When I was three, my family moved to Miles City so that my mom could attend nursing school. The fun part, for me, was that now I would be attending preschool part-time, and hanging out with my dad the rest! Dad was a minister at the United Church of Christ there, so he worked mostly out of a homea office in order to care for me and to be there when my older sisters came home from elementary school. This was the mid 1980s, so “working from home” and “stay at home dad” were not common. Two working parents was becoming more common, but most preschool age children either came home to a mom or to a babysitter. I loved “working” with dad, so I thought our set up was extra cool.
Sometimes, instead of staying at home, Dad would take me on errands. This might be the usual trip to the bank, grocery store, or the church office, but the best was when he took me to deliver meals-on-wheels. We used a van from the health dept, loaded it up with Styrofoam crates filled with individually packaged meals, then drove all over town visiting seniors who needed a meal. They all tended to gush over me (likely making Dad’s route take longer than it was supposed to). At the end, sometimes we got to eat a meal ourselves.
The legacy these trips left me is twofold. Not only did I get lovely memories of quality time with Dad, but throughout my life I had embedded in my psyche that people of all ages should help each other. Bring those in need a meal. Find time to volunteer with a worthy organization. Spend a few extra minutes chatting with someone who needs the socializing. Dad always chose to do what he could, everything from filling a gas tank for a family in transit to going to Mississippi to help rebuild after Hurricane Katrina to helping Black folk register to vote in the 1960s in the South. I hope that I can continue his legacy of service.
—Hannah Shepherd
The family was in a small circle out in the yard in front of our cabin in Red Lodge. Our parents and aunt and uncle, who owned the cabin together, and Kent and Susan and I were variously involved in a discussion on how to best build a screened access door for the wall furnace in the tiny living room. In the mix were expertise from Uncle Kenny, opinions from our un-handy dad, and aesthetic requirements from our mom. At some point in the thick of it, Kent quietly slipped away. When the discussion wound up we found Kent in the cabin with the job nearly completed. Obviously, as soon as he had a clear idea of how to proceed, he proceeded – cleverly avoiding any kibitzing, I might add.
— Lynn Dixon
When Kent retired from ministry, he sat down at his computer the very next day to write the novel that had probably been coming together in his head for years. His story managed to build suspense with ordinary scenes and characters: a minister with curiosity, old ladies in the nursing home, the teenagers in the youth group, the men’s lectionary group at the town diner, little kids at the supper table. These are voices we know and I can still picture the guy at the diner who never says anything. He went on to write several more novels and books of short stories. I, his sister, am very sad that the next novel he had queued up in his head remains unwritten. It would have been an important story for these times.
— Lynn Dixon
Dad told me once about visiting my brother Kent when he was working as a conscientious objector at what was then Boulder River School and Hospital. Kent took him to visit the cottage he worked in. Our dad had a younger brother who had developmental disabilities but was high functioning enough to hold a job. The people in the cottage where Kent was working needed a lot more assistance. Dad told me he was actually taken aback. What most impressed him, however, was how Kent introduced him to each individual living there, by name and with something that indicated an appreciation for each person. When they came to a young man whose limbs were quite deformed, Kent touched him on the head to get his attention and greeted him by name. The young man sort of smiled, Dad said. Kent was able to connect to the humanity of each person, and that’s what he did all his life with everyone, I think.
— Elli Elliott
In Anaconda, Kent is remembered for being the one to write a strong letter to the editor, condemning the ideas in some White supremacist hate literature that was being distributed, and for working to raise awareness about social justice issues.
—Anne Dobney
When I was in late elementary school, I was watching TV with my om, and an ad came on telling us that in a few weeks it was “Take your daughter to work day.” My mom immediately planned ahead, asking for permission to bring me to work, and informing my teacher I would miss school that day.
Mom was a Registered Nurse at what was then known as Montana Developmental Center (MDC) in Boulder. On the day I went to work with her, she visited all her clients in the cottages she oversaw, and was working on the painstaking task of converting clinical notes to the new computer-based system.
But the best part of going to work with her was doing the rounds visiting clients, and checking in with the direct care staff about how each client was doing. Every client we saw would light up and smile the moment they realized that it was Nurse Barb visiting them. Some remembered her far enough back to call her Barby Morgan!
There was very little in the way of medical needs that day, though some years later I did get to go to work with her on a day when she was administering tuberculosis tests. We did visit with some clients who were busy doing physical therapy, which Mom assisted with as needed. Even though the rounds were light in medical responsibilities, it was very clear how vital to the health and wellbeing of folks these visits were. Each long conversation, each walk, each hug, each hand hold was part of ensuring that folks were seen, loved, and treated as whole persons. My mom loved people for who they were, diagnoses, unique behaviors, difficult ways, and all.
Years later, when we lived in Wyoming, my mom sought out employment with any agency that might work with people with disabilities — group homes, home health, live in care facilities — and was dismayed to find that the town didn’t seem to have services for people with intellectual disabilities. She knew that the people were likely there, unless they were all being sent to the long-term care institution across the state or to group homes in bigger cities. Mom expressed to me that this meant that the town didn’t get to see the real diversity of humans, which was unfair to everyone.
Later on, we moved back to Montana, and Mom came back to work at MDC. She continued to do everything in her power to advocate for the rights of people with disabilities, in particular (as an RN) for their right to access to medical care. As the age of the institution began to end, Mom worried that her clients were being pushed into facilities with limited access to nurses, and that for the medically needy folks, this might mean worsening health or even death.
Mom wanted a world where people with disabilities are part of every community (because they are), are seen, and have access to all aspects of life, including medical care.
—Hannah Shepherd
