My dad passed away recently after a nearly year-long battle with cancer. He was 65. His wife took this photo a number of years back, and it sublimely captures so much about who he was, while instilling a mystique that I think is also fitting. I wrote the following to read at his funeral:
---
If you’ve ever seen my father in a crowd, you’d know he wasn’t hard to spot… Though his clothing tended to be modest, and his manner gentle, his 6’6” stature meant he usually stood head—and often shoulders—above those around him. That isn’t to suggest he wasn’t a down-to-earth individual, and I’m sure most anyone who knew him could attest to his kindness and can-do desire to help others.
Physical height runs in his side of the family, but even as a full-grown adult I’ve continued to look up to him in more ways than one (…an appreciation of wordplay also seems to be in our genes, but I shouldn’t jump the pun). As a kid I remember riding with him in “the Chev,” a woods vehicle he built himself, collecting, splitting, and stacking firewood for the winter. Through him I learned to appreciate the simple pleasure of working outdoors, roaming the quiet woods, and being considerate of the land.
As I grew older, I also worked with him on his cranberry bogs for a number of years. I learned much in that time, and though I chose to pursue a different career path, I have always looked back fondly on the time I spent working with my dad… Installing sprinkler heads in the busy thaw of Spring, battling weeds and fixing irrigation lines in the blazing Summer sun, setting up the berry pump, corralling the cranberries, and harvesting the crop under the brilliant skies of Autumn, then driving his hand-built ice sanders over the frozen bogs in the chill of Winter. Thanks to him I also have an undying appreciation for the local pizzeria, iced coffee in every season, and taking a nap after lunch (at least when time permits).
A farmer’s life is a demanding one, and each morning, fueled only by a cup of Lipton tea, my father rose to the thorny challenges of every season: Watching over the crop on little sleep through Spring and Fall frosts, maintaining our vehicles and the myriad of farm equipment, or building whatever was needed with the resources at hand—often sawing a few 2-by-4s, welding some angle iron, and bolting on an old motor… Sometimes all three.
Though my father designed and built the house I grew up in, the shop barn we relaxed and did projects in, the shed he kept his dirt bike and later ATV in, the horse barn, the camp in Maine, and at least half a dozen other sheds and outdoor constructions, his most recent endeavor—a new cedar log house--was his masterpiece… Thanks in no small part to the hard work and dedication of his dear wife, the two of them built a lovely home together overlooking the very bogs he had spent so many years tending to.
She also helped him to complete the camp in Maine which he had begun all the way back when I was a child. I took many winter trips there with my father over the years, to relax, ride the snowmobile trails, and to break fresh snow searching for elusive moose antlers. My dad loved the north woods, moose, and a day of both hard work and leisurely puttering… Maine’s state slogan is “the way life should be,” and I think my dad agreed.
I’ll miss greatly those trips with my father, more so even than working with him on the bogs. I treasured the time to connect and learn from him. I’m probably not the only guy to think highly of their dad, but with the wide breadth of skills, depth of knowledge, and social presence he possessed, it was, and still is hard to not be in awe of him. I am a father myself now, and as I remember the impressive size of the trusty old snow boots my dad wore every winter, I feel that his shoes are going to be very large ones to fill.
While my dad no doubt lived a full life, it was far too short, and I weep for the time he cannot spend with his loving wife, his young grandson, and all of his family and friends, with joy and warmth in his newly built home. He was a great father, role model, and mentor. He was one-of-a-kind, and made an indelible impression on those who met him. He will be missed by all, but when the warm late-summer nights give way to cool early-autumn evenings and the cranberries ripen scarlet under a clear blue sky, that is when I will miss him most.
