The call came at 3 a.m. on Sept. 9.

Dad had just a few more hours left, hospice workers had told my family. It was time to rally around him one last time.

My father had been spiraling downward for a couple of weeks as a bout of bacterial pneumonia set in and refused to leave. With all of his other medical problems, we knew it was only a matter of time. He'd been at death's door a week earlier, and hospice workers had said the end could be days, even weeks away. Thus my oldest brother and I, the farthest-away siblings, made the difficult decision to wait and travel home for his funeral.

Still, we wanted to say our final good-byes. Dad had been sleeping, seemingly unconscious for several days, but hospice workers said he may still be able to hear us. With no cell-phone service at the nursing home in remote Ulen, Minn., and not even a way to get a portable land-line phone to the room, the staff went above and beyond the call of duty to put together some concoction that involved a speaker phone in a conference room and a baby monitor. Our voices came in loud and clear to Dad's room, they said.

Not long after that, he drew his final breath.

By the time we arrived in Minnesota, most of the funeral arrangements already had been made, so what was left was the outpouring of memories as we gathered together. We laughed, and cried, and hugged.

One of the most poignant parts of the final goodbye was a funeral procession of our family members to the farm where he had spent nearly his entire 87 years. Dad had not been back to the farm since going to the nursing home about 18 months ago, so it seemed only fitting that we bring him home one last time.

His beloved dog, Buddy, barked and ran toward the hearse as it paused in the driveway. And while my youngest brother scooped up a vial of rich, black dirt that was later tucked alongside Dad in the casket, my older brothers called the cows home one last time, words that had echoed loud and strong across the pasture virtually every day of our lives.

Instead of delivering personal eulogies at the service, my brothers and I opted to write up short snippets of remembrances that the pastor read so beautifully. As the pastor gathered our compositions at the funeral-home visitation, he said it felt like he was collecting homework. I smiled after the funeral when a former teacher said she'd graded them all A+.

Here are a few of the vast memories of our father:

n We couldn't recall him ever saying a cross word to anyone. His smile and infectious laughter were known far and wide. In fact, one cousin wrote to say, "Your Dad was one of the most truly happy people I've known." Even in his final months he was good-natured and never complained.

The pastor recalled how Dad would always shake his hand after church and say, "It's a good day," even when it became difficult to walk.

n He had huge hands that could - and did - fix anything. They were calloused from a life of farm work, but equally warm and comforting.

n He loved animals and called them all by name, even when the dairy herd numbered more than 50. One thing I never knew was that he gave the cows extra feed and hay on Christmas Eve.

n He loved music and had a shelf full of accordion trophies that attested to his ability. An accordionist played one of his favorite hymns at the funeral.

n As a World War II veteran, Dad was part of "The Greatest Generation," but long before author and TV newscaster Tom Brokaw coined that phrase, we knew our father was the greatest. He was a simple man who loved his country, loved his family and loved God.

We couldn't have asked for a better father and it's because of him and the values he instilled in us that we, too, can say, "It's a good day."

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by e-mail at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com