A memorial to my Dad who died peacefully May 17, 2019
Age 96
My Dad was a child of the depression. He was a student, athlete, airman, scholar, doctor, husband, and father.
A perfect example of the greatest generation, the things he accomplished by the age of 25, the youth that he sacrificed to war, helped secure the peace and prosperity that we all enjoy today.
That was his gift to all of us.
Dad lived a life of stories worthy of the sorts of books he preferred. Books about great men, living impressive lives in impressive times, standing firm and forging ahead, matter-of-fact, resolute. True stories about lives of greatness, about real lives in the real moments where history was made. Lives worthy of enormous books, hardbound and expensive.
Dad lived a life like that. Worthy of a book like that.
He lived that sort of life and he did that sort of stuff, epic stuff. The stuff that makes great stories. But it was not in his nature to tell them. Not many of them anyway.
He had an ego. He had plenty. He was propelled into a life of meaning and impact because he knew he was simply the best man for the job.
He also had character. He had plenty. He had the kind of character that does what’s right simply because it’s right. Always. Every time, whatever the cost, and without question.
And so this amazing life will be remembered not in books but by all those many, many people that it impacted. In the memories of the moments that he was there because he was needed and he was simply the best man for the job.
His way was close and quiet, deliberate. He had the poise of an athlete, the intelligence of a scholar and the eyes of an airman. His humor was reserved and very, very dry. His compassion was huge and freely given.
He wasn’t a silly Dad, he wasn’t a hard Dad, he wasn’t an absent Dad. He was a teacher, a participant, and a role model. He taught me. And he had a way about it.
When he taught me to ski, I was maybe 4 or 5 years old. I had a pair of those really short downhill skis kids used back in the ’70s. This pair was probably 20 years old, leather bindings and all, and probably belonged to one of my much older brothers. There were no poles, far too dangerous, and also no helmets. We went to the top of the hill and he gave me a shove and off we went. There was no Pizza and no French Fry, just ”try not to fall… unless you’re going too fast then go ahead and fall”. That’s how he taught and that’s how I learned. We didn’t talk about doing it, there was no droning on about form or technique, we just got started. If I fell he picked me up, set me right and started again and again until I didn’t fall anymore.
We pressed on. We skied the hill, we hit the ball, and we played the game. And he never, ever let me win. That would be the wrong lesson.
He taught me in that way. Through his actions, his life and his participation.
He taught to respect intelligence, to seek knowledge, and to question thoughtfully.
He taught me to follow my own path, to pursue my own answers, and to own my mistakes. He taught me to save more than I spend, help more than I harm, and listen more than I talk. He taught me to be steadfast through the tough times and to accept the good ones with grace and gratitude. He taught me to love through the way that he loved my mom.
That was his gift to me.
