not that he wasn’t tough. He toiled long hours and in extreme conditions as a carpenter for over fifty years. He didn’t retire from that exhausting work until he was 73. And then he fought Parkinson’s Disease for eight years. When he was told that he couldn’t walk on his own anymore, he shuffled himself across the room anyway to eat a maple bar or a bowl of ice cream. When he was forced to use a walker, he scooted across the floor as fast as he could move it. When he couldn’t foot the hundred yards down the driveway to fetch the mail, he bought himself a mini-bike. 82 years old with Parkinson’s and he’s kickstarting a mini-bike and high-tailing it down the driveway. Of course, he couldn’t keep it balanced when turning it around and ended up with a couple of broken ribs, but there is no question about it—he was tough.
And yet, Dad was hardly a stern, unfeeling man—so hard-edged that he was incapable of experiencing human emotion. Dad was light-hearted, and loved to hang out and have fun.
Most of our fondest memories of him are the innumerable times he kicked back and played around. We all cherish the countless camping trips—to Memorial Park, Brannan Island, or Lake Lopez for the annual family reunion—and the fishing trips to the Sacramento River Delta or the lake at Rancho Seco. He entertained us with cannonballs off the side of the dock and playing keep away in the pond or a pool. He loved to show off waterskiing—slaloming on a single ski—then captaining the boat to let us take our turn. He loved to play pool and pull off his best impersonation of Fast Eddie Felson with a shot from behind the back—then nod at one of us to pick up the cue ball from up off the floor. He took the grandkids on go-cart rides, driving with no hands, or let us as kids sit in his lap as he drove so we could pretend to drive the car ourselves.
When it was bedtime, he didn’t scold us to go down for the night—he gave us the choice: being slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, piggyback ride, or the wheelbarrow where he held our feet high while we wobbled down the hall on our hands. When my brother Jim and I were little, he would pull us out of bed to watch the Red Skelton Show with him—of course, he would have to hide us behind the couch so our mom didn’t catch us, but it was just too funny to watch alone. He loved to play cards, the family game Bull, and would dramatically reveal his hand to himself one card at a time as if he had just drawn the highest hand possible: 4 Aces and a King kicker. And then one time he did! “Four Aces and a King Kicker!” he would exclaim every time that we played from then on. “Remember the time I got 4 Aces and a King Kicker?” How could we forget? He hid the five cards in a box of See’s candy for us to discover when we opened the treat then pinned them to the wall beside the pool table.
He could be downright silly at times. Any child under five saw him perform his magic trick of sliding his thumb across his hand or easing a pencil into one ear and pulling it out of the other.
And he loved to tell the stories that amused him to no end. Like the time one of us was lost in the woods and calling out as a child. Dad yelled, “Where are you?” and the boy yelled back, “I’m by the tree.” Or the time another one of us called him for advice about why the clothes dryer wasn’t working. “Did you clean the lint tray recently?” he asked. “What lint tray?” was the answer. As it turned out, the one that was so packed with lint it could hardly be pried open. That son had a Ph.D.!
Or just get him talking about the ill-fated fishing trip he took with Uncle Bob Cavalli and his brother Uncle Tom—one that started with them accidentally dropping the motor to the bottom of the lake and ending with a Good Samaritan giving then a tow and slicing his own rowboat clear in half “like a knife through warm butter.” Dad would laugh so hard he couldn’t get the story out, banging the table as he tried to catch his breath.
Our dad loved to have a good time, to goof around, to play games, to tell silly jokes, and oh how he loved to laugh. He was Butch Cassidy not the Sundance Kid—always concealing a smirk that was eager to break out into a grin.
So how is his legacy distilled into the Rogers Family mantra, “You gotta be tough in this business,” tough enough to shake off getting your thumb caught in a car door?
I think it becomes clear when we remember what business he was talking about.
To be sure, Dad was a carpenter through and through—proud to build things with his own hands. And that is a business that one has to be tough in. He routinely regaled us with stories of almost falling asleep at the wheel driving home after a twelve-hour workday; or of nail-gunning his shoe to the floor; or drilling his hand to the top of a chimney; or dropping a ladder and being stuck on the roof of a two-story house for four hours; or the time he had a double-load of lumber on his truck racks and he had to slam on his brakes when a car pulled out in front him—lumber smashing through the windshield and wedging both doors of the truck cab closed. It was work filled with physical challenges—work that calloused your hands and blistered your feet. It was a profession that demanded toughness without a doubt and Dad gave himself to it with heroic resilience.
But as true as that is, I don’t think that it gets to the heart of the matter.
When Dad caught his thumb in the car door, the business that demanded his toughness was not carpentry; it was the business of courting his would-be wife and solidifying the foundations of his family.
The business closest to Dad’s heart was not constructing houses; it was constructing a home—building a loving and stable marriage, providing for his family, and raising eight children to be people of strength and character.
And Dad gave himself to that business with an undeterred determination.
He worked long hours in extreme conditions to make sure that we had food on our table and clothes on our back—even building with his own hands the house that would become the family homestead for holidays and family meetings. He drove two hours one way, sometimes three, to get to where the work was when providing for us, and he always came home at night, refusing to stay in any company paid hotel so he could steal at least a few minutes with his wife and children. He insured that each one of us was schooled and trained in the professions that were right for us. He did not hesitate for a second to adopt our beloved Lori and was proud to call her his daughter. When Richard came running up the hill as kids, when Linda and Lori were drowning in the river, nothing could stop Dad from racing down, jumping in, clothes and all, and saving both of their lives.
He taught us to stand strong in our convictions even when it is not popular, just as he stood rooted in his faith to the point of leaving his job and putting his pension at risk to build radio towers across the world for the gospel he believed in. “After all,” he would say, “It’s only money. You can’t take it with you. Easy come, easy go.”
And he taught us strength of character by modeling it every day. He taught us that our word is our bond, and he refused to lie even when it was uncomfortable. He taught us how to shake hands—with a firm grip and a look in the eye—because a strong character is neither weak nor evasive. He taught us that a job worth doing is a job worth doing right, even when nobody is watching. He taught us that if you get paid for eight hours, you work for eight hours—you don’t slack off or leave early even if you can get away with it. He taught us to finish the job that we give ourselves to—no matter how long it takes or how hard it gets.
In the business of providing for a family, living with conviction, and instilling character, he was tough—he had a backbone of steel that absolutely walked his talk.
But in the business of constructing a family, Dad was not only tough and undeterred; he was tender as well. His fierce dedication to caring for his family came from a heart that was soft and warm. Dad provided for us; he persevered for us; he prepared us for the world—because he loved us.
One of the most tender gifts that Dad gave me was when I went away to college. Dad knew that I wanted to study theology and spirituality, and for him that meant studying the Bible. He gave me a Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance—a huge book that referenced all the verses for every single word in the Bible. The gift itself was meaningful, but its real impact was what he wrote inside the front cover. All it said was,
“For Frank. Mark 1:11. Dad.”
I found a Bible and looked up the scripture verse. It is a reference to when Jesus was baptized. When Jesus came up out of the waters, he heard a voice from the heavens, that of his divine father, the God that Jesus knew so intimately he called that God, Abba—which is to say Dad, or even Papa. That fatherly voice gazed upon Jesus and spoke the words in Mark 1:11:
“You are my son. You are my beloved. And in you, I take great delight.”
Here’s the thing. He did not always express it verbally, but Dad etched those words into each and every one of our hearts. He beheld us; he saw us as beloved; and he delighted in us.
He communicated this to us in countless acts of tender care. He loved spending all day in the kitchen making pasties for us on our birthdays and holidays—making sure that we each had our own bottle of ketchup, Heinz 57. He got up before sunrise to make corn fritters for breakfast, and sent us home with leftovers. While we slept in at Lake Lopez, he had greased up the griddle and had hotcakes—all we can eat—already waiting for us.
He was so proud that three of us followed in his footsteps and became carpenters—getting us into the union and hiring us for our first jobs. He taught Jimmy how to dirty up his tool bag so he wouldn’t show up the first day with brand new gear and never hear the end of it. And he was equally proud of those of us who followed other professions—speculating about real estate with us, celebrating our degrees, and reading our published work—knowing that he had launched us into the world in our own unique ways.
He relished in our particular joys. He loved to read the Bible and pray each day with his beloved wife, Dona—the two of them so yoked they became one name: Budona. He beamed when he watched Richard sing at his high school graduation. He was the proud papa when he took Lori to buy her first high heels as she was growing up and becoming a woman. He was radiant in his brand new suit walking Linda down the aisle to marry Kyle. He savored every second of building his dream house with his three young apprentices—John, David and Daniel.
And he embodied it in ways of which we might not be fully aware.
If we were coming over to watch football, or to take in a Giants game, or simply to visit for a spell, he would get up hours before we came, get himself all ready, and sit in his chair counting the minutes he was so excited that we were coming to be with him. He saved every one of the birthday cards and letters that we gave to him through the years, collecting them in a box and rereading them for comfort. He had a folder for each one of us in his filing cabinet in which he saved mementos unique to each of us—pictures we had drawn in grade school, union cards, certificates we had earned, jokes we had sent him, in Lori’s file an “Application for Dating My Daughter”—a battery of tests and questions that a saint would not be able to pass. Every night before bed, he prayed for each of us by name, pausing to hold us in the loving delight of the Heavenly Father that he had come to know as his own. He donated his brain to Parkinson’s research, not to further science necessarily, but because he was worried about us, and he wanted to do everything that he could to keep his children and his grandchildren from suffering the disease that he suffered.
He loved us—each one—with a tender heart. And his heart was so tender, he let in the pain.
He took the time to scream in the shower at how sometimes it can hurt so bad.
When anyone in his family was suffering—he felt it. If we were ill and in the hospital; if we were flat on the floor with our back out and unable to get ourselves up; if we were stranded in a blizzard on the freeway through Mt. Shasta; if our marriage was coming apart and we found ourselves in court fighting to see our children; if a relative was dying and loved ones were grieving; if addictions were assailing us; if depression was crushing us; if our pain drove us to the edge of suicide; if our pain drove us to suicide—Dad was the first one to drop everything and, in as long as it took to pack what he needed, he was in the car driving to Eureka, to Claremont, to Antioch, to Vegas, to Oregon, to Lakewood, to Lincoln, to wherever his family was hurting. And he would sit with us with a tireless resilience and a love that would not stop for anything in this world.
In the business of crafting a home for his family and doing all that he could to see that we thrived—Dad was as tough as it gets.
But here’s the secret to his toughness. It was rooted in his tenderness.
He gave himself tirelessly to caring for his loved ones because he beheld us with love. He took the time to gaze upon each one of us, and from the depths of his heart, say to us in turn, “You are my son; you are my daughter; you are my grandchild; my cousin; my aunt; my uncle; my niece; my nephew; my brother; you are my wife and my life-long partner. You are my beloved. And in you, I take great delight.”
With the tenderness that he gave to us each one, we can be tough through any business that occupies us.
That is a legacy. That is a remembrance worth taking with us wherever we may go.
For such a priceless gift, how can we ever express our thanks to you, Dad?
Except to say this.
“We love you too. You are our beloved. And in you, for all of time, we take great delight.”
Obituary for Frank (Bud) Rogers
Frank “Bud” Rogers passed away on August 26, 2022. Bud was born in Santa Barbara, California on May 14, 1937. His mom, Angelina Cavalli, soon moved to San Francisco and married Thomas Rogers Jr. Bud followed when he was four and soon had a kid brother, Thomas Rogers III. The four of them lived in the Mission District of San Francisco where Bud graduated from Mission High School in 1954. He soon enlisted in the army and served two years in Korea rising to the rank of Sergeant.
Bud cherished spending time with his beloved aunt and uncle, Marie and Clayton Horne. Clayton passed on a love for building things and, once out of the army, Bud started his life-long vocation as a carpenter. While staying with Marie and Clayton one holiday, his cousin Diane introduced Bud to her best friend, Barbara Winter. A year later, Bud and Barbara were married and proceeded to have four children together—Frank Jr., Jim, Rich, and Linda.
Bud and Barbara split up in 1972. During those days of crisis, Bud had a conversion experience and became a Christian. He started attending Hillside Church of God where he was soon baptized. For the rest of Bud’s days, faith was at the center of every dimension of his life. Hillside Church offered Bud another life-long gift as well. A fellow parishioner introduced Bud to Dona Guidry. The same afternoon that Dona was baptized, Bud took her, and her daughter Lori, to the San Francisco Aquarium with Bud’s other children. Love took root and in October of 1973, Bud and Dona were married—a union that they would enjoy together for over 48 years. Lori was immediately adopted and she was cherished alongside the other children. Bud and Dona would then have three more children, John, David, and Daniel. Throughout the years, Bud was a steadfast provider and heroic father to all eight of his children. Each one of them was well-loved.
Bud would go on to become a grandfather and a great-grandfather. Fifteen grandchildren—Justin, Michael, Sammy, Erika, Brittany, Kristina, Lauren, Matthew, Logan, K.J., Dona, D.J., Scarlett, Jolina, and Grace, along with six great-grandchildren—Kailey, Nathan, Brody, Tommy, Lucas, and Olivia—knew his love and will always carry memories of fishing with him, playing cards, and eating Grandpa’s famous pasties and corn fritters.
In 1990, Bud and Dona bought a five-acre lot in Wilton, California, about twenty miles south of Sacramento. Through the following years, Bud realized one of his dreams—to design and construct his own house. Bud did it all. He drew up the blueprints, excavated the lot, laid the foundation, and built a 3500 square foot house from floor to ceiling. As he had dreamed, this house became the site of family gatherings for birthdays and holidays for years on end. Also as Bud would have it, he spent his last days there, dying peacefully in the comfort of the home he had built after an eight-year bout with Parkinson’s Disease.
Bud lived an active and full life. He loved working on projects, camping at Memorial Park and Brannan Island, waterskiing in the Delta, sailing in the lagoons, flipping pancakes and playing horseshoes at the annual family reunion, faithfully watching 49ers football and Giants baseball, reading his Bible daily, listening to Family Radio, playing Bull, shooting pool and spending time with family. We are ever so grateful for the abundance of memories. And we will miss him and love him forever.
